Citation
All the world over

Material Information

Title:
All the world over interesting stories of travel, thrilling adventure and home life
Creator:
Pratt, Ella Farman, 1837-1907 ( Author )
Bell, Lucia Chase ( Author )
Converse, Frank H ( Author )
Stockton, Louise, 1838-1914 ( Author )
D. Lothrop & Company ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
Boston
Publisher:
D. Lothrop Company
Publication Date:
Copyright Date:
1892
Language:
English
Physical Description:
1 v. (unpaged) [313 p.] : ill. (some col.) ; 26 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Voyages and travels -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Adventure and adventurers -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Family -- Juvenile literature ( lcsh )
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children's poetry ( lcsh )
Children's literature ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1893 ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1893 ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1893
Genre:
Children's poetry
Children's stories
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Frontispiece printed in a color.
General Note:
Contains fiction, non-fiction and verse.
Statement of Responsibility:
by Ella Farman, Mrs. Lucia Chase Bell, Frank H. Converse, Louise Stockton, and other popular authors.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026584207 ( ALEPH )
ALG2117 ( NOTIS )
28189787 ( OCLC )

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Full Text
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IN THE BULL-CIRCUS, MADRID,



~ALL THE WORLD OVER

INTERESTING STORIES OF TRAVEL, THRILLING
| ADVENTURE AND HOME LIFE

BY

ELLA FARMAN, MRS. LUCIA CHASE BELL, FRANK H. CONVERSE, LOUISE STOCKTON,
AND OTHER POPULAR AUTHORS





FULLY ILLUSTRATED

BOSTON
D. LOTHROP COMPANY
1893.



CoPYRIGHT, 1892,
BY
D. Lorurop Company.



All rights reserved.









ALL THE WORLD OVER

ERHAPS one of the most vivid impressions which the tourist receives



upon his entrance into any Spanish city whatsoever, is of its muscular
beggars —- men of enormous.size, with their ruffianly swaggering strength
exaggerated by the national cloak. This garment is of heavy, tufted
woollens, long and fringed, almost indestructable, and is frequently worn
to muffle half the face; and the broad slouch hat, usually with a couple of rough
feathers stuck in its band, does not tend to soften the general brigandish effect.

These beggars are licensed by the government, which must reap a goodly revenue
from the disgraceful crowd, as they are numerous, and therefore they pursue their
avocation in the most open manner. They will frequently follow the traveller a
half-mile, especially should they find him to be ignorant of that magic formula of
dismissal which is known to all Spaniards :

Pardon, for God’s sake, Brother !

This" appeal is constantly on the lip of every Spanish lady. She utters it ln
without so much as a glance, a dozen times of a morning on her way to church,
as a dozen gaunt, dirty hands are thrust in her face as she passes; and hearing it,
the most persistent fellow of them all is at once silenced, and falls back.

Coming in from their kennel-homes among the ruins and the holes in the hills
outside, it is the custom to make an early morning tour of the city before they
take up their stations for the day at the various church and hotel doors. Each seems
to be provided with “green pudding,” in his garlic pot, and he eats as he goes
along, and prays as he eats, stopping in front of the great oval patio or court gates
of iron lattice, which guard the mansions of the rich.

At these patio doors he makes a prodigious racket, shaking the iron rods furi-
ously, and all the while muttering his prayers, until some one of the family
appears at a gallery window. Then instantly the mutter becomes a whine, a piti-
ful tale is wailed forth, and alms are dolefully implored “for the love of God.”
But although such mottoes as “Poverty is no Crime’ are very often painted
on the walls of their fine houses, the probability is that the unmoved Sefiorita
will murmur a swift ‘“ Pardon, for God’s sake, Brother!” and retire, to soon appear
again to silence another of the fraternity with the same potent formula.

However, each of the countless horde is sure to gather in centimes sufficient
for the day’s cigarettes and garlic, and, in the long run, to support life to a

good old age.



.,HE Spaniards are a nation of dancers and singers. Every Spanish
* child seems born with the steps, gestures, snappings and clappings
of the national fandango dance, at the ends of his fingers and toes.
A guitar is the universal possession, and every owner is a fine



player. The solitary horseman, the traveller by rail, takes along his
guitar; and in car, or at cross-roads, he is sure of dancers at the first
thrilling twang. There is always a merry youth and maiden aboard ready to
make acquaintance in a dance, and anywhere the whole household will troop from
the cottage, the plowman will leave his team in the furrow, and the laborer
drop his hoe, for a half-hour’s joyous “footing o’t.”

One of the interesting sights of Toledo is the great city fountain on Street
St. Isabel, near the cathedral. It is a good place to study donkeys and their
drivers, and the lower classes of the populace. The water, deliciously sweet
and cool, is brought from the mountains by the old Moorish-built water-ways,
and flows by faucet. There is no public system of delivery, consequently a good
business falls into the hands of private water-carriers. These supply families at
a franc a month. The poorer households go to and fro with their own water-
jars as need calls, carrying them on their heads. They often wear a cushioned
ring, fitting the Head, to render the carrying of the jar an easier matter.

A picturesque article of dress among Spanish men, is the national sash,
a broad woollen some four yards in length, of gay colorings. This is wound three
or four times around the waist, its fringed end tucked in to hang floating, and the
inevitable broad knife thrust. within its folds, which also hold the daily supply
of tobacco. A common sight is the sudden stop on the street, a lighting of a
fresh cigarette, a loosening of the loosened sash, a twitch of the short breeches,
and then a tight, snug wind-up, when the lounger moves on again,

Another amusing sight is the picturesque beggar who seems at first glance
to be hanging in effigy against the cathedral walls, so motionless will some of
these fellows stand, hat slouched over the face, the brass government “license”
labelling the breast, a hand extended, and, in many cases, a crest worn prom
inently on the ragged garments, to show that the wearer is a proud descend-
ant of some old grandee family. To address this crested beggar by any other
title than Cadallero (gentleman) is a deadly insult.



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MONG the many small sights of the Plaza about Christmas time, are
the sellers of zambombas,.or Devil's Fiddles. This toy, which the
stranger sometime takes for a receptacle of sweet drinks to be im-
bibed through a hollow cane, is a favorite plaything with Spanish



children. A skin is stretched over a bottomless jar; into this is
fastened a stout length of sugar-cane, and lo! a zambomba. Its urchin-owner
spits on his palms, rubs them smartly up and down the ridgy cane, when the
skin-drum reverberates delightfully.

The fruit markets are of a primitive sort. The peasant fills his donkey-panniers
with grapes, garlic, melons straw-cased and straw-handled, whatever he has ripe,
and starts for town. Reaching the Plaza, in the shade of the cathedral, he
spreads his cloak, rolling a rim. On this huge woollen plate he arranges his
fruit, weighing it out as customers demand, —

From the old Moorish casements, the traveller looks down on the most rudi-
mentary sort of life. He sees no labor-saving machinery. Instead of huge vans
loaded with compact hay bales, he beholds the donkey hay-train. The farmer
binds a mountain of loose hay on each of his donkeys, lashes them together,
and with a neighbor to help beat the train along, starts for market. These

trains may be seen any day crooking about among the steep mountain-ways.

The student of folk-life notes the shoemakers on the Plaza at work in the
open air. Formerly the sandal was universally worn, with its sole of knotted
hemp, and its canvas brought up over the toe, at which point was fastened a
pair of ribbons about four feet long, and these ribbons each province had its
own fashion of lacing and tying. But now the conventional footgear of Paris
is common, and one buys boots of the fine glossy Cordovan leather for a trifle.

The proprietors of the neighboring vineyards visit the wine shops weekly to
bring full wine-skins, and take such as are emptied. . These skins, often with
their wool unsheared, are cured by remaining several weeks filled with wine-oil,
and all seams are coated with pitch to prevent leakage. The wholesale skins
hold about eight gallons, being usually those of well-grown animals. They are
stoutly sewn, tied at each knee, and also at the neck, whence the wine is
decanted into smaller skins by means of a tunnel.





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HE beggars of Spain are a most devout class. Piety is, with them, the
= form under which they conduct business; a shield, and a certificate of
character. They walk the streets under the protection of the patron
(ead saint of the principal church in town, and they formally demand alms

a of you in the name of that saint. It is Religion that solicits you —
the beggar’s own personality is not at all involved; and it is thus that the
proud Spanish self-respect is saved from hurt.



The tourist who has not tarried in French towns, is, at first, astonished to
behold women passing to and fro upon the streets with no head covering what-
ever. Hats and bonnets are rarely seen upon Spanish women of the lowe- and
middle classes. Those who are street-venders sit bareheaded all day long in their
chairs on the Plaza, wholly indifferent to the great heat and blinding dazzle of
the Spanish sun. About Christmas, dozens of “stands”’ spring up along the
Plaza. It is at that season that the gypsy girls come in with their roasters
and their bags of big foreign chestnuts; and they do a thriving business,
for every good Spanish child expects roast chestnuts and salt at Christmas.

Many of the mountain families about Toledo’ keep small flocks of sheep—
flocks that, instead of dotting a green landscape with peaceful white, as in
America and Northern Europe, only darken the reddish-brown soil of Spain with
a restless shading of a redder and a deeper hue. These brown sheep are
herded daily down on the fenceless wastes. The shepherd-boys are usually
attended by shepherd-dogs so enormous in size that the traveller often mistakes
them for donkeys. They are sagacious, and do most of the herding, their masters
devoting themselves to the guitar, the siesta, the cigarette, and the garlic pudding.

Toledo, more than any other Spanish city, abounds with interesting bits and
noble examples of the old Moorish architecture, for the reason that it has not
been rebuilt at all, and that few of its ruins: have been restored, or even
retouched. Color alone has changed. The city now is of the soft hue of a
withered pomegranate. Turn where you will, your eye is delighted by an ornate
fagade, a carved gateway with its small reticent entrance door, a window with
balcony and cross-bars, and everywhere there is the horseshoe arch with its beau-
tiful curve. The old Alcazar is standing, though occupied as a Spanish arsenal,
and on the height opposite is the ruin of a fine Moorish castle.



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fa NE of the best “small businesses” in a Spanish city, is that of the
‘ domestic water-supply. Those dealers who have no donkeys, convey it
to their customers in long wheelbarrows constructed with a frame to
receive and hold several jars securely, Stone jars, with wood stopples
attached with a cord, are used, the carrying-jars, being emptied into
larger jars in the water-cellars, The peasants have a poetic appellation
for the soft, constant drip of the water from the old aqueducts: The sigh of the Moor.



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With the Spaniard, as with the American, the turkey is a special Christmas
luxury. But the tempting rows of dressed fowls common to our markets and
groceries, are never to be seen. As the holiday season draws very close at hand,
the mountain men come down into the city, driving before them their cackling,
gobbling, lustrous-feathered flocks, bestowing upon them, of course, the usual daily
allowance of blows which is meted out to the patient family donkey. These poultry
dealers congregate upon the Plaza, where they smoke, and chaff, and dicker, keep-
ing their droves in place with the whip; and the buyer shares in the capture
of his flying, screaming, flapping’ purchase, in company with all the children on
the street, for the turkey market is usually great fun for the Spanish youngster.

In the cold season, one of the morning sights of a Spanish town is the prepara-
tion of the big charcoal braziers outside the gates of the fine dwelling-houses.
The coals are laid and lighted, and then the servant blows them with a large
grass fan until the ashes are white, when he may consider that all deadly fumes
are dissipated, and that it is safe to carry it within to the room it is to warm,

Nearly all the peasants in the near vicinity of cities are market gardeners
on a small scale. They cultivate small plots, and whenever any crop is ripe,
they load their donkey-panniers and go into the cities, where they sell from
house to house. These vegetable-panniers have enormous pockets, and are woven
of coarse, dyed grasses, in stripes and patterns of gaudy blue and red. When
filled, they often cover and broaden the donkey’s back to such an extent that
the lazy owner, determined to ride, must sit on the very last section of back-
bone. Some of the streets in Toledo are so narrow that the brick or stone
walls of the buildings have been hewn and hollowed out at donkey-height, to
allow the loaded panniers to pass. The buyers make their bargains from the
windows, a sample vegetable being handed up for inspection.



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RAVELLERS should deny themselves Spain during December, January
and February. The heating apparatus of the American and the English
house is unknown in Spanish dwellings — fireplace, stove, nor fur-
nace. The peasant draws his cloak up to his nose and shivers and
cowers, while the middle-class family lights a single brazier, and the



household, gathering in one room, hovers over the charcoal smouldering
away in its brass cage, and the cats sit and purr on the broad wooden rim.
These braziers are expensive — constructed of brass and copper — and few families
afford more than one, making winter comfort out of the question, as the floors,
of marble or stone, never get well warmed.

With the coming of pleasant weather Spanish families usually forsake the
blinded, draperied, balconied rooms of the gallery for the secluded and garden-
like patio. This court is often fifty feet square, and in its enclosure there is
generally a fountain; the floor is tiled with marble, there are stately tropic plants
in tubs, and orange and palm-trees are growing. Should the sunshine become too
fierce there are smoothly-running screens and awnings to roof the whole court
in an instant. Some of the old Moorish patios contain quaint wells, dry at
some seasons, but often affording water sufficient for housekeeping needs:

The water-jars come from the famous potteries of Seville, and, made of a
rude red clay, are similar in hue to our plant pots. They are brought in high
loads by oxen—and these pottery carts are often an enlivening feature of the
dull country roads.

The water cellar is not a cellar at all, but a stone-paved room off the patio,
delightfully cool and sloppy of a fiery July day, with the water-carriers unload-
ing, and filling the array of dripping red jars with the day’s supply from the
public fountain.

Every Spanish peasant wears a knife in his sash. These knives are usually
about eighteen inches long, with a broad, sharp, murderous blade. The handles
are of tortoise or ivory, often carved richly, or inlaid with figures of the Virgin,
the Saviour, or the crucifix. The knife is “kept open by a curious little wheel,
between blade and handle, and is used indiscriminately, to slice a melon or lay
bare a quarrelsome neighbor’s heart.



EVILLE is celebrated for its oranges and its pottery. Nearly the
whole Spanish supply of water-jars comes from. this city; and the
outlying country is agreeably dotted with orange orchards, as olive



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wt hg considerable business. The most delicious orange in the world may

Bid, Oases enliven the vicinity of Cordova. The export of the fruit is

be bought in the streets of Seville for a cent, and the ordinary rate for the ordinary
fruit is four for a cent. In the Christmas season large and selected oranges are
sold in the outdoor booths. They are carefully brought, and temptingly hung in
nets, along with melons cased in straw, fine bunches of garlic, chestnuts,
assorted lengths of sugar-cane, tambourines, zambombas, and such other sweet

and noisy objects as delight the Spanish youngster,

The decorative plant of Spain is the aloe —truly decorative, with its base of
long, dark, clear-cut, sword-like leaves, its tall slender trunk often rising twenty
feet high, and its broad candelabras of crimson blooms.

A picturesque industry of Seville is the spinning of the green rope so much
used by Spanish farmers. It is manufactured from the coarse pampas grass of
the plains, and the operation is a very leisurely and social one, requiring three
persons: one to feed the wheel, one to turn it, and a third to receive the
twisted rope.

Plowing, in Spain, is still a very rude performance. The primitive plow of
the Garden of Eden era is yet in use—a sharp crotch of a tree, crudely shod,

however, with iron.

An indispensable article of peasants’ costume for both men and women, should
an absence of even two hours be contemplated, is the alforja, or peasant’s bag.
This, in idea, is similar to the donkey-pannier —a long, stout, woollen strip
thickly tufted with bunches of red and blue wool, with a bag at either end,
and is worn slung over the shoulder. The pockets of the alforja invariably con-
tain, one a pot of garlic, or green pudding, the other a wine skin.

The mouths of some wine-skins are fitted with a bottomless wooden saucer,
and are lifted to the lips for drinking ; but the preferable and national style is
to catch the stream with the skin held aloft and away at arm’s-length,











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CENTRAL point of interest for visitors to Seville is the Cathedral.
Its tower, known as the Giralda, is one of the most celebrated
examples: of sacred Moorish architecture. It was erected in an early
century, and was considered very ancient when the Spaniards, in
; f the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, built upon it the fine Cathedral.
In the interior, the Tribuna de la Puorta Mayor is much visited for its lofty



and beautiful sunlight effects, and there are several precious Murillos.
The ascent of the Giralda is usually made by tourists an agreeable variety in
European climbing, as there are no stairs, the whole progress being by an easy
series of inclined planes of brick masonry, Queen Isabella, not long ago, made
the entire ascent and return upon horseback. From the summit, one views the
whole of Seville, with its dark-green rim of orange gardens, set in the great
flat barrens that stretch out towards Cadiz. A comic sight usual at the foot of
the tower, significant as a sign of the complete contempt in which the Catholic
Spaniard holds all things Moslem and Moorish, is that of a goat belonging to
one of the custodians, tethered from morning till night to a fine old Muezzin bell.

Another noted building is the Tower of Gold, on the banks of the Guadal-
quiver, opposite the Gypsy quarter. Tourists visit it to get the fine architectural
effect of the Cathedral, also for its view of the Bull Ring. It stands on

the site of the old Inquisition, where hosts of Moorish captives were tortured.

The Alcazar, always visited, is an ancient Moorish palace, and is considered,
in point of elegance, second to only the Alhambra. It is now set aside by
the government as the residence of the Queen-mother Isabella.

San Telmo is also much visited. It is the palace of the Duc de Montpensier,
known throughout Spain as “the orange man.’ He owns numerous orange

orchards, and lavishes much time and money on his plantations and hothouses.

Another point of curiosity is known as the House of Pilate. It is said to be
an exact reproduction of the celebrated House of Pilate in Jerusalem. It is

remarkable for some exquisite tiles, and it bears many interesting inscriptions.

Seville presents an odd aspect to the stranger between the hours of threé
and six p. m. During this hot interval the streets and shops are deserted,

everybody, even to the beggars, being under cover and asleep.



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OST of the peasant girls in the vicinity of Spanish cities con-~
trive to keep a bit of flower-garden for their own personal



Ag purposes. She is a thriftless lass indeed, who has not at least
arr one fragrant double red rose in tending, or some other red-
flowered shrub. From Christmas on through the spring féte-days of the Church,
they reap their tiny harvests. During this season every Spanish man and woman
who can, wears a red flower in button-hole or over the ear, and the streets are
thronged with bareheaded, black-tressed peasant and gypsy flower-venders.
Flowers are a part of the daily marketing, and two or three centimos—a
centimo is one fifth of a cent —suffice to buy a fresh nosegay. New Year's is
a marked féte in Seville, as then “The Old Queen” in the Alcazar rides out
in state, the Alameda is thronged with carriages, and the whole populace is
a-blossom with red.

A custom noticed by the tourist who lingers about cathedral doors, is one
most observed, perhaps, by the poorer and more superstitious classes. Men and
women dip the fingers, on entrance and departure, in holy water, and wet some.
one of the countless crosses which are set in the wall just above the cash-
boxes —the cash-box in Spain being the inevitable accompaniment of the cross.

As in other Spanish cities, the noble Profession of Beggary considers itself
_under the protection of the Church, and the entrance to the cathedral is down
a long vista of outstretched hands, the fortunate one at the far end, who holds
aside the matting portiere for you to enter, feeling sure of a fee, however the
others fare. The whole vicinity abounds with loathsome spectacles of disease
and distress, those entirely helpless managing to be conveyed daily into holy
"precincts. It is often amusing to witness an adult beggar ‘giving points” to
some young amateur in the art, the dignity of the national calling evidently
being insisted upon.

An agreeable sight in this city of churches and beggars, is the afternoon
stroll of companies of young priests and students from the convents. They are
very noticeable, as part of the panorama, with their broad, silky shovel hats and
black flowing gowns. Some are scholastic and intent upon their studies even in
the streets, while others evidently take a most young man-of-the-world enjoy-
ment in their cigarettes and the street-sights.



Tier ae



A Dcrrance THR CATHEDRALS

TIAA MORIN DUTY

WETTING THE CROSS,





Some OLD
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EVENUES are collected in most primitive ways by the Span-
ish City Fathers. As there are no important sources of public
income, there are few transactions, however trifling, that do not pay
tax and toll. Every man is suspected of smuggling and “false



returns,’ and it is a small bunch of garlic that escapes. Burly
officials, often in shirt-sleeves and with club, lounge at all the entrances to the
town, to levy duty upon any chance donkey-pannier or cart bringing in fruit
and vegetables for sale. Frequently there are scenes of confusion, sometimes of
violence. The government is determined that not a turnip, not a carrot, not a
cabbage shall escape the yield of its due; and it is not to be denied that the
poor farmer hopes fervently to smuggle in a winesskin or two—a dozen of
eggs, or some other article of price, among his cheaper commodities. As a rule,
he fails; for, suspicious of over-much gesticulation and protestation, the official
is quite likely to tumble out sacks, baskets, bundles and bales, and empty every
one upon the ground, leaving the angry farmer to pick up and load again at
his leisure.

Andalusia is a brown region stretching gravely between Cadiz and Granada.
The effect of this landscape, all in low tones, upon natives of the green lands
of America and England, is most depressing. The soil itself is red, and the
grass grows so sparsely that the color of the ground crops up, giving. impres-
sion of general sun-blight, broken here and there by the glimmering moonlight
gray of an olive orchard, or the dark-green of an orange garden. The huts of
the farmers are built of the red clay; the clothing of the population appears
to be of the undyed wool of the brown sheep, while to add to the prevailing
russet hue, the general occupation seems to be that of herding pigs on the
plains——and the pigs are hideously brown also. It is said that they derive
their color from feeding on the great brown bug, or beetle, which abounds in the
soil. The traveller counts these feeding droves by the dozen, each with two lazy,

smoking swineherds.

Travelling by rail over the Andalusian levels, one passes a succession of petty
stations, villages of half a dozen houses each, where the only visible business
appears to be in the hands of women, in the shape of one or two open-air
tables, with pitchers and glasses, and a cow or goat tethered near in order to
supply travellers, as the trains stop, with drinks of fresh milk.



“a * CA ME 3 Ar 7 AT st Mat tre BydueZ







































































































































aes ANY of the public buildings of Spanish cities stand as they were
j VIN captured from the Moors. Sometimes, as in Cadiz, the town has
-§\% received a coat of whitewash; but more frequently the only Spanish



eddivione and improvements are a few crosses’inlaid in the old cement, or a plas-
ter Virgin niched, in rude contrast, beside some richly wrought Moorish door of
horseshoe form. The town hall of Seville remains to-day as ten centuries ago.

The Spanish towns lie, for the most part, in the valley. The Moors usually
chose the site for their cities with a view to the natural defences of mountain.
and river. The hills of course, remain, but the rivers, once full rushing tides,
are now dried into stagnant shallow waters, a natural result in a country long
uncultivated.

A favorite business with the young men among the mountain peasants is the
breeding of poultry; not alone of fat pullets for the Christmas markets — that
is a minor interest so far as enjoyment goes— but of choice young game cocks:
‘—cock-fighting being the staple, everyday national amusement, while the bull.
fight is to be regarded as féte and festival — “the taste of blood” is a wel-~
come ingredient in any Spanish pleasure. All poultry is taken to market
alive; the pullets, hanging head downwards, are slung in a bunch at the saddle
bow, anc the cocks are carried carefully in cages. Fowls are not a common
article of food, as in France, but are, instead, a holiday luxury, and the costliest
meat in the market.

Looking idly abroad as he-crosses the Andalusian plains, the tourist on donkey-~
back notices the queer carts that take passengers from one station to another.
These odd omnibuses are but rude carts, two-wheeled, and covered with coarse
mats of pampas grass, and they are drawn by two, three, four or five donkeys.
harnessed tandem. On the rough, movable seats, gentlemen in broadcloth, and
common folk with laced canvas shoes and peasant- -bags, huddle together, all eating -
from the garlic-pots as they are passed, and drinking from the same wine-skin;
this good fellowship of travellers is one of the unwritten laws of Spain. Mean,
time the sauntering boys of the roadside hop up on the cart behind with the
identical vagrant joy experienced by the American urchin after a like achieve
ment.












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OU never can be sure when a Spaniard will arrive. Due at noon,
should he meet a guitar, he comes at nightfall; and as it is certain

that every second Spaniard, walking or riding, will have his guitar



along, it is best not to look for the return of any messenger before -
evening. He may have chosen to alight from his donkey and dance an hour,
or he may have elected to sit still and clap and snap a dance in pantomime —
either is exciting and deeply satisfactory — and a fulfilment of one of the obli-
gations of daily life which no true Spaniard can be expected to neglect for any
such simple considerations as promise given, command laid, or bargain made.

A peculiarly gloomy look is lent to the Spanish landscape by the cypress,
“sometimes growing in groups, sometimes towering singly in solitude. This tree,
funereal in its best aspect, has a dead, dry, white trunk, and the branches begin
at a height of twenty, thirty, or forty feet, and then drape themselves in a
cone-like monumental mass of purplish green. These gloomy evergreens are common,
and the tourist feels, even if he does not note, the absence of the lively sunny
greens of American and French landscapes, with the bowery shadows that every-
where invite the wayfarer to stop and rest,

The Bergh Societies would’ find ample range for work in ‘Spain, for the beat-
ing and prodding of the donkey is one of the national occupations. As a rule,
poor Burro is overloaded. A whole family will frequently come down into the
city on his back, and tired though he be with plodding and stumbling and hold-
ing back, the officer at the gate is sure to give him a blow, and a bruise with
his bludgeon of authority as he passes in; and the poor creature sometimes very
justly lies down in the street and dies without warning, allowing his owners to
clinb homeward on foot.

Now and then one comes unexpectedly on an example of ancient enterprise
put to use. There are spots in the brown waste which are green and fertile,
because the old irrigating wells have been cleaned out and set in motion—a
pair of wheels studded with great cups operated by means of a pair of poles,
and a pair of donkeys, and a pair of drivers. The land is cut in ditches, and
often the farmer can be seen hoeing his garlic and his cabbages while he stands
in water ankle-deep,





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REATLY dreaded by the unmarried young Spanish woman is the Beggars’
ye, Curse; and a goodly portion of the beggars’ revenue is ensured by -
ae this superstitious national fear. The more vicious of the fraternity
keep good watch upon the wealthy young sefioritas and their cavaliers when
they go out for pleasure. They do not follow them, perhaps; instead they take
up their stations around the doors of those restaurants — whence they never are
driven —where ladies and their escorts are wont to stop for chocolate, or
coffee, or aguardente, on their return from calls or the theatre, or the Bull Ring.
As the pair are departing, the burly beggar approaches, half barring the way
perhaps, and asks for alms. It is usually bestowed; but he begs insolently for
more; and if it be not forthcoming, a bony and rosaried arm is raised, “the
evil eye” is fastened upon the doomed ones, and the. Beggars’ Curse —the Curse
of the Unfortunate — which all Spaniards dread, is threatened; and if it be evening,
it is quite probable that the group stand near some crucifix of the suffering
Saviour, with the red light of the street lantern shining down upon its ghastli-
ness, so that the feeling of pious dread is greatly heightened, and a frightened pres-
sure on the cavalier’s arm carries the doubled alms into the outstretched hand.

The dress of Spanish people’ of fashion is singularly artistic and pleasing.
Although Paris styles are now followed by the sefioritas, they still cling to the
national black satin with its lustrous foldings and flouncings, to the effective
ball fringes, and to the mantilla, draping face and shoulder with its heavy black
or white laces, the national red rose set just above the ear. Nor is this too
remarkable under the high broad lights of the Spanish sky, though it might seen
theatrical in our cold, harsh, Northern atmosphere. The dress of the Spanish
gentlemen is as picturesque. The hat is usually a curious, double-brimmed silky
beaver, while the cloak is most artistic in color and in drapery. This cloak,
lasting a life-time, is of fine broadcloth, lined with heavy blue or crimson velvet ;
and it is so disposed that the folding brings this gorgeous lining in a round collar
about. the neck, while another broad fold is turned over upon the whole long
left side of the garment. The peasant’s cloak, of the same cut, is lined with red
flannel, but it is often worn as gracefully. Long trousers are becoming general,
but in some districts’ the tight pantaloon, slashed at the knee, is still seen, with
its gay garter embroidered with some fanciful motto. One just brought from Spain
bears this legend: There is a girl in this town—with her love she kills me.



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OUTHERN Spain is so mountainous that herding naturally becomes
the occupation of the peasantry, rather than tillage. Great flocks
of goats browse and frolic among the rocky heights and along
the steep ravines where it seems hardly possible for the tiny
hoofs to keep foothold; and the traveller often beholds far above

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him dozens of these bounding creatures, leaping down the cliffs to drink at
the valley streams. They are generally followed, at the same fearless pace, by
a short-frocked shepherdess as sure-footed as they. Her rough, hempen-soled
shoe, however, yields her excellent support, being flexible and not slippery, like

boot-leather.

Along the narrow mountain highways, the traveller frequently comes upon little
booths built in among the cliffy recesses, like quaint pantries hewn in the rock.
Melons, and grapes, and garlic, and oranges in nets, hang against the wall, and
the heavy red wine of the country is for sale by the glass, also goat’s
milk.

Farming processes go on at all times of year in Spain. Subsistence is a
matter comparatively independent of care and calculation. Crops may be sown
at any time. The whole year round the peasant lights no fire in -his earthen,
bowllike hut of one room. He cooks outside his door, in gypsy fashion. His
furniture consists of some rude wool mattresses, a table, and some stools with
low backs. A few bowls, plates, and knives and forks suffice to set his table. A
kettle and a garlic pot comprise his cooking utensils. Frequently he and his
family are to be seen at meals, leaning their elbows on the table in company,
and sipping like so many cats, from the huge platter of hot garlic soup, crumb-
ling their slices of coarse black bread, as they need. In contrast with this crude
bread of the common people, are the long, fine, sweet white loaves to be had at
the Seville bakeries —a bread so cake-like, so delicious, as to require no butter,
even with Americans accustomed to the use of butter with every meal.
The salted butter of American creameries, made to keep for months, is wholly
unknown in Spain, Spanish butter being a soft mass, and always eaten unsalted.
But with his strong garlic and his fine fragrant tobacco, the Spaniard hardly
demands or appreciates the refinements of food, and his tobacco is of the best,
coming from the Spanish plantations in Cuba, and is very cheap, as it enters

the country free of duties.







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OUSEWORK, among the sun-basking, siesta-loving Spaniards, seems

to be not the formidable, systematic matter that it is made in America.
} ye Washing, as well as cookery, is of simplest form. “Blue Monday ”’
does not follow Sunday in Spain. A necessary garment is washed when needed;



superfluous ones are allowed to accumulate until it is worth while to -give a day
to the task. Then, among the peasants, “the washing.” is carried to a mountain
torrent, and the garments are rubbed and rinsed in the swift waters, while
picnic fun makes the labor agreeable, as often several families wash in company.
Among townspeople, the work is done in great stone tubs in the patio, or in the
water-cellar. There the goods, repeatedly wetted, are laid upon a big stone table
and beaten with flat wooden paddles. The snowy array of the American clothes-
line is seldom seen. The washed garments are hung upon the table edges, and
held fast by stones or other weights until dried.

A frequent incident in mountain travel is the sight of some stout lazy peasant away
up the heights, holding fast by his donkey’s tail to help himself along as the
poor creature scrambles up the zigzag steeps. At the base and along the face
of these rocks cacti grow abundantly, often presenting a beautiful cliff-side of
cacti fifty feet high.

Another sight, not so agreeable, along many a Spanish roadside, is that of the
ancient wooden crosses, erected on the sites where travellers have been mur-
dered by banditti. These roads are often desolate and dreary beyond description,
unfenced, seldom travelled, and set with the constantly recurring stones of the
Moorish road-makers. Leading across brown, treeless wastes, with habitations far
apart, both peasant and tourist would easily wander from these roads, were it not
for those rude mile-stones, which are often the only guide-posts: and land-marks.
When a fence is required, a hedge of aloe is usually started.

Spanish children chew sugar-cane as American children munch candy, The
cane is brought from Cuba and is sold everywhere; carried about by venders in
big bundles of handy lengths, to capture all stray centimos.

Not so well patronized is the street dealer in soap — “old Castile” soap — for this
business is recognized to be a form of beggary, and though bargains are made
and money paid, the soap is seldom carried away by the purchaser.





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VERY male Spaniard is obliged to render three years of military
service; but usually this is no severe hardship, and loving his
ease, he leaves home cheerily enough. The government is rather



embarrassed than served, in the matter of stationing this soldiery,
especially since the close of the Carlist War. The conscripts are set to guard
the palaces, the parks, the national buildings; they are sent to Cuba and
elsewhere, whenever it is possible, in fact all opportunities and pretexts are seized
to set up a soldier on duty, or rather a pair of them, as two are usually to be
seen together. Leave of absence is easily obtained, and but few days of actual
presence and service are required during the third year. However, the military
requirements by the government never relax, as “insurrections” are indigenous
to the country and climate.

As the ancient Moorish doors are still frequent, so is the old form of knock
and admission. The arrival raps smartly at the small door set within the great
nail-studded gate. Presently an eye, a face, appears at the little wicket window
to reconnoitre, to question. Should the examination reveal nothing dangerous or
disagreeable, the latch-string is pulled, and entrance is permitted.

“Burro” must needs appear in all Spanish picture and story, for he is prominent
in all Spanish folk-life. He is to be seen everywhere, with his rude harness
tufted with gay woollens, and big brass nails, moving over the landscape in town
or country —the helpless slave. and abused burden-bearer, seldom petted, even
by the children of the family. There are very handsome mules in Madrid and
a few elsewhere; but the donkey is the national carrier. He is small, brown,
brave, and always bruised. The Spaniards’ “Get up!” is a brutal blow between
the eyes. He is seldom stabled, seldom decently fed. He is tethered anywhere —
under the grapevine, by the door, among the rocks, but always at his master’s
convenience; and his food is in matter and manner best known to himself.
His harness is heavy and uncomfortable, and his hair is clipped close on his
back where he needs protection most from the burning sun. ‘This clipping is
usually done at the blacksmith’s, by a professional clipper, and is a sight of
interest to the lazy populace. Under the great shears Burro’s body is often
decorated with half moons, eyes, monograms, garlands —whatever the fancy of
his master, or the clipper, or the bystander may direct. Poor Burro! from first
to last— poor Burro!





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N Cordova, a sudden stir in the street often betokens “The Return
from the Chase ’’ — not, however, the picturesque scattering of the
“meet” after an English fox-hunt, but the arrival home of some
solitary mule and rider, with a pack of harriers. The huntsman has



been riding across country all by himself, his cigarette, and his dogs,
to ferret out some luckless colony of hares in a distant olive orchard.
The rabbits are very mischievous in the young olive plantations, and the hunts-
man and his pack are warmly welcomed by the olive-growers. These Spanish
harriers are a keen-nosed race of dogs; quite as good hunters as the English
fox-hounds, Nearly every breed of dog is found in Spain, except, perhaps, the
Newfoundland. In most Spanish cities the dogs are one of the early morning
sights as they gather in snarling, quarrelsome packs of from fifteen to twenty,
before the doors of the hotels and restaurants, to devour the daily kitchen refuse
—a very disagreeable spectacle; but there seems to be no other street-cleaning

machinery.

The chief streets of a Spanish town are usually thronged with fruit-sellers, °
especially the Plaza, where the great portion of the population seems to congre-
gate to lounge and sleep in the sun all day long, naturally waking now and
then to crave an orange, a palmete, or a pomegranate — “ regular meals” appearing
to be a regulation of daily life quite unknown. These fruit sellers are girls, for
the most part, though sometimes there may be seen some old man who has.
not been able to procure a beggar’s license. Oranges are always plenty. Palm-
etes, a tender, bulbous growth, half vegetable, half fruit, are brought into the
city in January, and are consumed largely by the peasants and beggars, who
strip them into sections, chewing them for their rather insipid sweetish juices.

The Spanish peasant cooks out-of-doors, like a gypsy. Often his kettle is his
only “stove furniture;” in it he stews, boils, fries and bakes. Even in January,
the cold month in Spain, he makes no change in his housekeeping. The
peasants’ daily bread is hardly bread at all, but rather a pudding, a batter of
coarse flour, water and garlic, stirred, and boiled, and half baked in his kettle, and
then pressed into a jar. This “garlic pot” he always carries about with him in
his shoulder bag. In the patio apartments of some of the ancient, Moorish-built
houses there are quaint arches with stone ovens, which are sometimes utilized
for cookery.





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DRUNKEN Spaniard is rarely seen, although the « wine-skin” keeps
constant company with the “garlic pot” in the peasant’s bag. The



heavy red wine of the country is used as freely as water, being sold
for four cents a wine-skin; this wine-skin holds a quart or more. Not to drink
with the skin held at arms-length, is to be not Spanish, but French— their
generic name for a foreigner or stranger. Fine and delicate wines are made in
the neighborhood of some of the great vineyards, but they are chiefly for
exportation.

There is a popular saying, that Spanish ladies dress their hair but once a
week. This is on Sunday, when they meet on one another's balconies to chat
and gossip while their maids arrange their coiffures, each maid taking care that
she pat, and pull, and puff until her mistress be taller than her friends, for
height is a Spanish requisite for beauty and style. Certain it is that the tourist
sometimes looks up and beholds this leisurely out-of-doors toilet-making. The glossy
black hair is universal, a fair-haired woman becoming an occasion for persistent
stares, although Murillo, in his time, seems to have found plenty of red-haired
Spanish blondes to paint. Happy is the gazing traveller if he also may listen;
for the music of a high-bred Spanish woman’s voice is remarkable, holding in
its flow, sometimes, the tones of a guitar, and the liquid sounds of dropping

water.

Spanish urchins are as noted for never combing their hair as Italian boys are
for never washing their faces. The change of the yellow handkerchief dotted
with big white eyes, which they knot about their heads and wear day and
night, seems to be the only attention they think needful ever to bestow upon
their raven locks.

That Spanish peasant is very poor and unthrifty indeed, who does not con-
trive to own a foot or two of land upon which to grow a choice Malaga grape-
vine. Owning the vines, he erects an out-of-door cellar to presérve his crop—
a simple arbor, upon the slats of which he suspends his clusters for winter use.
Hanging all winter in the current of wind, the bunches of pale-green grapes
may be taken down as late as February, and still be found as plump and
delicious and as full of flavor as when hung. It is in this simple manner that
they are preserved for the holiday markets.



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NE of the most picturesque features of natural scenery which the
traveller comes upon in Southern Spain, is that of the olive orchards,
especially those which cluster about Cordova. As the time of har-



vest draws near, the coloring of these orchards is particularly pleas-
ing. The ripening fruit varies in tint, from vivid greens to gay reds and
lovely purples, while the foliage, of willow-leaf shape, restless and quivering,
is of a tender, shimmering, greenish gray, and the trunks often have a solemn
and aged aspect. Many of these plantations are very ancient indeed, planted
perhaps by the grandsires of the present owners. They are usually a source of
much profit, as the best eating olives are those grown in Spain, and though
the trees come into bearing late, there are orchards which have been known to
yield fruit for centuries.

Each orchard has a guard, or watchman, who tends it the year round, for
the pruning, the tillage, and the watch upon the ripening fruit, demand constant
care. In the harvest season the watch is by night as well as by day, for 2
vigorous shake of the branches will dislodge almost every berry, and a thief,
with his donkeys and his panniers, might easily and almost noiselessly strip an
entire orchard in a few hours. The olive guard lives in a hut of thatch or

grass in summer, and in a sort of cave, or burrow, in winter.

The crop is mainly harvested by girls and women, and the scene is like a
picnic all day long, for Spanish girls turn all their labors into merry-making
whenever it is possible to do so. The gray orchards are lighted up with the
rainbowy colors of the peasant costumes, and the air is musical with. the donkey
bells, while the overseer, prone on the ground with his cigarette, ‘“loafs and
invites his soul,” evidently finding great delight in the double drudgery he con-
trols —that of the donkeys and the damsels.

In regard to the great age of olive-trees, a recent writer says: “ When
raised from seed it rarely bears fruit under fifty years, and when propagated in
other ways it requires at least from twenty to twenty-five years. But, on the
other hand, it lives for centuries. The monster olive at Beaulieu, near Nice, is
supposed by Risso to be a thousand years old. Its trunk at four feet from the
ground has a circumference of twenty-three feet, and it is said to have yielded
five hundred pounds of oil in a single year.”





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IN AN OLIVE ORCHARD: i .
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ORDOVA, lying in the beautiful valley of the Guadalquiver, sur-
rounded with gardens and villas, is well named the city of Age,



Mellowness, and Tranquility. It abounds with antiquities, and at:
ee every turn memories are awakened of old Roman emperors, and
the Arabian caliphs; the gates, the sculptures, the towers, the mullioned
windows and nail-studded doors, the galleried houses and their’ beautiful patios
fitted for idle life in the soft Andalusian weather, the mosques and the great
bridges are all of those times. Even the streets are named after the old
Roman and Spanish scholars and poets.

The large bridge over the Guadalquiver was originally built by the Roman
Emperor, Octavius Augustus; it was afterwards remodelled by the Arabs,
The gate is very fine which leads into the gypsy quarter. The Moors had
three thousand baths on the banks of the river, but in their day it was a full
shining tide; now it is a muddy current, hardly in need of bridging at all.

The mosques of Cordova are fine, and among them is the greatest
Moslem temple in the world, with its beautiful chapels, its Court of Oranges,
and its wondrous grove of marbles. This mosque, now used for Christian
worship, was erected on the ruins of an old cathedral, which it is said had
been built upon the site of a Roman temple. The Moslem structure was
erected by the Caliph Abdurrahman, in the seventh century, and was a hundred
years in building. The principal entrance is through the Court of Oranges,
where beautiful palms also grow, and other tropical trees. Thence one emerges
among a very forest of marble pillars, where countless magnificent naves stretch
away and intersect, and the shining columns and pilasters spring upward into deli-
cate double horseshoe arches. One marble is shown where a Christian captive,
chained at its base, scratched a cross upon the stone with his nails. In some
sections the ceiling is dazzling with arabesques and crystals. Within the mosque,
in its very centre, rises a fine Catholic church, built in the time of Charles
the Fifth. It contains many illuminated missals and rare old choir books.

The Cordovans, like the people of other Spanish cities, are indebted to the
Moors for the fine aqueducts which bring the cold mountain water across the
valley into the public watering places. These great reservoirs are good points
for observing some phases of folk-life.























































































































































































































































































































































RANADA, the beautiful city, with beautiful rivers, is named for
a “grenade” or pomegranate. At the time of the Conquest, King
Ferdinand on being assured how valiantly the Moors would defend

4 iy



their last stronghold, replied, “I will pick out the seeds of ‘this
grenade one by one.”

There is a tradition among the Moors that when the hand carved over the
principal entrance of the Alhambra shall reach down and grasp the key, also
carved there, they shall regain their city, the ancient home of their -
caliphs.

*

The Generalife lies across’ the valley from the Alhambra. It was the sum.
mer palace of the Moorish sovereigns, and is built on a mountain slope by
the Darro River, and its white walls gleam out from lovely terraced gardens,
and groves of laurel. The grounds abound with fountains and summer houses.

The Alhambra—the great royal castle—a town in itself —is built on a
lovely tree-embowered height, its many towers rising high above the mass of
foliage. From these towers one looks across the vale of the Vega to the spot
where Columbus is said to have turned back, recalled by Isabella, on his
way to seek English aid in his discovery of a New World. From these
towers, too, can be seen the valley in the. distance, where Boabdil, last of the
Moorish Kings, looked back on Granada for the last time; and across the
river, one gazes upon the sombre region of the gypsy quarter, a swarming
town of caves in the hillside.

Two relics of Alhambra housekeeping still remain; a great oven, and a fine
well. Both are utilized by the custodian of the palace. The palace itself has
many beautiful patios. . The finest is known as the Court of Lions, named from
the sculptured figures which support the fountain in the centre. Another is
known sometimes as the Court of the Lake, and sometimes as the Court of
the Myrtles; and still another, entered by subterranean ways, is the Hall of
Divans, the special retreat of the Favorites. There are many others, and all
these patios and halls are bewilderingly beautiful with arabesques, mosaics,
inscriptions and wondrous arches and columns, porticos, vistas, alcoves and
temples —and everywhere elegance of effect indescribable.



Jory 1 Ty BRAUTY WITHERED FR-DES PoE D
SITY oF GROVES AND FOUN TAINS
QORISH LAMENT.





Hye crass StAUL TG THA CRESCEATIVANE,
Grow SSC AND DIDAPPEARS

EZ



° ‘ fitganayy, :
AcerNy, FR dc} prec Qounr ef Len,

PARI GRAS









& ;











Ay T Granada, whenever it is desired, the proprietor of the Washington
bass Irving Hotel will engage the Gypsy King to come with his
ed a . daughters and dance the national dance at the house of one of
ste 7 the guides. This dance is a most wild and weird performance.
There is an incessant clapping of hands and ‘clatter of castafiets, a sharp

3,
ry

stamping of heels, an agonized swaying of the body and the arms; and often
the castafiets and guitar are accompanied by a wild and mournful wail from
the dancers. The king of the Granada gypsies is said to be the best guitar
player in Spain.

The climb from the city up to the vast Gypsy Quarter, known as the
suburb of the Albaycin, is an adventure of a nightmare sort. The squalor and
horror of the life to be witnessed on the way up along narrow streets swarm-
ing with the weirdest and dirtiest of brown beggars, may not be painted, may not be
written; yet now and then one goes under a superb Arab arch, passes a door
rich with arabesques, or comes upon a group of elegant columns supporting a
roof of mud and rock. The long hillside seems’ honeycombed with the den-
like habitations of the gitanos, many of whom, among the men, are blacksmiths,
while others work at pottery, turning out very handsome plates and water jars,
while the women weave cloth, and do a rude kind of embroidery, all selling
their wares in the streets —in fact the spinning and weaving and sewing is
often carried on in the street itself.

But the little ones too (/as udfas) add largely to the family income, as they dance
for the visitor; the traveller and his guide being always invited to enter the
caves. These gypsy children dance with much spirit, and they also sing many
beautiful old ballads of Spanish prowess. The most beautiful ones among the
girls are early trained to practice fortune-telling.

With their dances, their songs, their fortune-telling, their importunate, imperious
begging, and their rude industries, these Granada gypsies live here from century to
century, in swarms of thousands, never attempting to improve their condition,
but boasting, instead, of the comfort of their dismal caves as being cool in
summer and warm in winter. It is plain that they consider themselves and their
Quarter “a part of the show,” and hardly second in interest to the Alhambra
itself.



~



SSNS

AXING
POTTERY
ICIPSY CAVES

a“









































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































ARDLY is there a Spanisi town of note, that does not possess its
great Bull Ring; and there are scores of inferior Bull Circuses
throughout Spain. There is but a slight public sentiment against



the brutal sport which is the favorite Sunday recreation of the whole
nation. Spanish kings and queens for many centuries: have sat in the royal
boxes to applaud, and many of the Spanish noblemen of the present time
breed choice fighting bulls on their farms, and there is the same mad admiration
of the agile, skilful essado or bull slayer, as a hundred years ago. To be
a fine picador or banderillo, is to be sure of the praise and the presents of the
entire populace. Men, women and children go; the amphitheatre is always
crowded and always the crowd will sit breathless and happy to see six or
eight bulls killed, and three times that count of horses —the rich and the
nobles on the shady side under the awnings, the peasants sweltering and
burning in the sun. It is the picador who rides on horseback to invite with
his lance the attacks of the bull as he enters the arena; it is the capeador
who springs into the arena with his cloak of maddening red or yellow, to dis-
tract the bull’s attention from the fallen horseman; it is the banderilo who
taunts the wounded creature with metal-tipped arrows, the ‘barbs of which
cannot be extracted, or with his long pole leaps tauntingly over the back of
the confused creature; but it is the gorgeous espado with his sword, entering
the arena, at last, who draws all eyes. With his red flag he plays with the
bull as a cat with the mouse, until the amphitheatre is mad for life blood; then
with a swift, graceful stroke he ends all, his superb foe lies dead, and he turns
from him to meet the wild shower of hats, cigars, flowers, fans, purses that
beats upon him from all sides—it is a scene of unimaginable exultation, for
there are glad cries and plaudits, and royalty itself throws the bull-slayer a
golden purse and a pleased smile, and the beautiful Spanish sefioritas lavish
upon him the most bewildering attentions.

The Spanish boy is born with a thirst for this sport. Their favorite game
is Zoro, One lad mounts on his fellow’s back to take the part of the picador
and his horse; another, with horns of sticks, represents the bull: and the rest
are capeadors banderillos, and escod@as, while the audience of adult loungers look
on with fierce excitement. It is in this fierce, popular street sport that the
future champions of the Bull Ring are trained and developed —to be an escoda
is usually the height of a Spanish boy’s ambition,











ie

o sip Sonk SkeTCHeS «fH SPORT. WHICH BURRO WOULD NoT WITNES s
oe ae

























































































































































































































































































































WINDING-ON THEBELT
ATRIEWD IN NEED 18 APRUEND INDEED,





OWHERE in Spain are you refreshed with the restful sound of water,
sometimes soft, sometimes gay, as in Granada. Vou hear the flow of
the Darro over its stones and rocks, you hear the splash of fountains:
the gay hurry of mountain brooks, the soft sound of springs — everywhere

flow, or gurgle, or drip. You hear it on the tree—bordered and bowered

Alameda in your moonlit walks, and you hear it through the windows of your

fonda, or hotel, when you wake. It is everywhere about the Alhambra heights,

and the Generalife terraces. The Spaniards call this continuous water-sound,

“The Sigh of the Moor.”



Most of the young Spanish women as _ well as the men, are accomplished
guitar-players. The guitar belongs in story to the Sefiorita, along with her
mantilla and her fan. It usually hangs on her casement, brave with ribbons
and gay wool tufts and all manner of decorations, and by moonlight she will
come out upon the balcony to answer her cavelier’s serenade with a song as
sweet as his own. You feel the atmosphere of the Spanish night vibrating all
about you, as you stroll along the moonlit street, with the low, soft, delicate
twinkle of a hundred guitars, the players half-hidden in the dim patio
balconies.

It is often the custom to.drive the goats from door to door to be milked, and
often an accustomed goat, tinkling its bells, will go along the street, stopping
of its own will and knowledge at the doors of its customers, and knocking
smartly with its horns should no one appear. The servant of the house comes
out into the street and milks the desired quantity, while the “milkman ”
lounges near by with his cigarette.

Often it is as amusing to watch the dogs of the beggars by the
churches as the men themselves. While the noble Caballeros, Don Miguel and
Don Pedro, exhausted with the saying of prayers and the much asking of
centimos, have fallen asleep in the shade, their respective dogs remain
awake to glare at each other with true professional jealousy, and to growl and
snap, should a chance stranger drop a coin in one hat and not in the other.
The begger is the last sight, as well as the first, which greets the traveler in
Spain. é

























































































































































































QUEEN LOUISA AND THE CHILDREN.

BY MARY STUART SMITH.

UEEN LOUISA of Prussia was the mother of | come, or some pretty gift. A sweet little girl ad-
William I., Emperor of Germany, and although | vanced to give the queen a bunch of flowers, and
she has been dead over sixty years her one hun- | Louisa was so struck with the child’s loveliness that
dredth birthday was celebrated elaborately through- | she stooped down and kissed her on the forehead.
out her son’s do- “ Mein Gott!” ex-
minions, with al- es claimed the horrified
mistress of cere-
monies. ‘What has
your majesty done?”
Louisa was as artless
and simple as a child
herself. “What?”
said she, “is that
wrong? Must I
never do so again?”
But the prince,
her husband, was no
fonder of show and
ceremony than her-
self, and asserted
manfully the right
of his wife and him-
self to act like other
affectionate people,
in spite of being king
and queen.

This royal pair
had eight children,
and upon these
children was lav-
ished every care and
attention. Itis said
that every night the
king and queen went

most as many rejoic-
ings as we made
here over the one
hundredth birthday
of these United
States.

When a child
Louisa was very
beautiful, and as she
grew up did not dis-
appoint the promise
of those early days.

She was married
to Frederick Wil-
jiam, Crown Prince
of Prussia,when only
seventeen years of
age, and brought
down upon herself a
sharp rebuke from
the proud mistress
of ceremonies for
the love she showed
to a little child as
she was making her
public entry inte
Berlin, preparatory
to the solmnization hertovisitthiel

: together to visit tneir

The streets were thronged with people who had | ter they had been put into their little bedssand eee
come to catch a glimpse of the fair young bride, | a time wer: they surprised by a bright pair of wide-
while every now and then seléct persons would step | awake eyes smiling back upon them adook gE nee te
forward and present complimentary poems of wel- | return. Queen Louisa used to say, “The children’s

\





QUEEN LOUISA AND THE CHILDREN.

world is my world,” nor were the little creatures slow
to reciprocate the love she gave.

You know Christmas is observed in Germany
with peculiar reverence, and is a season set apart for
mirthful recreation among all classes, but more es-
pecially for the enjoyment of children. Berlin is gay
with Christmas trees and a brilliant array of toys
etc., for at least a week beforehand.

Like other parents the king and queen found de-
light in preparing pleasant surprises for their little
ones. While engaged in choosing presents for them,
on one occasion they entered a top-shop where a
citizen’s wife was busy making purchases, but recog-
nizing the new-comers she bowed respectfully and
retired. The queen addressed her in her peculiarly
winning way and sweet voice. ‘Stop, dear lady,
what will the stall-keeper say if we drive away his
customers?” She then inquired if the lady had come
to buy toys for her children, and asked how many
little onesshe had. Hearing there was a son about
the age of the Crown Prince, the queen bought some
toys and gave them to the mother,saying, “Take
them, dear lady, and give them to your crown prince
in the name of mine.”

But I must tell you a yetprettier story, showing the
wieen’s fondness for making children happy.

There lived in Berlin a father and mother, who from
some cause were so poor, and low-spirited besides,
that when the holiday came which all children love
best, they quietly resigned themselves to having noth-
ing to give their little ones. What can be more sad
than a house which no Kriss Kringle visits? Just
think of it! They told their children that there was
to be.no Christmas tree for them this year. The little
boy and his sister had been led to believe that the
Christ-kind or Christ-child provides the tree and
the gifts which are placed on tables round it; only
ornaments, sweets and tapers are hung upon the
branches. Under this disappointment the children, in
the innocent simplicity of their faith, sought the aid of
the good Christ-Aind in their own way.

Christmas Eve came, and the poor troubled parents
looked on with wonder as they beheld their children
hopping and skipping about with joy, although they
were to be the only children for whom no Christ-
mas tree would be lighted, nor pretty gifts provided.
Still in high spirits they watched at the window, and
clapped their hands when the door-bell rang, exclaim-



ing: “Here it comes!” The door was opened and a
man-servant appeared, laden with a gay tree and
several packets, each addressed to some member of
the family.

“There must be some mistake! ” said the mother.

“No, no!” cried the boy, “it is allright. I wrote
to the good Christ-kind, and told him what we wanted,
and that you could not buy anything this year.”

The parents enjoyed the evening with their child-
ren and afterwards unravelled the mystery. The
postmaster, astonished by a letter evidently written
by a very young scribe and addressed to the Christ-
kind, had sent it to the palace with a respectful inquiry
as to what should be done with a letter so strangely _
directed. Queen Louisa read it and, as a handmaid
of the Christ-Rind, she answered his little children.*

Lousia’s sympathies were ever ready to flow for
the sorrows of childhood, which so many grown peo-
ple will not stoop to even notice.

One day as the king and queen were entering a
town, a band of young girls came forward to strew
flowers and to present a nosegay. Her majesty in-
quired how many little girls there were. “ Nine-
teen,” replied the artless child; “there would have
been twenty of us but one was sent back home be-
cause she was too ugly.”

The kind queen feeling for the child’s mortification
sent for her and requested that she might by all
means be allowed to join in the festivities of the day.

Nor did Louisa slight the boys,

She was one day walking in the streets of Char-
lottenburg, attended by a lady-in-waiting ; a number
of boys were running and tumbling and playing
somewhat rudely, and one of them ran up against the
queen. Her lady reproved him sharply, and the
little fellow looked frightened and abashed. The
queen patted his rosy cheek, saying: “Boys will be
a little wild; never mind, my dear boy, I am not
angry.” She then asked his name and bade him
give her compliments to his mother. The child knew
who the lady was, and besides having the’ pleasant
memory of her gracious speech and looks received
a lesson in politeness which he never forgot.

Sometimes the royal children were allowed to have
a party, and this indulgence young princes and prin-
cesses enjoy just as much as other juveniles. A
queer anecdote is told of the only daughter of the

* Mrs. Hudson’s Life of Queen Louisa.





QUEEN LOUISA AND THE CHILDREN.

famous Madame de Stael, in relation to one of these
entertainments.

The little lady was about ten years of age, but
had already imbibed many opinions and prejudices.
At all events she had a high idea of her own im-
portance, and was totally wanting in respect for her
superiors in rank. She was apt to be very rude in
her manners and in her remarks. On this occasion
she took offence at something which the little Crown
Prince said or did to her, and very coolly gave him
a sharp box on the ear, upon which he ran crying to
his mother and hid his face in the folds of her dress.
As mademoiselle, when remonstrated with, showed
not a particle of concern, and refused to say she was
sorry, she was not invited again, and her learned
mamma found that she must keep her daughter at
home until she taught her better manners.*

The annual fair at Paretz, the king’s beloved coun-
try home, took place during the merry harvest-time.
A number of booths were then put up near the vil-
lage, and besides buying and selling there was a
great deal or dancing and singing going on, and all
sorts of games and sports. It was then that the
wheel of fortune was turned for the children’s lottery.
Lots of cakes and fruit were set round in order, which

$s Ae en Do ee SS EE

* Sir George Jackson.



were given away according to the movements of a
pointer, turned by the wheel.

Queen Louisa encouraged the children to crowd
around her on these occasions ; she could not bear
to see them afraid of her, and placed herself beside
the wheel, in order to secure fair play and to watch
carefully that she might make some amends for the
unkindness of fortune. She had her own ample
store of good things which she dispensed among the
unlucky children, many of whom thought more of the
sweet words and looks of the queen than of any-
thing else she could give them. Moreover she was
glad to have a chance of leading even one of her little
subjects to be generous and self-denying. For, while
she liked to see them all happy, she at the same
time interested herself in giving pleasantly little
hints as to conduct that might be of lasting benefit.

All her life Queen Louisa watched beside the
wheel in a higher sense. She overlooked the whole
circle of which she was the centre, anxiously seeking
to hold out a helping hand to any whom she saw

likely to be ruined by losses in the great lottery of

real life.

Is it matter for wonder then that German chil-
dren still cherish her memory, and delight to place
flowers upon vase or tomb that bears her name?





a



THE PLAYTHING

OF AN EMPRESS.



BY M. S. P,

OUBTLESS the readers of Grammar SCHOOL
have heard it said that ‘Men and Women are
only children of a larger growth.” No matter how
stately the grand ladies that we often meet with may ap-
pear, you may be very sure that they sometimes envy the
pleasures of children, who have no thoughts about
fine houses and servants, and a hundred other cares.
Even wearing a crown does not bring happiness; the
dignity it entails often becomes burdensome.

Once a young prince, who had everything that he
could possibly want given him, —books, jewels, play-
things of inconceivable variety, horses and dogs, in
fact all the nice things that you can imagine to bring
him pleasure, — was observed by his attendants to be
standing by the window, crying. When asked the
cause of his tears he replied that he was unhappy be-
cause he could not join the boys in the street who
were making mud pies! ;

The Indians who use the bow and arrow say that
the proper way to keep the strength of their bows is
to unstring them after use and let them relax. So it
is with those whose minds or bodies are engaged in one
long strain of work ; they must be relaxed or they be-
come useless. The late Pope of Rome was a very
dignified old man, and was also surrounded by
learned and great men. He rode in a gilded coach
drawn by four horses, and was in public a very grand
and stately person. But I read the other day that
the old gentleman and some of his cardinals were
once seen playing ball in his garden, for the purpose
of amusing a:little boy.

More than a hundred years ago the great country
east of Germany, known as Russia, was ruled by the
It is a very cold country and the
winter is very long. The capital is St, Petersburg,
and through it the river Neva runs. This river
freezes in winter, and the ice is frequently so solid
that it will bear up an army of several thousand men
with all their heavy guns and mortars, and these be

Empress Anne.

‘wide, and twenty-one feet high.



discharged without so much as cracking the ice.

At the close of the year 1739, during an extremely
cold winter, the empress ordered one of her archi-
tects to build an Ze Palace. The great square in front
of the royal palace was chosen for its site. Blocks of
the clearest ice were selected, carefully measured,
and even ornamented with architectural designs..
They were raised with cranes and carefully placed in
position, and were cemented together by the pouring:
of water over them. The water soon froze and
made the blocks one solid wall of ice. The palace:
was fifty-six feet long, seventeen and one half feet:
Can you imagine
anything more beautiful than such a building made
of transparent ice and sparkling in the sun ?

It was’ surrounded by a balustrade, behind which
were placed six ice cannon on carriages. These can-
non were exactly like real metal ones, and were so
hard and solid that powder could be fired in them.
The charge used was a quarter of a pound of pow-
der anda ball of oakum. At the first trial of the
cannon an iron ball was used. The empress with all
her court was present, and the ball was fired. It
pierced a plank two inches thick at a distance of
sixty feet.

Besides: these six cannon in front of the palace,
there were two ice mortars which carried iron balls.
weighing eighty pounds with a charge of one quarter
of a pound of powder. Then, too, there were two
ice dolphins, from whose mouths a flame of burning
naptha was thrown at night with most wonderful ef-
fect. Between the cannon and dolphins, in front of
the palace, there was a balustrade of ice ornamented
with square pillars. Along the top of the palace:
there was a gallery and a balustrade which was orna-
mented with round balls. In the centre of this stood
four beautiful ice statues, ;

‘The frames of the doors and windows were painted

green to imitate marble. There were two entrances



THE PLAYTHING

to the palace, on opposite sides, leading into a square
vestibule which had four windows. All the windows
were made of perfectly transparent ice, and at night
they were hung with linen shades on which grotesque
figures were painted, and illuminated by a great num-
ber of candles.

Before entering the palace one naturally stopped
to admire the pots of flowers on the balustrade, and
the orange trees on whose branches birds were perch-
ing. Think of the labor and patience required to
make such perfect imitations of nature z# ze!

Standing in the vestibule, facing one entrance and
having another -behind, one could see a door on
either hand. Let us imagine ourselves in the room
on the left. It is asleeping-room apparently, but if
you stop to think that every article in it is made of
ice you will hardly care to spend a night there;
and yet it is said that two persons actually slept on
the bed there for an entire night. On one side is a
toilet-table. Over it hangs a mirror, on each side of
which are candelabra with ice candles. Sometimes
at night these candles were lit by being dipped in
naptha. On the table is a watch-pocket, and a vari-
ety of vases, boxes, and ornaments of curious and
beautiful design. At the other side of the room we
see the bed hung with curtains, furnished with sheets
and a coverlid and two pillows, on which are placed
two night-caps. By the side of the bed on a foot-
stool are two pairs of slippers. Opposite the bed is
the fireplace which is beautifully carved and orna-
mented. In the grate lie sticks of wood also made
of ice, which are sometimes lighted like the candles
by having naptha poured over them.

The opposite room is a dining-room. In the cen-
tre stands a table on which is a clock of most won-
derful workmanship. The ice used is so transparent
that all the wheels and works are visible. On each
side of this table two beautifully carved sofas are
placed, and in the corners of the room there are stat-
ues. On one side we see a sideboard covered with a
variety of ornaments. We open the doors and find



OF AN EMPRESS.

inside a tea-set, glasses and plates which contain a
variety of fruits and vegetables, all made of ice but
painted in imitation of nature.

Let us now go through the opposite door and no-
tice the other curious things outside the palace. At
each end of the balustrade we see a pyramid with an
opening in each side like the dial of a clock. These
pyramids are hollow, and at night a man stands in-
side of them and exhibits illuminated pictures at the
grand openings.

Perhaps the greatest curiosity of all is the life-like
elephant at the right of the palace. On his back sits.
a Persian holding a battle-axe, and by his side stand.
two men as large as life. The elephant, too, is hol-
low, and is so constructed that in the daytime a
stream of water is thrown from his trunk to a height
of twenty-four feet, and at night a flame of burning
naptha, In addition to this, the wonderful animal is
so arranged that from time to time he utters the most
natural cries. This is done by means of pipes into.
which air is forced.

On the left of the palace stands a small house,
built of round blocks of ice resembling logs, inter-
laced one with another. This is the bath-house,
without which no Russian establishment is complete.
This bath-house was actually heated and used on sev-.
eral occasions.

When this wonderful ice-palace was completed it
was thrown open to the public, and such crowds came.
to see it that sentinels were stationed in the house to
prevent disorder.

This beautiful palace stood from the beginning of
January until the end of March. Then, as the
weather became warmer, it began to melt on the south
side ; but even after it lost its beauty and symmetry as
a palace it did not become entirely useless, for the
largest blocks of ice were transferred to the ice-
houses of the imperial palace, and thus afforded
grateful refreshment during the summer, as well as a
pleasent reminder of “ Zhe Plaything of an Em.
press.”



CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON.



CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON.



BY CHARLES E. HURD.



HARLIE was going to Boston.

The ceaseless clatter of his little copper-toed
boots over all the bare places in the house, and the
pertinacious hammering he kept up upon everything
capable of emitting sound, rendered it impossible for
his mamma or the new baby to get any rest, and so
it was that the decision came about. Aunt Mary,
who had lent her presence to the household for the
preceding fortnight, was to return home the following
day, and with her, after infinite discussion, it was
decided that he was to go for a week.

The momentous news was withheld from Charlie
until the next morning, for fear of the result upon his
night’s sleep, but it was injudiciously let out by Aunt
Mary before breakfast, the effect being to at once
plunge the young gentleman into the highest state of
excitement. He had played “go to Boston” a thou-
sand times with his little cart and wheelbarrow, but
to take such a journey in reality was something he
could hardly imagine possible.

“Am I going to Boston, real live?” he wildly in-
quired. ‘Where’s my rubber boots, and my little
chair, and my cart, and I want my piece of gum
mamma tooked away, and where’s my sled?”

“ But, Charlie,” said Aunt Mary, persuasively, “ you
are not going now, and you don’t want to take all
those things. There isn’t any snow in Boston, and
good little boys don’t chew gum, You must have
some breakfast.”

“T don’t want any breakfast. I want to go to Bos-
‘ton. I got to go, now you said so.”

“Yes, but you must have something to eat first.
It would make you sick to ride so far without eating.
And then you must have a nice bath, and put on
your new suit that papa bought last week. You’ve
plenty of time.”

But Charlie, generally good to mind, was thor-
oughly demoralized by the new turn in affairs, and
had to be brought to the table by main force.

“Jt’s like taking a horse to water,” said Aunt





Mary. “You can get him to the trcugh, but you
can’t make him drink without he likes. Charlie,
have a nice large griddle-cake ?”

Griddle-cakes were Charlie’s weak point, but ina
time like this he rose superior to the temptation.

“Don’t want griddle-cakes; don’t want bread;
don’t want toast; don’t want anything. I want to
get right down out of my little chair, and go to Bos-
ton, awful quick !” .

“The child will be down sick if he goes away on
an empty stomach,” said grandma from her bed-
room, where she could see all that transpired at the
table. ‘Can’t you make him eat?”

“Tt’s all very well to say ‘Make him eat,’ but he
won’t,” said Aunt Mary. “You might just as well
make a squirrel sit down and eat in a respectabl
manner.”

“Let him go till he gets hungry, then,” said his
father. ‘‘He’ll come to it soon enough, There’s no
danger of his starving.”

If Charlie had been a grown man, with whiskers,
and going to some European Court as Minister Ex:
traordinary, he couldn’t have felt the importance of
his prospective journey more, or been more weighed
down by the preparations for it. The train which
was to carry him did not start until two o’clock, and
in the six hours which intervened his little tongue was
in constant motion, and his little feet tramping up and
down stairs, “ getting ready.”

“But you're only going to stay for a week, you
know, Charlie,” said Aunt Mary, dismayed at the heap
of toys he had industriously gathered in a corner of
the sitting-room for transportation, “and you'll see
so many pretty things that you won’t care for any of
these.”

“IT want to carry my wheelbarrow. I will be cross
if I don’t carry my wheelbarrow. And my cunnin’
little cunnin’ watlin’ pot, and my high chair, and some
more.”

“But Aunt Mary couldn’t get them into her trunk,



CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON,
a

and the railroad man wouldn’t let Charlie take them
into the cars. Put them all away nicely, and then
Charlie will have them when he comes home.”

It required a great deal of judicious argument,
intermingled with promises, to gain the point, and
~ final success was only achieved by a formal agreement,
to which grandma was made a witness, by virtue of
which Charlie was to become the possessor of “a
speckled rocking-horse, just like Johnny Baker’s,
with real hair ears, and a tight tail, that boys couldn’t
pull out.” This compact having been made, Charlie
submitted to the washing and dressing process with
comparative good grace.

An exceedingly light dinner preceded the start,
- varied by excursions to the front door to see if the
depot stage was coming. It came at last, and, after
the leave-taking, Charlie and Aunt Mary were packed
in among half a dozen others. The whip cracked,
the coach gave a sudden lurch, and then dashed
down the street at the heels of the horses, who seemed
anxious to get to the station at the earliest possible
moment. There was just time to get tickets and seats
before the train started.

If Charlie was unmanageable before, he was doubly
so now. At every stopping-place he made desperate
efforts to get out of the car, and once or twice, in
spite of Aunt Mary’s efforts, very nearly succeeded.
He dropped his hat out of the window ; he dirtied
his face beyond redemption with dust and cinders ;
he put cake crumbs down the neck of an old lady
who had fallen asleep on the seat just in front, and
horrified the more staid portion of the passengers in
the car by a series of acts highly inconsistent with
the rules of good breeding, and the character of a
nice boy. :

Boston was reached at last, and the perils of pro-
curing a hack and getting safely home in it were
surmounted. So thankful was Aunt Mary that she
could have dropped upon her knees on the sidewalk
in front of the door; but she managed to control her
feelings, paid the hackman his dollar, still keeping a
tight grip upon Charlie, and, despite his struggles to
join the distant audience of a hand-organ, managed
to get him safely into the house, where he was at
once delivered over to the other members of the
household.

“T never, never, zever will go out of the house with
that child again!” she declared, half crying, and



sinking into a chair without taking her bonnet off.
“ He’s enough to kill anyone outright. No wonder
they wanted to get rid of him at home! It'll bea
mercy if he don’t drive us all crazy before the week
is out. One thing is certain, they’ll have to send for
him, 747 never take him home again.”

“Why didn’t you drug him, Aunt Mary,” asked
Tom, with a great show of sympathy. ‘“ Z would.”

“J declare I would have done anything, if I had
only known how he was going to act! You may
laugh and think it’s all very funny, but I just wish
you’d some of you try it yourselves. Where is he
now? If he’s out of sight a single minute he’ll be in
some mischief. There he goes now!”

The last declaration of Aunt Mary was preceded
by a series of violent bumps, followed by a loud
scream from the bottom of the basement stairs. A
grand rush to the spot revealed Charlie lying at the
foot, beating the air with his legs, with a vigor that
at once dispelled all fears as to his serious injury.
He was picked up and borne into the kitchen by the
cook, where the gift of a doughnut soon dried his
tears, and he was returned to the sitting-room to
await the ringing of the bell for tea.

“ Has he had a nap to-day?” asked grandmother.

“Nap! I should think the child would be dead for
want of sleep. I don’t believe he’s winked to-day!”

“He looks like it now, anyway,” said ‘Tom, who
was holding him in his arms.

Sure enough, his eyelids were beginning to droop,
and a moment after the half-eaten doughnut dropped
from his loosened fingers upon the carpet.

“Carry him up to my room, Tom, and lay him
upon my bed. Don’t for mercy’s sake hit his head
against anything. We shan’t have any peace if he
gets awake again.”

Slowly and carefully Tom staggered under his little
burden up-stairs, and laid it upon the clean white
coverlet of Aunt Mary’s bed.

“That will do,” said Aunt Mary, who had followed
close behind. “He’s thoroughly tired out, and no
wonder. You may go down now and I will take care
of him, dear little fellow.”

With careful fingers she untied the laces of his little
boots, and pulled them off. The stockings came
next, and the hot little feet were released from con-
finement. The tiny jacket was then removed, the
tangled hair put back, and then, with a sponge wet in



CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON.





cool water, the dirty, sweaty little face was softly
bathed until it became quite presentable again.

“There!” she said at last, surveying him with a
feeling of satisfaction, ‘he will sleep at least a couple
of hours. By that time I shall get rested, and can
manage him better. I suppose it’s because he’s so
tired, and everything is new.”

With this apology for Charlie in her heart, and a
half remorseful feeling for her lately displayed impa-
tience, she descended the stairs to the dining-room,
where the rest of the family were already seated at
the table.

A few minutes later, and while she was deep in an
account of matters and things at Charlie’s home, the
cook came up-stairs in something of a fluster.

“Plaze, ma’am, there’s something on the house.”

“Something on the house?”

“Yes. McKillop’s boarders across the way are all
at the windows, an’ the men is laughin’ and the
women frightened.”

With one accord a sudden and informal adjourn-
ment to the parlor window was made, the result being
a verification of the cook’s statement.

“What on earth can be the matter?” said grand-
mother.

At this moment Mrs. McKillop, after a series of
incomprehensible gestures, which nobody could trans-
late with any clearness, dispatched her girl across the
street.

“ There’s achild, ma’am,” she exclaimed, in breath-
less excitement, “a baby, walking about on the out-
“side of your house like a fly! he’s— Howly Father!”

This sudden exclamation was caused by the descent
of a flower pot, which, coming with the swiftness of a
meteor, missed the head of the speaker by less than
a hand’s-breadth, and crashed into a thousand pieces
on the front steps.

The situation was taken in at once. With a suc-
cession of screams Aunt Mary flew up the stairs two
at atime. By this a crowd was rapidly gathering.

“ Bring out something to catch him in if he falls,”
shouted a fat old gentleman, pushing his way to the
front.

Grandmother caught a tidy from the arm of the
sofa, and, snatching a volume of Tennyson from the
centre-table, rushed frantically into the street, closely
followed by Tom with a feather duster.

A single glance told the whole story. There sat



the occasion.



Charlie, utterly innocent of clothing save a shirt of
exceeding scantness, on the very edge of the broad
projection below the third-story window, his legs dan-
gling in space, watching with delighted interest the
proceedings of the excited crowd in the street below.
No one knows what might have happened, for, at that
moment, while a hot discussion was being carried on
among the gathered spectators, as to the propriety of
sounding a fire alarm for a hook and ladder company,
the arms of Aunt Mary came through the window,
and closed upon him like a pair of animated pincers.
There was a brief struggle, productive of a perfect
shower of flower-pots, and then, amid a hurricane of
shouts and cheers, the little white body and kicking
legs disappeared within the room. When, two min-
utes later, the entire household, with a fair sprinkling
of the McKillop boarders, had reached the scene,
they found Charlie shut up in the wardrobe, and Aunt
Mary in hysterics, with her back against the door.

“Tf he stays here a week we shall have to board up
the windows, and keep a policeman,” said grand-
mother, that night, after Charlie had been guarded
to sleep on the sitting-room lounge, with the door
locked. “We shall have to have watchers for him,
for I would no more dare to go to sleep without some
one awake with him than I would trust him with a
card of matches and a keg of gunpowder. And that
makes me think: we musn’t leave matches where he
can get them; and, father, you'll have to go down
town the first thing in the morning, and see about an
insurance.”

Notwithstanding the universally expressed fears,
Charlie slept like a top all night, and really behaved
so well the next morning that it was deemed safe to
give him an airing, and introduce him to the sights of
Boston. Right after dinner he was taken in hand,
and dressed and curled and frilled as he never had
been before, creating serious doubts in his own mind
as to whether he was really himself, or another boy of
about the same size and general make.

At half-past two o’clock the party set out, Aunt
Mary on one side, tightly grasping Charlie’s hand, and
on the other a female friend, especially engaged for
Tom followed on behind as a sort ol
rear guard, ready to be called upon in case of emer
gency.

First the Public Garden was visited. Hardly had
half*the circuit of the lake beén made, when Charlie,



CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON.



attracted by one of the gayly painted boats which was
‘moored a few feet from the shore, broke loose and
made a sudden dash to reach it, to the utter ruin of
his stockings and gaiters. In vain Aunt Mary coaxed
and. remonstrated and threatened; in vain she at-
tempted to hook him out with the handle of her para-
sol; he was just out of reach and he kept there. He
was brought out by one of the gardeners at last, who
seemed to look up-
on it as an excel-
lent joke. Tom,
who had lagged be-
hind, was sent back
after dry stockings
and Charlie’s sec-
oond-best shoes,
which, when
brought,
changed in the ves-
‘tibule of the Public
Library, and the
line of march again
taken up. The
deer on the Com-
‘mon were fed,
Punch and Judy
viewed and criti-
rized, and the thou-
sand and one vari-
ous objects in the
vicinity visited.
‘Charlie was de-
lighted with every-
thing, but through
and above all one
grand desire and
determination rode rampant —the desire and deter-
mination to enter into possession of the promised,
but as yet unrealized, ‘“ wocking-horse.”

Down Winter Street to Washington, in the great,
sweeping crowd of men, women and children; past
the gorgeous dry goods'stores ; past candy and apple
stands ; past all sorts of strange and funny and bewil-
lering things, Charlie was slowly dragged, a helpless
and unwilling prisoner. He only broke silence once.
Passing a window filled with braids and chignons, and
‘doubtless taking them for scalps, he inquired with
considerable interest if “Indians kept store there.”

were

Wil}



“ Mounrep UPON THE BACK OF THE LARGEST AND REALEST LOOKING HORSE.”



“Oh! what a lovely silk!” ejaculated Aunt Mary’s
friend, coming to a sudden stop before one of the
great dry goods emporiums on Washington Street.

Aunt Mary stopped, too. The pattern was too

gorgeous to be lightly passed. She raised her hand
to remove her vail, forgot her charge for a moment,
and when she looked again Charlie had disappeared.

“Charlie! Charlie!

Why, where is he?” she ex-
claimed, pale with
fright. “TI thought
you had hold of
him!”

“T dropped his
hand not a minute
ago, to be sure my
pocket hadn’t been
picked. I thought
you would look out
for him.”

In vain they
searched ;
they questioned
clerks and police-
men and apple-wo-
men. Nobody had
seen such a boy,
and yet everybody
seemed to think
that they certainly
should remember
if they had. It
was now half past
four. And Tom,
who might have
helped them so
much, was gone!

“Perhaps,” suggested a pitying apothecary’s clerk,
with a very small moustache and very smooth hair,

“perhaps the young man Tom has taken him home.”

There was a small spark of comfort in this sugges-
tion and, though unbelieving, the two hurried home-
wards, only to find Tom sitting on the doorstep, lazily
fanning himself, and hear his surprised ejaculation :

“Why! what have you done with Charlie ?”

“ TTe’s lost |” said Aunt Mary, bursting into tears.
“He'll get run over, or carried away, or something
terrible will happen to him. I shall never have
another minute’s peace while I live!”

in vain



CHARLIE’S WEEK iN BOSTON. —



Tom listened impatiently to the details of the
story, told by both together, and, tossing his fan into
the hall, started down the steps.

“Don’t fret till I come back. He’s all right some-
where, and I’ll bring him home with me.”

“Ym going back. I can’t stay here. I can help
search,” said Aunt Mary, still in tears, and her loyal
companion avowed her determination to stand by her.

Tom had hurried away without stopping to listen,
and was now out of sight; but the two wretched
women, heated, footsore and wearied, followed reso-
lutely after. The scene of the mysterious disappearance
was at last reached, and again the oft repeated in-
quiries were made, but with the same result.

“ Here is where I was intending to bring him,” said
Aunt Mary, pausing mournfully before the window of
a toy-bazar crowded with drums, guns, trumpets and
wooden monkeys. “He had talked so much about
his rocking-horse, the poor lost lamb! And now —”

The sentence was never finished, for, with a half
hysterical shriek, she dropped her parasol upon the
sidewalk and rushed into the store, where the appari-
tion of a curly head of flaxen hair, slowly oscillating
back and forth, had that instant caught her eye. It
was Charlie, sure enough, in the highest feather,
mounted upon the back of the largest and realest-
looking horse in the entire stock of the establishment,
whose speed he was endeavoring to accelerate by the
aid of divers kicks and cluckings, while the proprie-
tor and unemployed clerks looked admiringly on. ,

Aunt Mary, despite her regard for appearances,
hugged him and cried over him without stint, and
finally made a brave attempt to scold him, but her
heart failed her, at the very outset.

“ He’s been here nigh upon two hours,” said the
proprietor, as he made change for the coveted horse.
“ He came in alone and went right to that horse, and
there he’s stuck ever since. I don’t let boys handle
’em much without I know they’re going to buy, but
he made me think so much of a little fellow I lost a
year ago that I let him do just as he liked.”

No mishap occurred in getting Charlie home this
time. The toyman’s boy was sent for a hack, and,
with the rocking-horse perched up by the side of
the driver, and the doors tightly closed, nothing hap-
pened beyond what happens to ordinary boys who
are carried about in hacks. Some little difficulty was
experienced in getting him out on arrival home, for



it appeared that he had formed the plan on the way
of taking his horse into the coach and making a tour
of the city by himself. He could not in any manner
be satisfied of the impossibility of such an arrange-
ment, and was at last taken out in a high state of in-
dignation by the driver, who expressed a vehement
wish to himself that “e had such a young one!”
Nothing took place worthy of mention before bed-
time, with the exception, perhaps, of the breaking of
the carving-knife, and the ruin of Aunt Mary’s gold
pen in an attempt to vaccinate his new acquisition.

For three days peace—comparative peace —reigned.
in the household. From morning till night, in season.
and out of season, Charlie was busy with his horse,,
astride of it, or feeding it, or leading it to water, or
punishing it for imaginary kicks and bites, and so:
keeping out of mischief; but with the dawn of the
fourth he awoke, apparently for the first time, to a
realization of the fact that he was not lying in his own
little bed, and a sudden flood of homesickness rolled
over his soul, drowning out rocking-horse, hand-organs,
Tom’s music-box, and each and every Bostonian de-
light which, until that moment, had led him captive.

From that moment his mourning was as incessant
and obstinate as that of Rachael. He sat on the
top stair, and filled the house with wailings. Cakes,
candy and coaxings were alike in vain, and even a
desperate promise of Tom’s—to show him a whole
drove of elephants, had no more effect upon him, to
use the cook’s simile, “than the wind that blows.”

“No human being can endure it any longer,”
declared grandma, and in that statement every mem-
ber of the household cordially agreed.

That fact having been estabtished without dis-
cussion, but one thing remained to do; to get him
home in as good condition as when he left there.

“ One can hardly do that,” said Tom. “He’s got
a rag on every finger but one, and I don’t know how
much court-plaster about him.”

Notwithstanding, the afternoon train saw Charlie
on board, under thé double guardianship of Aunt
Mary and Tom, and at five o’clock he was in his
mother’s arms.

“The silence in the house was a thousand times
worse than the sound of his little feet,” she said, with ~
her eyes full of tears, “and made me think of that
possible time when I should never hear them any
more,”





elohnny’s a drummer and drams for {lf King”

ML D Cc 9 Vv £





A WONDERFUL TRIO.

BY JANE HOWARD.

N a little stone hut among the mountains lived
Gredel and her son Peterkin, and this is how
they lived: They kept about a dozen goats; and all
they had to do was to watch them browse, milk them,
and make the butter and cheese, which they partly
ate and partly sold down in the village, or, rather,
exchanged for bread. ‘They were content with bread,
butter, and cheese ; and all they thought about was
the goats. As for their clothes, it would be impossi-
ble to speak of them with patience. They had no
ambition, no hope, no thought beyond the day, and
no sense of gratitude towards yesterday. So they
lived, doing no harm, and effecting little good ; care-
less of the future, and not honestly proud of any-
thing they had done in the past.

But one day Gredel (who was the widow of a

shepherd that had dropped over the edge of a cliff)
sat slowly churning the previous day’s milk, while
Peterkin sat near her, doing nothing at all, thinking
nothing at all, because he had nothing to ponder over,
and looking at nothing at all, for the goats were an
everyday sight, and they took such capital care of
themselves that Peterkin always stared away over
their heads.

“ Heigho!” suddenly exclaimed Gredel, stopping
in her churning; and Peterkin dropped his stick,
looked at his mother slowly, and obediently repeated,
“ Heigho !”

“The-sun rises,” said Gredel, “and the sun sets ;
the day comes, and the day goes ; and we were yes-
terday, and we are to-day, and we shall be for some
tomorrows ; and that is all, all, all.”

Said Peterkin, ‘“ Mother, what is
world?”

“Men and women,” repeated the. wise parent ;
“goats, and many other things.”

“But is it the end of life to get up, watch goats,
eat and drink, and fall asleep again? Sometimes I
wonder what is on the other side of the hill.”

“Who can say what is the end of life?” asked

there in the

?



slow-thoughted Gredel. “Are you not happy?”

“Yes. But there is something more.”

“Do you not love me — your mother? ”

“Yes. But still I think — think — think.”

“Love is enough,” said Gredel, who had passed
more than half way through life, and was content to
rest.

“Then it must be,” said Peterkin, “that I want
more than enough.”

“Tf so, you must be wicked,” remarked Gredel ;
“for Iam at peace in loving you, and you should be
content in loving me. What more do you want?
You bave enough to eat—a warm bed in winter—
and your mother who loves you.”

Peterkin shook his head.

“Tt will rain to-night,” said Gredel ; “and you will
be warm while many will be shivering in the wet.”

Gredel was quite right ; for when the sun had set,
and the heavens were all of one dead, sad color,
down came the rain, and the inside of the hut looked
very warm and comfortable.

Nevertheless, Peterkin still thought of the some-
thing beyond the mountain, .and wondered what it
might be. Had some wise one whispered in his ear,
he must have learnt that it was healthy ambition,
which helped the world and the worker at the same
time.

Soon it began to thunder, and Peterkin lazily
opened the wooden shutters to look at the lightning.

By this time Gredel, having thanked Providence
for a large bowl of black bread steeped in hot goat’s
milk, was nodding and bobbing towards the flaming
wood fire.

“Mother mother! here comes something from this
world !”

“And what comes from the world? ”

“Something like three aged women, older than
you are a very great deal. Let me wait for another
flash of lightening. Ha! The first has a big stick ;
the second has a great pair of round things on her



A WONDERFUL TRIO.

eyes ; and the third has a sack on her back, but it is
as flat as the palm of my hand, and can have noth-





ing in it.”
“Ts there enough bread, and cheese, and milk,
and salt in the house?—- We must consider.”

“Aye,” answered Peterkin ; “there
is plenty of each and all.”

“Then let them come in, if they
will,” said Gredel. “But they shall
knock at the door first, for we go not
out on the highways and in the by-.
ways to help others. Let them come
to us—good. But let us not go to
them, for they have their business,
and we have ours; and so the world
goes round !”

“They are near the door,” whis-
pered Peterkin, “and very good old
women they look.”

The next moment there was a very
soft and civil tapping at the door.

“Who goes there?” asked Peterkin.

“Three honest old women,” cried a
voice.

“And what do three honest old
women want?” called Gredel.

“A bit of bread each,” replied the
voice, ‘a mug of milk each, and one
corner for all three to sleep in until
in the morning up comes the sweet
yellow sun.”

“Lift up the latch,” said Gredel.
“Come in. There is bread, there is
milk, and a corner laid with three
sacks of thistle down. Come in, and
welcome.”

Then up went the latch, and in
stepped the three travellers. Gredel
looked at them without moving; but
when she saw they were pleasant in















































































IN STEPPED THE THREE,



who carried the stick. “I am
commonly called Sister Trot.”
“And 1,” said the second,

appearance — that their eyes were who wore the spectacles, “am
keen in spite of their many wrinkles, commonly called Sister Pansy.”
and that their smiles were very fresh and pleasant “And I,” added the third, who carried the bag,
notwithstanding the lines about their mouth, lazy but | “am styled Sister Satchel.”
good-hearted Gredel got up and made a neat little “Your mother and father must have been a good-
bow of welcome. looking couple,” said Gredel, smiling.

“ Are you sisters?” she asked. “They were born handsome,” quoth Trot, rearing

“We are three sisters,” answered the leader, she | her head proudly, “and they grew handsomer.”





A WONDERFUL TRIO.

»

“How came they to grow handsomer?” asked
Peterkin, who had been standing in a corner.

“Because they were brisk and hurried about,”
replied Pansy, “and never found the day too long.
But pray, sir, who are you?”

“Tam Peterkin, son of Gredel.”

“ And may I ask what you do?” inquired Trot.

“ Watch the goats.”

“ And what do you do when you watch the goats?”

“Look about.”

“What do you see when you look about?” asked
Sister Pansy.

“The sky, and the earth, and the goats.”

“Ah!” said Pansy, “it is very good to look at the
sky, and truly wise to look at the earth, while it is
clever to keep an eye on the goats ; but Peterkin —
Peterkin — you do not look far enough !”

“And when you look about,” queried Sister
Satchel, “what do you pick up?”

“ Nothing,” said Peterkin.

“Nothing!” echoed the visitor.
an idea?”

“What is an idea?” asked Peterkin.

“Oh, oh, oh!” said the three sisters. ‘“ Here is
Peterkin, who not only never picks up an idea, but
actually does not know what one is!”

“This comes of not moving about,” said Trot.
“Of not looking about,” said Pansy.
“And of not: picking up something every day,”

“What! not even

said Satchel. ‘And a worse example I, for one,
never came across.” :
“Nor1I!” ‘Nor I!” echoed the other sisters.

Whereupon they all looked at Peterkin, and seemed
dreadfully serious.

“Why, whatever have I done?” he demanded.

“That’s just it!” said the sisters. “ What have
you done?”

“Nothing!” exclaimed Peterkin, quite with the
intention of justifying himself. ‘‘ Nothing at all!”

“ Ah!” said Trot, ‘“¢2az is the truth, indeed ; what-
ever else may be wrong — done nothing at all!”

“Nothing!” “Nothing!” repeated Satchel and
Pansy, in a breath.

“Dear me!” said Peterkin.

Whereupon Gredel, half-frightened herself, and
partly indignant that her boy should be lamented
over in this uncalled-for manner, said, “Would you
be pleased to take a seat?”





“Certainly!” said Trot. “Still I, for one, would
not think of such a thing until your stools were
dusted.”

Gredel could zof believe her eyes, for actually Trot
raised one end of her stick and it became a brush,
with which she dusted three stools.

“T think, too,” said Sister Pansy, looking out
sharp through her spectacles, “that if we were to
stop up that hole in the corner we should have less
draught. Asarule, holes are bad things in a house.”

So off she went, and stopped up the hole’with a
handful of dried grass she took from a corner.

“Bless me!” said Satchel ; “here are four pins on
the floor!”

Whereupon she picked up the pins and popped
them into her wallet. Meanwhile Gredel looked on,
much astonished at these preceedings.

“T may as well have a rout while I am about it,”
said Trot, beginning at once to sweep up.

“Cobwebs in every corner!” cried Pansy; and
away she went, looking after the walls.

“No wonder you could not find your wooden
spoon,” remarked Satchel; “why, here it is, most
mysteriously up the chimney!”

There was such a dusting, sweeping, and general
cleaning as the place had never seen before.

“This is great fun!” said Peterkin ; “but how it
makes you sneeze! ”

“Here, dame Gredel,” cried Satchel; “I have
picked up all the things you must have lost for the
last three years. Here is your thimble; and now
you can take the bit of leather off your finger. Here
are your scissors, which will cut cloth better than
that knife ; and here is the lost leg of the third stool
—so that I can now sit down in safety.”

“Why,” exclaimed Peterkin, “the place looks
twice as large as it did, and ten times brighter.
Mother, I am glad the ladies have come.”

“T am sure, ladies,” said the good woman, “I
shall never forget your visit.”

To tell the truth, however, there was something
very ambiguous in Gredel’s words.

“There!” said Trot; “ and now I can sit down in
comfort to my bread and milk.”

“ And very good bread and milk, too,” said Satchel.
“T think, sisters, we are quite fortunate to fall upon
this goodly cot.”

“Ves,” remarked Trot, “they are not bad souls,



A WONDERFUL TRIO.

this Gredel and Peterkin ; but, they sadly want mend-
However, they have good hearts, and you know
that those who love much are forgiven much; and
indeed I would sooner eat my supper here than in
some palaces you and I, sisters, know something
about.”

“Quite true!” assented the others, ‘quite true!”
And so they went on talking as though ‘hey had
been in their own house and no oné #2 themselves
in the room. Gredel listened w?/: astonishment, and
Peterkin with all his ears. ico delighted even to be
astonished.

“Now this,” thought 16, “comes of their knowing
something of what goes «n beyond the Great Hill as
far away asI can see.”

“Time for bed,” suddenly said Dame Trot, who
evidently was the ieader, “if we are to see the sun
rise.”

The sisters then made themselves quite comfort-
able, and tucked up their thistle-down beds and
home-spun sheets with perfect good humor.

ing.

Peterkin awoke cheerily, and he was dressed even
before the sun appeared. He made the fire, set the
table, gave the place a cheerful air, and then opened
the door to look after the goats, wondering why he
felt so light and happy. He was soon joined by the
three sisters, who made a great to-do with some cold
water and their washing.

“Is it good to put your head souse in a pail?”
asked Peterkin.

“Try it,” replied Dame Trot.

So by this time, quite trusting the old women, he
did so, and found his breath gone in a moment.
However, he enjoyed breathing all the more when he
found his head once more out of the pail, and after
Pansy had rubbed him dry with a rough towel,
which she took out of Satchel’s wallet, he thought he
had never experienced such a delightful feeling as
then took possession of him. Even since the previ-
ous night he felt quite a new being, and alas! he
found himself forgetting Gredel — his mother Gredel,
who toved him and taught him only to live for to-day.

‘And shall I show you down the hill-side?” asked
Peterkin, when the three sisters had taken their por-
ridge and were sprucing themselves for departure.

“Yes,” said dame Trot, “and glad am I thou hast
saved us the trouble of asking thee.”





“ A good lad,” remarked Pansy to Gredel, “but he
must look about him.”

“Truly,” said Satchel. ‘And, above all, he must
pick up everything he comes xsross, when he can do
so without robbing a neighbor, aszs$ ne may steal all
his neighbor Azows, without depriving the gentle-
man of anything.”

Then Peterkin, feeling as light as a feather, started
off down the hillside, the three old sisters.chatting,
whispering, and chuckling in a very wonderful man-
ner. So, when they were quite in the valley, Peter-
kin said, “ Please you, I will leave you now, ladies ;
and many thanks for your coming.” ‘Then he very
civilly touched his tattered cap, and was turning on
his battered heels, when Sister Trot said, “Stop!”
and he turned.

“Peterkin,” she said, “thou art worth loving and
thinking about, and for your kindness to us wander-
ers we must ask you to keep something in remem-
brance of our visit. Here, take my wonderful stick
and believe in it. You know me as Trot, but grown-
up men call me the Fairy Work-o’-Day.” Peterkin
made his obeisance, and took the stick.

“J will never lose it!” said he.

“Vou never will,” said Trot, “after once you know
how to use it.”

“Well,” said sister Pansy, “I am not to be beaten
by my sister, and so here are my spectacles.”

“T shall look very funny in them,” said Peterkin,
eyeing them doubtfully.

“Nay; nobody will see them on your nose as you
mark them on mine. The world will observe their
wisdom in your eyes, but the wires will be invisible.
By-the-by, sister Pansy is only my home-name ; men
call me Fairy See-far ; and so be good.”

“ As for me,” said the third sister, “I am but the
younger of the family. JI could not be in existence
had not my sisters been born into the world. I am
going to give you my sack; but take heed, it were
better that you had no sack at all than that you should
fill it too full, than that you should fling into it all
that you see; than that you should pass by on the
other side when, your sack being full, another human
being, fallen amongst thieves, lies bleeding and want-
ing help! And now know that, though I am some-
times called Satchel, my name amongst the good
people is the Fairy Save-some.”

“Good by,” suddenly said the three sisters. They



A WONDERFUL TRIO.

smiled, and instantly they were gone— just like
Three Thoughts.

So he turned his face towards home, with sorrow in
his heart as he thought of the three sisters, while hope
was mixed with the sadness as he glanced towards
the far-off mountain which was called Mons Futura.

Now, Peterkin had never cared to climb hiisides,
and, therefore he rarely went down them if he could
help it, always lazily stopping at the top. But now
the wonderful stick, as he pressed it upon the ground,
seemed to give him a light heart, and a lighter pair of
heels, and he danced up the hillside just as though
he were holiday-making, soon reaching home.

“See, mother,” said Peterkin, “the good women
have given me each a present— the one her stick, the
second her glasses, and the third her wallet.”

“Ho!” said Gredel.
are gone, for I am afraid they would soon have made
you despise your mother. They are very pleasant old
people no doubt, but rude and certainly ill-bred, or
they would not have put my house to rights.”

“ But it looked all the better for it.”

“Tt looked very well as it was.”

“ But the world goes on and on,” said Peterkin.

Gredel shook her head. “Humph!” she said, “a
stick, an old pair of spectacles, and a sack not worth
adime! When people give gifts, let them be gifts
and not cast-offs.”

“ Anyhow,” said Peterkin, “I can tell you that the
stick is a good stick, and helps you over the hill
famously. I will keep it, and you may have the sack
and the spectacles.”

“ Let us try your spectacles,” cried Gredel. “O4/”
she said, trying them on carelessly. “These are the
most wonderful spectacles in the world,” she went on ;
“but no more civil than those three old women.”

“What do you mean, mother?”

“J see you, Peterkin — and a very sad sight, too.
Why, you are lazy, careless, unwashed, and stupid ;
and a more deplorable object was never seen by hon-
est woman.”

Poor Peterkin blushed very much ; but’at this point,
his mother taking off the glasses, he seized and placed
them before his own eyes. “ O%/” he exclaimed.

“ What now?” asked Gredel in some alarm.

“Now I see you as you are—and a very bad
example are you to set before your own son! Why,
you are careless, and love me not for myself but your-

“Well, Iam not sorry they”



self, or you would do your best for me, and send me
out in the world.”

“What? and dare you talk to your mother in such
fashion? Give me the spectacles once more!” and
she clapped them on again. “Bless me!” she con-
tinued, “the boy is quite right, and I see I am selfish,
and that [ am making him selfish—a very pretty
business, indeed! This is to be thought over,” she
said, laying aside the spectacles.

By this time Peterkin had possessed himself of the
stick, and then, to his amazement, he round it had
taken the shape of a spade.

“Well,” said he, ‘as here is a spade I think I will
turn over the potato-patch.” This he did; and: com-
ing in to breakfast he was admonished to find how
fine the milk tasted. ‘‘ Mother,” said he, “here is a
penny. I havé found in the field.”’”

“ Put it in the bag,” said Gredel.

He did so, and immediately there was a chink.

Over he turned the sack, and lo! there were ten
pennies sprinkled on the table.

“Ho,ho ” said Peterkin, “if, now, the bag increases
money after such a pleasant manner, I have but to
take out one coin and cast it in again, and soon I
shall have a fortune.” He did so; but he heard
no chinking. He inverted the bag again, and out
fell the one coin he had picked up while digging the
potato-patch.

“This, now, is very singular,” he said; “let me
put on the spectacles.” This done, ‘ Ha!” he cried,
“‘T see now how it is. The money will never grow in
the sack, unless one works hard ; and then it increases
whether one will or not.”

Meanwhile Gredel, taking up the stick, it took the
shape of a broom, and upon the hint she swept the
floor. Next, sitting down before Peterkin’s clothes,
the stick became a needle, and she stitched away
with a will.

So time rolled on. The cottage flourished, and
the garden was beautiful. Then a cow was brought
home, and it was wonderful how often fresh money
changed in the wallet. Gredel had grown handsomer,
and so also had Peterkin. But one day it came to
pass that Peterkin said: “ Mother, it is time I went
over the great hill.”

“What! canst thou leave me?”

“Thou didst leave thy father and mother.”

Gredel was wiser than she had been, and so she



A WONDERFUL TRIO.

quietly said: “Let us put on the spectacies. “Ah!
I see,” she then said, “a mother may love her son,
but she must not stand in his way as he goes on in
the world, or she becomes his enemy.”

Then Peterkin put on the spectacles. “Ah! I
see,” said he, “a son may love his mother, but his love
must not interfere with his duty to other men. The
glasses say that every man should try and leave the
world something the better for his coming ; that many
fail and but few succeed, yet that all must strive.”

“So be it,” said Gredel. ‘“ Go forth into the world,
my son, and leave me hopeful here alone.”

“The glasses say that the sense of duty done is the



greatest happiness in the world,” said Peterkin.

Then Gredel looked again through the glasses.

“T see,” said she ; “the glasses say it is better to
have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
Go forth into the world, my son: we shall both be
the happier for having done our duty.”

So out into the world went Peterkin.

What else is there to tell? Why, who can write of
to-morrow?

By the way, you should know that amongst the
very wise folk sister Trot is known as “ Industry,”
sister Pansy as “ Foresight,” while honest Satchel is
generally called “ Economy.” |

re ee,

S
2 Y ENICA LL

a Se BSS







































































































































































































































































































































































































































TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



BY ROSSITER JOHNSON.



NE afternoon I went over to see Fred Bar-
nard, and found him sitting on the back steps,
apparently meditating.

“ What are you doing?” said I.

“Waiting for that handkerchief to dry,” said he,
pointing to a red one with round white spots, which
hung on the clothes-line.

* And what are you going to do when it’s dry?”
said I.

“Tie up my things in it,” said he.

“Things! What things?”

“©, such things as a fellow needs when he’s trav-
eling. I’m going to seek my fortune.”

“Where are you going to seek it?” said I.

“T can’t tell exactly — anywhere and everywhere.
I’m going till I find it.”

“ But,” said I, “do you really expect to turn over
a stone, or pull up a bush, or get to the end of a
rainbow, and find a crock full of five-dollar gold
pieces ?” Z

“O,no!” said Fred. “Such things are gone by
long ago. You can’t do that nowadays, if you ever
could. But people do get rich nowadays, and there
must be some way to do it.”

“Don’t they get rich mostly by staying at home,
and minding their business,” said I, “instead of
going off tramping about the world?”



“Maybe some of them do,” said Fred ; “but my
father has always staid at home, and minded his busi-
ness, and #e hasn’t got rich; and I don’t believe he
ever will. But there’s uncle Silas, he’s always on the
go, so you never know where to direct a letter to him ;
and he has lots of money. Sometimes mother tells
him he ought to settle down; but he always says,
if he did he’s afraid he wouldn’t be able to settle
up by and by.”

I thought of my own father, and my mother’s
brother. They both staid at homeand minded their
own business, yet neither of them was rich. This
seemed to confirm Fred’s theory, and I was inclined
to think he was more than half right.

“T don’t know but I’d like to go with you,” said I.

“T don’t want you to,” said Fred.

“Why,” said I, in astonishment ; “are we not good
friends?”

““Q, yes, good friends as ever,” said Fred ; “but
you’re not very likely to find two fortunes close to-
gether ; and I think it’s better for every one to go
alone.”

“Then why couldn’t I’start at the same time you
do, and go a different way?”

“ That would do,” said Fred. “I’m going to start
to-morrow morning.” And he walked to the line,
and felt of the handkerchief.











TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



“T can take mother’s traveling-bag,” said I. “That
will be handier to carry than a bundle tied up.”

“Take it if you like,” said Fred ; “but 7 believe
there’s luck in an old-fashioned handkerchief. In all
the pictures of boys going to seek their fortunes, they
have their things tied up in a handkerchief, and a
stick put through it and over their shoulder.”

I did not sympathize much with Fred’s belief in
luck, though I thought it was possible there might
be something in it; but the bundle in the handker-
chief seemed to savor a little more of romance, and
I determined that I would conform to the ancient
style.

“Does your father know about it?” said I.

“Yes ; and he says I may go.”

Just then Fred’s father drove around from the
barn.

“T’m going away,” said he to Fred, “to be gone
several days. So, if you go in the morning, I shall
not see you again until you return from your travels.”
And he laughed a little.

“Well, I’m certainly going to-morrow morning,”
said Fred, in answer to the “if.”

“You ought to have a little money with you,” said
Mr. Barnard, taking out his wallet.

“No, sir, I thank you,” said Fred ; “but I’d rather
not have it.”

His father looked surprised.

“J think it’s luckier to start without it,” said Fred,
in explanation.

“Very well! Luck go with you!” said Mr.
nard, as he drove off.

“Do you think it best to go without any money
at all?” said IJ. “It seems to me it would be better
to have a little.”

“No,” said Fred; “a fellow ought to depend on
himself, and trust to luck. It wouldn’t be any fun at
all to stop at taverns and pay for meals and lodging,
just like ordinary travelers. And then, if people saw
I had money to pay for things, they wouldn’t believe
I was going to seek my fortune.”

“Why, do we want them to know that?” said I.

“ T do,” said he.

“That isn’t the way the boys in the stories do,”
said I.

“And that’s just where they missed it,” said Fred ;
“or would, if they lived nowadays. Don’t you see that
everybody that wants anything lets everybody know

Bar-





it? When I’m on my travels, I’m going to tell every
one what I’m after. That’s the way to find out where
to go and what to do.”

“ Won’t some of them fool you,” said I, “and tell
you lies, and send you on the wrong road?”

“A fellow’s got to look out for that,” said Fred,
knowingly. “We needn’t believe all they say.”

“What must we take in our bundles?” said I.

“T’m going to take some cookies, and a Bible, and
a tin cup, and a ball of string, and a pint of salt,’”
said Fred. g

“ What's the salt for?” said I.

“We may have to camp out some nights,” said
Fred, “and live on what we can find. There are lots
of things you can find in the woods and fields to
live on; but some of them ain’t good without salt —
mushrooms, for instance.” Fred was very fond of
mushrooms.

“ And is the string to tie up the bags of money?”
said I —not meaning to be at all sarcastic.

“O,no!” said Fred ; “but string’s always handy to:
have. We may want to set snares for game, or tie up:
things that break, or catch fish. And then if you
have to stay all night in a house where the people
look suspicious, you can fix a string so that if any one
opens the door of your room, it’ll wake you up.”

“Tf that happened, you’d want a pistol — wouldn’t
you?” said I. “Or else it wouldn’t do much good to
be waked up.”

“Td take a pistol, if I had one,” said Fred ; “ but
I can get along without it. You can always hit ’em
over the head with a chair, or a pitcher, or something.
You know you can swing a pitcher full of water
around quick, and not spill a drop; and if you should
hit a man a fair blow with it, ’twould knock him
senseless. Besides, it’s dangerous using a pistol in a
house. Sometimes the bullets go through the wall,
and kill innocent persons.”

“We don’t want to do that,” said I.

“No,” said Fred ; “that would be awful unlucky.”

Then he felt of the handkerchief again, said he
guessed it was dry enough, and took it off from the
line.

“Fred,” said I, “how much ¢s a fortune?”

“That depends on your ideas,” said Fred, as he
smoothed the handkerchief over his knee. “I should
not be satisfied with less than a hundred thousand

| dollars.”



TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.







“IT ought to be going home to get ready,” said I.
“ What time do we start?”

“ Five o’clock exactly,” said Fred.

So we agreed to meet at the horse-block, in front
of the house, a minute or two before five the next
morning, and start simultaneously on the search for
fortune.

I went home, and asked mother if there was a red
handkerchief, with round white spots on it, in the
house.

“T think there is,” said she.
with it?”

I told her all about our plan, just as Fred and I
had arranged it. She smiled, said she hoped we
would be successful, and went to get the handkerchief.

It proved to be just like Fred’s, except that the
spots were yellow, and had little red dots in the mid-
dle. I thought that would do, and then asked her
for the salt, the cup, and the cookies. She gave me
her pint measure full of salt, and as she had no cookies
in the house, she substituted four sandwiches.

“But,” said I, “won’t you want to use this cup
before I get back?”

“T think not,” said she, with a twinkle in her eye,
which puzzled me then, but which afterward I under-
stood.

I got my little Bible, and some twine, and then went
into the yard to hunt up a stick to carry the bundle
on. I found a slender spoke from an old carriage-
wheel, and adopted it at once. “That,” said I to
myself, as I handled and “hefted ” it, ‘‘ would be just
the thing to hit a burglar over the head with.”

I fixed the bundle all ready for a start, and went
to bed in good season. ; Mother rose early, got
me a nice breakfast, and called me at half past
four.

“Mother,” said I, as feelings of gratitude rose
within me at the excellence of the meal, ‘how does
a camel’s-hair shawl look ?”

“J don’t know, my son,” said she.
one.”

“Never saw one!” said I.
one, a big one, if I find my fortune.”

“Thank you,” said mother, and smiled again that
peculiar smile.

Fred and I met promptly at the horse-block. He
greatly admired my stick ; his was an old hoe-handie,
sawed short. I gave him two of my sandwiches for

“What do you want

“T never saw

“Well, you shai sce



half of his cookies, and we tied up the bundles snugly,.
and slung them over our shoulders.

“ How long do you think it will take us?” said I.

“Maybe three or four years— maybe more,’
said he.

“Let us agree to meet again on this spot five years.
from to-day,” said I.

“ All right!” said Fred; and he took out a bit of
lead pencil, and wrote the date on the side of the block.

“ The rains and snows will wash that off before the:
five years are up,” said I.

“Never mind! we can remember,” said Fred.
“ And now,” he continued, as he shook hands with.
me, “don’t look back. J’m not going to; it isn’t
lucky, and it'll make us want to be home again.
Good-bye !”

“Good-bye! Remember, five years,” said I.

He took the east road, I the west, and neither
looked back.

I think I must have walked about four miles with-
out seeing any human being. Then I fell in with a
boy, who was driving three cows to pasture, and we
scraped acquaintance.

“ Where y’ goin’?” said he, eyeing my bundle.

“ A long journey,” said I.

“ Chiny?” said he.

“ Maybe so— maybe not,” said I.

“What y’ got ’t sell?” said he.

“Nothing,” said I; “I’m only a traveler not a
peddler. Can you tell me whose house that is?”

“That big white one?” said he; “that’s Hath-
away’s.”

“Tt looks new,” said I.

“Ves, ’tis, spick an’ span,” said he. “ Hathaway’s
jest moved into it; used to live in that little brown
one over there.”

“ Mr. Hathaway must be rich,” said I.

“Jolly! I guess he is !— wish I was half as rich,”
said the boy. ‘“ Made’s money on the rise of prop’ty.
Used to own all this land round here, when twas a
fnowlin’ wilderness. I’ve heard dad say so lots ©
times. There he is now.”

“Who ?—your father ?” said I.

“No; Hathaway.” And the boy pointed to a very
old,.white-headed man, who was leaning ona cane, and
looking up at the cornice of the house.

“ He looks old,” said I.
“He is, awful old,” said the boy. “Can’t live



TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



‘much longer. His daughter Nancy ’ll take the hull.
Ain’t no other relations.”

“ How old is Nancy?” said I; and if I had been a
few years older myself, the question might have been
significant ; but among all the methods I had thought
‘over of acquiring a fortune, that of marrying one was
not included.

“O, she’s gray-headed too,” said the boy, “’n
deafer ’n a post, ’nd blind ’s a bat. I wish the old
man couldn’t swaller a mouthful o’ breakfast till
he’d give me “alf what he’s got.” And with this
‘charitable expression ne termed with the cows into
the lane, and I saw him no more.

While I was meditating on the venerable but not
venerated Mr. Hathaway and his property, a wagon
came rumbline along behind me.

“Doni you want to ride?” said the driver, as I
stepped aside to let it pass.

I thanked him, and climbed to a place beside him
on the rough seat. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and
wore a torn straw hat. He had reddish side-whiskers,
and has chin needed shaving, badly.

“Got far to go?” said he, as the team started up
again.

“T expect to walk all day,” said I.

“Then you must get a lift when you can,” said he.
“Don’t be afraid to ask. A good many that wouldn’t
invite you, as I did, would let you ride if you asked
them.”

I promised to remember his advice.

“Ever drive a team?” said he.

“Not much,” said I.

“J want a good boy to drive team,” said he. “ Sup-
pose you could learn.” And then he began to talk to
the horses, and to whistle.

“ How much would you pay?” said I.

“T’d give a good smart boy ten dollars a month and
board,” said he. “Git ap, Doc!”

“ How much of that could he save?” said I.

“Save eight dollars a month easy enough, if he’s
careful of his clothes, and don’t want to go to every
‘circus that comes along,” said he.

I made a mental calculation: “ Eight times twelve
are ninety-six— into a hundred thousand — one thou-
sand and forty-one years, and some months. O, yes!
interest — well, nearly a thousand years.” Then I
said aloud, “I guess I won’t hire; don’t believe I’d
make a very good teamster.”



“T think you would ; and it’s good wages,” said he.

“Nobody but Methuselah could get rich at it,”
said I.

“Rich?” said he. “Of course you couldn’t get
rich teaming. If that’s what you’re after, I’ll tell you
what you do: plant aforest. Timber’s good property.
The price of it’s more than doubled in ten years past,
and it “ll be higher yet. You plant a tree, and itll
grow while you sleep. Chess won’t choke it, and the
weevil can’t eat it. ‘You don’t have to hoe it, nor
mow it, nor pick it, nor rotate it, nor feed it, nor churn
it, nor nothing. That’s the beauty of it. And you
plant a forest of trees, and in time it ‘Il make you a
rich man.”

“ How much time ?” said I.

“Well, that piece of timber you see over there, —
that’s Eph Martin’s; he’s going to cut it next season.
The biggest trees must be—vwell, perhaps eighty
years old. You reckon up the interest on the cost of
the land, and you'll see it’s a good investment. I
wish I had such a piece.”

“ Why don’t you plant one ?”’ said I,

“OQ, I’m too old! My grandfather ought to have
done it for me. Whoa! Doc. Whoa! Tim.”

He drew up at a large, red barn, where a man and
a boy were grinding a scythe. I jumped down, and
trudged on. ;

After I had gone a mile or two, I began to feel
hungry, and sat done on a stone, under a great oak
tree, to eat a sandwich. Before I knew it I had eaten
two, and then I was thirsty. There was a well in a
door-yard close by, and I went to it. The bucket was
too heavy for me to lift, and so I turned the salt out
of my cup in a little pile on a clean-looking corner
of the well-curb, and drank.

The woman of the house came to the door, and took
a good look at me ; then she asked if I would not rather
have a drink of milk. I said I would, and she brought
a large bowlful, which I sat down on the door-step
to enjoy.

Presently a sun-browned, barefooted boy, wearing
a new chip hat, and having his trousers slung by a
single suspender, came around the corner of the house,
and stopped before me.

“Got any Shanghais at your house?” said he.

“No!”

“ Any Cochins?”

“No!”



TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.





« Any Malays?”

“No!”

“What have you got?”

“ About twenty common hens,” said I, perceiving
that his thoughts were running on fancy breeds of fowls.

“Don’t want to buy a nice pair of Shanghais — do
you?” said he.

“T couldn’t take them to-day,” said I.

“Tet’s go look at them,” said he; and I followed
him toward the barn.

“This is my hennery,” said he, with evident pride,
as we came to a small yard which was inclosed with
a fence made of long, narrow strips of board, set up
endwise, and nailed to a slight railing. Inside was
a low shed, with half a dozen small entrances near
the ground.

“Me and Jake built this,” said he.
brother.”

He unbuckled a strap.that fastened the gate, and
we went inside. A few fowls, of breeds unfamiliar to
me, were scratching about the yard.

“ Don’t you call them nice hens ?” said he.

“TY guess they are,” said I; “but I don’t know
much about hens.”

“Don’t you?” said he. “Then I’ll tell you some-
thing about them. There’s money in hens. Father
says so, and I know it’s so. I made fifty-one dollars
and thirteen cents on these last year. I wish I had
a million.”

““A million dollars,” said I, “is a good deal of
money. I should be satisfied with one tenth of that.”

“JT meant a million hens,” said he. “I'd rather
have a million hens than a million dollars.”

I went .through a mental calculation similar to the
one I had indulged in while riding with the teamster :
“Fifty-one, thirteen— almost two thousand years.
Great Caesar! Yes, Great Casar sure enough! I
ought to have begun keeping hens about the time
Cassius was egging on the conspirators to lay out that
gentleman. But I forgot the interest again. Call it
fifteen hundred.” :

“Let’s go in and look at the nests,” said the boy,
opening the door of the shed.

The nests were in a row of boxes nailed‘to the wall.
He took out some of the eggs, and showed them to
me. Several had pencil-writing on the shell, intended

to denote the breed. I remember Gaim, Schanghy,
and Cotching.

“Jake’s my



“There’s a pair of Shanghais,” said he as he went.
out, pointing with one hand while he tightened the
gate-strap with the other, “that I’ll sell you for five.
dollars. Or I’ll sell you half a dozen eggs for six
dollars.”

I told him I couldn’t trade that day, but would cer-

tainly come and see him when I wanted to buy any

fancy hens.

“Tf you see anybody,” said he, as we parted, “that
wants a nice pair of Shanghais reasonable, you tell
’em where I live.”

“J will,” said I, and pushed on.

“Money in hens, eh?” said I to myself. “ Then,.
if they belonged to me, I’d kill them, and get it out
of them. at once, notwithstanding the proverb about.
the goose.”

After some further journeying I came to a roadside.

tavern. A large, square sign, with a faded picture of

a horse, and the words ScuuyLer’s Horet, faintly
legible, hung from an arm that extended over the road.
from a high post by the pump.

I sat down on the steps, below a group of men who.
One, whe.

were tilted back in chairs on the piazza.
wore a red shirt, and chewed a very large quid of
tobacco, was just saying, —

“Take it by and through, a man can make wages.

at the mines, and that’s all he can make.”

“ Unless he strikes a big nugget,” said a little man:
with one eye.

“He might be there a hundred years, and not do.
that,” said Red Shirt. “I never struck one.”

“ And again he might strike it the very first day,’”

said One Eye.

“ Again he might,” said Red Shirt ; “but I’d rather

take my chances keeping tavern. Look at Schuyler,.
now. He'll die a rich man.”

The one who seemed to be Schuyler was well worth
looking at. I had never seen so much man packed
into so much chair; and it was an exact fit — just
enough chair for the man, just enough man for the
chair. Schuyler’s boundary from his chin to his toe
was nearly, if not exactly, a straight line.

“Die rich?” said One Eye. “He’s a livin’ rich ;.
he’s rich to-day.”

“Tf any of you gentlemen want to make your for-
tune keeping a hotel,” said Schuyler, “I'll sell om
easy terms.”

“ How much, ’squire ?” said Red Shirt.



TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.























































































































































































a = ae SK





“He ToOK THE Kast Roap, | THE WEST, AND NelTHER LOOKED BACK.” — See page 61.

“ Fifteen,” answered Schuyler.

“ Fifteen thousand -—furniture and all?” said One
‘Eye.

“Everything,” said Schuyler.

“Your gran’f’ther bought the place for fifteen hun-
‘dred,” said One Eye.
then.”

But money was wuth more

While listening to this conversation, I had taken |

‘out my cookies, and I was eating the last of them,
when One Eye made his last recorded remark.

“Won't you come in, sonny, and stay over night ? "
‘said Schuyler.

“Thank you, sir,” said I; “but I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t be mussing up my clean steps,”
said he.

I looked at him to see if he was in earnest ; for I
was too hungry to let a single crum fall, and could
not conceive what should make a muss. The whole
‘company were staring at me most uncomfortably.
Without saying another word, I picked up my stick
and bundle, and walked off.

“Thirteen thousand five hundred,” said I to myself,
slowly, — “in three generations —four thousand five
hundred to a generation. I ought to have come over



with Christopher Columbus, and set up a tavern for
the red-skins to lounge around. Then maybe if I
never let any. little Indian boys eat their lunches
on the steps, I’d be a rich man now. . Fifteen thou-
sand dollars—and so mean, so abominably mean —
and such a crowd of loafers for company. No, I
wouldn’t keep tavern if I could get rich in one gen-
eration.”

At the close of this soliloquy, I found I had in-
stinctively turned towards home when I left Schuyler’s
Hotel. “It’s just as well,” said I, “just as well !
I’d rather stay at home and mind my business, like
father, and not have any fortune, if that’s the way
people get them nowadays.”

I had the good luck to fall in with my friend the
teamster, who gave me a longer lift than before, and
sounded me once more on the subject of hiring out to
drive team for him.

As I passed over the crest of the last hill in the
road, I saw something in the distance that looked
very much like another boy with a bundle over his
shoulder. I waved my hat. It waved its hat; We
met at the horse-block, each carrying a broad grin the
last few rods of the way.





TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



“TLet’s see your fortune,” said I, as I laid my

bundle on the block.

“Tet’s see yours,” said he, as he laid his beside it.

“You started the plan,” said I; so you tell your
adventures first.”

Thereupon Fred told his story, which I give nearly
in his own words..

He traveled a long distance before he met with
any incident. Then he came to a house that had
several windows boarded up, and looked as if it might
not be inhabited. While Fred stood looking at it,
and wondering about it, he saw a shovelful of earth
come out of one of the cellar windows. It was fol-
lowed in a few seconds by another, and another, at
regular intervals.

“T know how it is,” said Fred. “Some old miser
thas lived and died in that house. He used to bury
his money in the cellar ; and now somebody’s digging
for it. J mean to see if I can’t help him.”

Going to the window, he stooped down and looked
in, At first he saw nothing but the gleam of a new
shovel. But when he had looked longer he discerned
the form of the man who wielded it.

“Hello!” said Fred, as the digger approached the
window to throw out a shovelful.

“Fello! Who are you?” said the man.

“T’m a boy going to seek my fortune,” said Fred.
“What are you digging for?”

“Digging for a fortune,” said the man, taking up
another shovelful.

“May I help you?” said Fred.

“Yes, if you like.”

“And have half?”

“Have all you find,” said the man, forcing down
his shovel with his foot.

Fred ran around to the cellar door, laid down his
bundle on the grass beside it, and entered. The
man pointed to an old shovel with a large corner
broken off, and Fred picked it up and went to
work.

Nearly half of the cellar bottom had been lowered
about a foot by digging, and the man was lowering
the remainder. With Fred’s help, after about two
hours of hard work, it was all cut down to the lower
level.

Fred had kept his eyes open, and scrutinized every
shovelful ; but nothing like a coin had gladdened his
sight. Once he thought he had one, and ran to the



light with it. But it proved to be only the iron ear
broken off from some old bucket.

“T guess that'll do,” said the man, wiping his brow,
when the leveling was completed.

“Do?” said Fred, in astonishment.
haven’t found any of the money yet.”

“What money?”

“The money the old miser buried, of course.”

The man laughed heartily. “I wasn’t digging for
any miser’s money,” said he.

“Vou said so,” said Fred.

“O, no!” said the man.
for a fortune.
all about it.”

They took seats on the highest of the cellar steps
that led out of doors.

“Vou see,” continued the man, “my wife went down
cellar one day, and struck her forehead against one
of those beams ; and she died of it. If she had lived
a week longer, she’d have inherited a very pretty
property. So I’ve lowered the cellar floor; and if I
should have another wife, her head couldn’t reach the
beams, unless she was very tall—taller than Iam. So
if she inherits a fortune, the cellar won’t prevent us
getting it. That’s the fortune I was digging for.”

“Tt’s a mean trick to play on a boy; and if I was
a tnan, I’d lick you,” said Fred, as he shouldered his
bundle and walked away.

Two or three miles farther down the road he came
to a small blacksmith shop. The smith, a stout, mid-
dle-aged man, was sitting astride of a small bench
with long legs, making horseshoe nails on a little
anvil that rose from one end of it.

Fred went in, and asked if he might sit there a
while to rest.

“Certainly,” said the blacksmith, as he threw a
finished nail into an open drawer under the bench.
“How far have you come?”

“T can’t tell,” said Fred; “it must be as much as
ten miles.”

“Got far to go?”

“T don’t know how far.

“Why, we

“T said I was digging
Come and sit down, and I'll tell you

I’m going to seek my for-
tune.”

The smith let his hammer rest on the anvil, and
took a good look at Fred. “You seem to be ip
earnest,” said he.

“T am,” said Fred.

‘Don’t you know that gold dollars don’t go rolling



TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



up hill in these days, for boys to chase them, and we
haven’t any fairies in this country, dancing by moon-
light over buried treasure?” said the smith.

““O, yes, I know that,” said Fred. “But people
get rich in these days as much as ever they did.
And I want to find out the best way to do it.”

“What is that nail made of ?” said the smith, hold-
ing out one.

“Tron,” said Fred, wondering what that had to do
with a boy seeking his fortune.

“ And that hammer?”

“Tron.”

“ And that anvil?”

“Tron.”

“Well, don’t you see,” said the smith, resting his
hammer on the anvil, and leaning over it toward
Fred, — “don’t you see that everything depends on
iron? A farmer can’t cultivate the ground until he
has a plow; and that plow is made of iron. A
butcher can’t cut up a critter until he has a knife ;
and that knife is made of iron. A tailor can’t make
a garment without a needle ; and that needle is made
of iron. You can’t build a ship without iron, nor
start a mill, nor arm a regiment. The stone age,
and the brass age, and the golden age are all gone
by. This is the iron age; and iron is the basis of all
wealth. The richest man is the man that has the
most iron. Railroads are made of iron, and the rich-
est men are those that own railroads.”

“How can one man own a railroad?” said Fred,
amazed at the vastness of such wealth.

“Well, he can’t exactly, unless he steals it,” said
the srnith.

“T should like to own a railroad,” said Fred ; and
he thought what fun he might have, as well as profit,
being conductor on his own train ; “but I didn’t come
to steal ; [ want to find a fortune honestly.”

“Then look for it in iron,’ said the smith. “Iron
in some form always paves the road to prosperity.”

“Would blacksmithing be a good way?” said
Fred.

“Now you've hit it,” said the smith. “I haven’t
got rich myself, and probably never shall. But I
didn’t take the right course. J was a sailor when I
was young, and spent half my life wandering around
the world, before I settled down and turned black-
smith. I dare say if I had learned the trade early
enough, and had gone and set up a shop in some



large place, or some rising place, and hadn’t always
been so low in my charges, I might be a rich man.”

Fred thought the blacksmith must be a very enter-
taining and learned man, whom it would be pleasant
as well as profitable to work with. So, after thinking
it over a few minutes, he said, —

“ Do you want to hire a boy to learn the business?”

“T’ll give you a chance,” said the smith, “and see
what you can do.” Then he went outside and drew
in a wagon, which was complete except part of the
iron-work, and started up his fire, and thrust in some:
small bars of iron.

Fred laid aside his bundle, threw off his jacket, and:
announced that he was ready for work. The smith
set him to blowing the bellows, and afterward gave
him a light sledge, and showed him how to strike the
red-hot bar on the anvil, alternating with the blows of
the smith’s own hammer.

At first it was very interesting to feel the soft iron:
give at every blow, and see the sparks fly, and the bars.
and rods taking the well-known shapes of carriage-irons.
But either the smith had reached the end of his polit-
ical economy, or else he was too much in earnest
about his work to deliver orations ; his talk now was.
of “swagging,” and “upsetting,” and “ countersink-
ing,” and “taps,” and “dies” — all of which terms he
taught Fred the use of.

Fred was quick enough to learn, but had never
been fond of work ; and this was work that made the
sweat roll down his whole body. After an hour or
two, he gave it up.

“JT think I’ll look further for my fortune,” said he ;
“this is too hard work.” :

“All right,” said the smith; “but maybe you'll
fare worse. You've earned a little something, any-
way ;” and he drew aside his leather apron, thrust his.
hand into his pocket, and brought out seven cents ;,
which Fred accepted with thanks, and resumed his.
journey.

His next encounter was with a farmer, who sat in
the grassy corner of a field, under the shade of a
maple tree, eating his dinner. This reminded Fred
that it was noon, and that he was hungry.

“How d’e do, mister?” said Fred, looking through
the rail-fence. ‘I should like to come over and take
dinner with you.” :

“You'll have to furnish your own victuals,” said
the farmer. :



TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



“ That I can do,” said Fred, and climbed over the
fence, and sat down by his new acquaintance.

““Where you bound for?” said the farmer, as Fred
opened his bundle, and took out a sandwich.

“ Going to seek my fortune,” said Fred.

“You don’t look like a runaway. ’prentice,” said
the farmer ; ‘‘but that’s a curious answer to a civil
question.”

“Tt’s true,” said Fred.
fortune.”

““Where do you expect to find it?”

““T can’t tell—I suppose I must hunt for it.”

“Well, I can tell you where to look for it, if you’re
in earnest; and ’tain’t so very far off, either,” said
the farmer, as he raised the jug of milk to his mouth.

Fred indicated by his attitude that he was all-atten-
tion, while the farmer took a long drink.

“In the ground,” said he, as he sat down the jug
with one hand, and brushed the other across his
mouth. “There’s no wealth but what comes out of
the ground in some way. All the trees and plants,
all the grains, and grasses, and garden-sass, all the
brick and stone, all the metals— iron, gold, silver,
copper —- everything comes out of the ground. That’s
where man himself came from, according to the Bible:
‘Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’
And the first primary foundation of it all is agri-
culture. Hewson, the blacksmith, pretends to say
it’s iron; and he maintained that side in the debat-
ing club at the last meeting. But I maintained it
was agriculture, and I maintain so still. Says I, ‘Mr.
President, what’s your tailor, and your sailor, and
your ship-builder, and your soldier, and your black-
smith going to do without something to eat? [Here
the farmer made a vigorous gesture by bringing down
his fist upon his knee.] They can’t eat needles, nor
spikes, nor guns, nor anvils. The farmer’s got to
feed ’em, every one on ’em. And they’ve got to
have a good breakfast before they can do a good
day’s work, and a dinner in the middle of it, and a
supper at the end of it. Can’t plow without iron?’
says I. ‘Why, Mr. President, in Syria and there-
abouts they plow with a crooked limb of a tree to
this day. The gentleman can see a picture of it
in Barnes’s Notes, if he has access to that valuable
work.’ And says I, ‘Mr. President, who was first in

the order of time — Adam the farmer, or Tubal Cain
the blacksmith ?

“T am going to seek my

No, sir ; Adam was the precursor of



Tubal Cain ; Adam had to be created before Tubal
Cain could exist. First the farmer, and then the
blacksmith ;—that, Mr. President, is the divine order
in the great procession of creation.’ ”

Here the farmer stopped, and cut a piece of meat
with his pocket-knife.

“Boy,” he continued, “if you want a fortune, you
must dig it out of the ground. You won’t find one
anywhere else.”

Fred thought of his recent unpleasant experience
in digging for a fortune, and asked, “Isn’t digging
generally pretty hard work.”

“Yes,” said the farmer, as he took up his hoe, and
rose to his feet; “it zs hard work ; but it’s a great:
deal more respectable than wandering around like a.
vagrant, picking up old horse-shoes, and_ hollering -
‘Money !’ at falling stars.”

Fred thought the man was somehow getting per--
sonal. So he took his bundle, climbed the fence, and’
said good-bye to him.

He walked on until he came to a fork of the road,
and there he stopped, considering which road he would
take. He could find no sign-board of any sort, and
was about to toss one of his pennies to determine the
question, when he saw a white steeple at some dis-
tance down the right hand road. “It’s always good
luck to pass a church,” said he, and took that road.

When he reached the church, he sat down on the
steps to rest. While he sat there, thinking over all
he had seen and heard that day, a gentleman wearing
a black coat, a high hat, and a white cravat, came
through the gate of a little house almost buried in
vines and bushes, that stood next to the church. He
saw Fred, and approached him, saying, —

“ Whither away, my little pilgrim ?”

“T am going to seek my fortune,” said Fred.

“ Haven’t you a home?”

“ Ves, sir.”

“ Parents?”

“Ves, sir.”

“ Are they good to you?”

“O, yes, sir.”

“Then you are fortunate already,” said the gentle-
man. ‘When I was at your age, I had neither home
nor parents, and the people where I lived were very

?

unkind.”
“But my father isn’t rich,” said Fred; “and he
never will be.”



_TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.

“And you want to be rich ?” said the gentleman.
“Yes, sir. I thought I’d try to be,” said Fred.
“What for?” ;
‘What for?
money.”

“ And what would you do with the money, if you
had it?”

“Vd —I’d use it,” said Fred, beginning to feel that
he had come to debating school without sufficiently
understanding the question.

“Do you see that pile of large stones near my
barn?” said the gentleman.
and lend you a wheelbarrow to get them home.”

“J thank you,” said Fred ; “but I don’t want them.
They’re of no use.”

“©, yes, they are! You can build a house with
them,” said the gentleman.

“But I’m not ready to build a house,” said Fred.
“JT haven’t any land to build it on, nor any other
materials, nor anything to put into it; and I’m not
old enough to be married and keep house.”

“Very true, my son! and if you had a cart-load of
money now, it wouldn’t be of any more value to you
than a cart-load of those building stones. But, after
you have been to school a few years longer, and
trained yourself to some business, and made a man of
yourself, and developed your character, then you will
have tastes, and capacities, and duties that require
money ; and if you get it as you go along, and always
have enough to satisfy them, and none in excess to
encumber you, that will be the happiest fortune you
can find,”

Fred took a few minutes to think of it.
said, —

“T believe you have told me the truth, and set me
on the right track. I will go home again, and try to
make a man of myself first, and a rich.man afterward.”

Why — why —so as to have the

Then he

“T’ll give you those, .



“Before you start, perhaps you would like to come
into my house and get rested, and look at some
pictures.”

Fred accepted the invitation. The lady of the
house gave him a delicious lunch, and he spent an
hour in the clergyman’s study, looking over two or
three portfolios of prints and drawings, which they
explained to him. Then he bade them good-bye,
shouldered kis bundle, and started for home, having
the good fortune to catch a long ride, and arriving
just as I did.

“What I’ve learned,” said he, as he finished his
story, “is, that you can get rich if you don’t care for
anything else ; but you’ve either got to work yourself
to death for it, orelse cheat somebody. You can get
it out of the ground by working, or you can get it out
of men by cheating. But who wants to do either? I
don’t. And I believe it isn’t much use being rich,
any way.”

Then I told Fred my adventures. “And what
I’ve learned,” said I, “is, that you can get rich
without much trouble, if you’re willing to wait all
your life for forests to grow and property to rise.
But what’s the use of money to an old man or an
old woman that’s blind and deaf, and just ready to
die? Or what good does it do a mean man, with a
lot of loafers round him? It can’t make him a
gentleman.”

And meditating upon this newly-acquired philoso-
phy, Fred and I went to our homes.

“Mother,” said I, “I’ve got back.”

“Ves, my son, I expected you about this time.”

“But I haven’t found a fortune, nor brought your
camel’s-hair shawl.”

“Tt’s just as well,” said she; “for J haven’t any-
thing else that would be suitable to wear with it.”































































































































THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS PIES.

“THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS PIES.



BY E. F.



E “LORIS shut up her book, and looked at mam-

ma. “Mamma, I wish we could be s’prised
Christmas !”

“Surprised.” It was a moment before mamma

understood. “It is somewhat difficult,” she said

then, “to surprise little girls who feel at liberty
to go to mamma’s drawers at any time, and to untie
all the packages when the delivery-man comes. Ina
small house like this people have to help surprise
themselves.”

“Who wants to help surprise theirselves!” ex-
claimed little Katy. “You ought to be cunning,
mamma, and hide things; a ‘truly’ hide — you
know—and not just in bureau drawers.”

“ That's not what I mean at all, Katy,” said Floris.
“‘Mamma, I mean a surprise, and not our Christmas
presents. Of course, Katy and I know what them’ll
be, or most know. It'll be our new hats, or some
aprons, or something we’d had to have any way, and
just one of the every-day Christmas presents besides ;
a book, or a horn of candy. I most know mine’ll be
a silver thimble this year, ’cause I lost my old one,
and I heard you tell papa that Katy ’d better have a
workbox, so’s to s’courage her to learn sewing more.
Now, see ’f ’tain’t so.”

Mamma sat before her little daughters, her guilt
confessed in her looks.

“Not that we blame you, mamma,” added Floris,
kindly. “I’m old ’nough now to know that if Santa
Klaus brings us anything, he comes round before-
hand, and gets every cent they cost out of papa—
great Santa Klaus, that is!”

“ But what did you mean by a surprise, Floris ?”

“O, I d’no, quite,” answered Floris. “But I
thought I sh’d like to have something happen that
never had before ; something planned for me ’n’ Katy
that we didn’t know a breath about, and there was no
chance of prying into, so that ’twould honestly s’prise
us. J never was s’prised in my life yet, mamma. I
always found out some way.”

Mrs. Dewey smiled. She went out to prepare



dinner, and nothing more was said; and Miss Floris
took up her book with a sigh.

But at night, while she was buttoning the two white
night-dresses, Mrs. Dewey returned to the subject.
“My little daughters, if you will keep out of the
kitchen to-morrow, all day, I think I can promise that
something very strange and delightful shall happen
on Christmas.”

Four little feet jumped right up and down, two little
faces flew up in her own, four little hands caught hold
of her, four bright eyes transfixed her — indeed, they
came pretty near having the secret right out of her on
the spot.

“O, mamma! What zs it?”

“You must be very anxious to be ‘truly s’prised,’”
remarked mamma.

Floris saw the point. She subsided at once. She
smiled at mamma with the first elder-daughter smile
that had ever crossed the bright child-face.

“T guess I shall be ‘truly s’prised’ if we are
s’prised,” she said, with a funny little grimace, as she
laid her head on the pillow.

“ Now, remember, it is to be a ‘truly keep-out,’”
warned Mrs. Dewey. “You are not to enter the
kitchen at all—not once all day to-morrow.”

“Why, surely, mamma Dewey, you are not to do
anything towa’ds it before breakfast,” reasoned little
Katy.

“T shall at least notice whether I am obeyed.”

« What’ll happen if we don’t?” inquired Katy.

“ Nothing’ll happen then,” said mamma, quietly.

The little voices said no more, and mamma went
down stairs. They said not a single word more, be-
cause the little Deweys were so constructed that had
there not been a standing command that they should
not speak after mamma closed the door, their little
pink tongues would have run all night; but they
squeezed each other’s hands very tightly, and also
remained awake somewhat longer than usual.

Mrs. Dewey smiled next morning to see her daugh-

' ters seated at their lessons in that part of the sitting-



THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS PIES.



room furthest from the door that opened into the
hall and thus into the kitchen. They never once
directly referred to last night’s conversation ; but they
were extremely civil to her personally, most charm-
ingly civil, obedient, and thoughtful. Indeed, Katy’s
little round shingled head would bob out into the hall
almost every time mamma’s step was heard. “You
must let me bring you anything I can, mamma— any-
thing I can, ’thout going into the kitchen, I mean.”

But, to Katy’s disappointment, mamma wished no
assistance. Floris offered to go down town, if mamma
needed. But mamma wished nothing that Floris could
do. However, to their delight, they saw the delivery-
man, when he came, taking down lots of orders in his
book. “Would it be w’ong to listen in the hall?”
Katy whispered. ‘“’Cause I could hear everything
she told him, ’*f I was a-mind to.”

Floris told her it would be very wrong.

The elder little girl studied, and played, and sang,
and amused her doll all the morning, and refused, to
listen to any pleasant sound she heard from the
kitchen. She shut her little nose, also, against a sud-

den whiff of deliciousness as some door opened. She

even went to the well, and brought hard water for her
room, because the rain water would have taken her
near the forbidden regions.

But little Katy was as restless as.a bee. She had
a thousand errands through the hall. When Floris
reprimanded her, she said she didn’t *tend to go a-near
the kitchen door. Floris looked out often ; but, at
last, the little one settled on the hall stairs with her
paint-box, and the elder sister felt at rest.

But even to her it finally grew along forenoon. Be-
fore ten o’clock she found herself infected with the
same restlessness. Then the various sounds which she
heard distracted her, such busy sounds — she would,
at last, have given almost anything to know what was
going on out there. .

The mantel clock was just striking eleven when the
hall door unclosed, and Katy’s plump little person
partially appeared.

“ Come here, quick, quick ! or she’ll be back. L’ve
found out, Flory /”

“O, have you— Why, Katy Dewey 1!” Floris over-
carned the music-stool as she ran. Katy, her head
turned listeningly toward the kitchen door, blindly
crowded a spoonful of something into her mouth.

“There | isn’t that ’licious good? O, Floris, such



things as I have seen out there !— the box of raisins
is down on the table, and all her extrach Lubin
bottles. I couldn’t stay to look much; but, Floris,
there’s twelve of the most beautiful mince patties —
O, the most beautiful! all iced, and ‘Merry Christ-
mas,’ in pink sand, on every one, and there’s twelve
more in the iron ready to fill— wasn’t that I gave
you crammed with raisins!”

Floris’s eyes danced. “Kit Dewey, I’ll bet we’re
going to have a Christmas party—a party of little
boys and girls! What else was there, do tell me!”

“O, I d’no; there was heaps of raisins — and,
mebbe, there was ice cream ;” suddenly remembering
Floris’s fondness for that delectable.

Floris knew better than that; but still- her eyes
danced. Suddenly they heard the back kitchen door,
and, as suddenly, Floris turned white. “The mince-
spoon, Katy! You've brought the mince-spoon !
Mamma’ll know!”

Katy’s little mouth dropped open.

“ Quick! She’s coming this way !”

Floris softly got into the sitting-room, so did Katy.

“Where is the spoon?” hurriedly whispered the
elder girl.

“TJ stuffed it under the stair carpet, where that rod
was up.”

They could hear mamma coming through the hall.
But she came only part way. After a pause, she
returned to the kitchen.

“ Katy, what if she’s found it?”

“ She couldn’t.”

They stole out into the hall. The spoon was gone!

“OQ, Katy! I'll bet you left it sticking out! ” said
Floris, and burst into tears. Katy did the same.
With one accord they ascended the stairs to their
room.

When, with red eyes, they came down to dinner,
they found mamma in the dining-room as placid as
usual. The kitchen door was wide open. After
dinner Floris was requested to wipe the dishes. Her
work took her into every part of the kitchen domains,
and her red eyes peered about sharply ; but nothing
unusual was to be seen— not one trace of the beau
tiful patties, not a raisin-stem, even !

Christmas day came and went. Floris had her
silver thimble, and Katy her work-box. The dinner
table was in the usual holiday trim. But the little
frosted pies, with the pink greetings, were not brought





















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THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.



forward —no, and not one word was said concerning
them, not even by mamma’s eyes.

At night they cried softly in their little white bed,
after mamma had gone down. “ And, Floris, I ’mem-
ber now, there was something else, under a white
cloth, like a plate of kisses, I thought,” sobbed Katy,
her wet little face pressed into the pillows; “and I
shall always think she was going to make fruit-
cake, for there was citron all cut up, and there was
almonds —”

“Don’t, Katy!

I don’t want to hear it! I can’t

®



hear it!” said Floris, in a thick voice ; “and don’t
let us disobey mamma more by talking.”

But what did become of the beautiful, frosted, pink~
lettered little pies — would you like to know?

Floris and Katy cannot tell you; for never yet
have mamma and her little daughters exchanged a
word upon the subject — but I think 7 can. At least
I was told that a factory-weaver’s family, where there
were several little girls, had the most lovely of patties,
and kisses, and sugar-plums sent them for their
Christmas dinner last year.



THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.



BY ELLA FARMAN.



NLESS I take a long half mile circle, my daily
U walk to the post-office leads me down through
an unsavory, wooden-built portion of town. I am
obliged to pass several cheap groceries, which smell
horribly of sauerkraut and Limburg cheese, a res-
taurant steamy with Frenchy soups, a livery stable,
besides two or three barns, and some gloomy, window-
less, shut-up buildings, of whose use I haven’t the
slightest idea.

Of course, when I go out in grand toilet, I take
the half mile circle. But, being a business woman,
and generally in a hurry, I usually go this short way
in my short walking-dress and big parasol ; and, prob-
ably, there is an indescribable expression to my nose,
just as Mrs. Jack Graham says.

Well, one morning I was going down town in the
greatest hurry. I was trying to walk so fast that I
needn’t breathe once going by the Dutch groceries ;
and I was almost to the open space which looks away
off to the sparkling river, and the distant park, and the
forenoon sun,—TI always take a good, long, sweet
breath there, coming and going, — when my eye was
caught by a remarkable group across the street.

Yes, during the night, evidently, while the town
was asleep, there had been an arrival —strangers
direct from the Sunny South.

And there the remarkable-looking strangers sat, in



a row, along the narrow step of one of the mysterious
buildings I have alluded to. They were sunning
themselves with all the delightful carelessness of the
experienced traveler. Though, evidently, they had
been presented with the liberty of the city, it was just
as evident that they didn't care a fig for sightseeing —
not a fig, either, for the inhabitants. All they asked
of our town was its sunshine. They had selected the
spot where they could get the most of it. Through
the open space opposite the sun streamed broadly ;
and the side of a weather-colored building is so
warm !

What a picture of dolce far niente, of “sweet-do--
nothing,” it was! I stopped, hung my parasol over
my shoulder, — there was a little too much sunshine
for me, —- and gazed at it.

“O, how you do love it! You bask like animals!
That fullness of enjoyment is denied to us white-skins.
What a visible absorption of luster and heat! You
are the true lotus-eaters !”

The umber-colored creatures —I suppose they are
as much warmer for being brown, as any brown sur-
face is warmer than a white one. I never did see
sunshine drank, and absorbed, and enjoyed as that
was. It was a bit of Egypt and the Nile life. I could
not bear to go on,

Finally, I crossed the street to them. Not one of



THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.



















































































: The eldest brother was standing, lean-
ing against the building. He turned one eye on me,

them stirred.
and kept it there. At his feet lay a bulging, ragged
satchel. Evidently he was the protector.

The elder sister, with hands tucked snugly under
her folded arms, winked and blinked at me dozily.
The little boy with the Nubian lips was sound asleep,
—a baby Osiris, —his chubby hands hiding together
between his knees for greater warmth. The youngest
sister, wrapped in an old woolen shawl, was the only
uncomfortable one of the lot. There was no doze nor
dream in her eyes yet — poor thing, sZe was cold!

_I didn’t believe they had had where to lay their
heads during the night. Liberty of a city, to one
kind of new arrivals, means just that, you know.
Sundry crumbs indicated an absence of the conven-
tional breakfast table. Poor little darkies !

ae Children,” I said, like a benevolently-disposed
oy marshal, “you mustn’t sit here in the street.”
Bee gwine on soon, mistis,” said the protector,



“T low we ain't, Jim!” The big sister said this
without any diminution of the utter happiness of her
look.

“Tt’s powerful cold comin’ up fru the norf, mistis.
I mus’ let ’em warm up once a day,” said Jim.

“Up through the north! Pray, where are you
going ?”

Jim twisted about.
his boot, reflectively.

“T ex-pect, I ex-pect—”

“Vou spec, Jim! You allers spectin’ !
we’s free—we kin go anywhars |”

I suspect there had been a great deal of long-
suffering on the part of Jim. He burst out like flame
from a smoldering fire, —

“ Anywhars / That's what ails niggas !

and so they're nuffin’ nor
Rose Moncton, you 2i#’t go

He looked down at the toe of

Mistis,

Freedom

means azywhars to ’em,
nobody. You vagabon’,
anywhars much longer — not ‘long o’? me!”

“OQ, you white folksy Jim! I ’low this trompin’

was yer own plan. When you finds a town whar it’s



THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.



any show of warm, I’ll hang up my things and stay,
and not afore—ye hyar that! I ‘low I won’t see
Peyty and Kit a-freezin’ !”

She scowled at me, she actually did, as if I froze
her with my pale face and cool leaf-green dress, and
kept the sun off her, talking with that “white folksy
Jim.”

I fancied Jim was hoping I would say something
more to them. I fancied he, at least, was in great
need of a friend’s advice.

“Where did you come from?” I asked him.
the other head of the family answered, —

“Come from nuff sight warmer place then we’s
goin’ anywhars.”

“Rose is allers techy when she’s cold, mistis,”
Jim apologized. “Ole Maum Phillis used fer to say
as Rose’s temper goose-pimpled when the cold air
struck it” We kim from Charleston, mistis. We’s
speckin’ to work out some land for ourselves, and
hev ahome. We kim up norf to git wages, so as we
kin all help at it. I’d like to stop hyar, mistis.”

“Hyar! I “low we’s goin’ soufard when we gits
from dis yer, you Jim,” sniffed “Rose Moncton,” her
face up to the sunshine.

Poor Jim looked care-worn. I dare say my face
was tolerably sympathetic. It felt so, at least.

“ Mistis,” the fellow said, “she’s kep us tackin’ souf
an’ norf, souf an’ norf; all dis yer week, or we’d been
somewhars. She don’t like de looks of no town yer.
We’s slep’ roun’ in sheds six weeks now. I gits
sawin’ an’ choppin’, an’ sich, to do once a day, while
dey warms up in de sun, an’ eats a bite. Den up we
gits, an’ tromps on. We’s got on so fur, but Rose
ain’t clar at all yit whar we'll stop. Mistis, whar is
de warmest place you knows on?”

I thought better and better of myself as the heavy-
faced fellow thus appealed to me. I felt flattered by
his confidence in me. I always feel flattered when a
strange kitty follows me, or the birdies hop near for
my crumbs. But I will confess that no human vaga-
bond had ever before so skillfully touched the soft
place in my heart. Poor, dusky wanderer! he looked
so hungry, he looked so worn-out, too, as a head of a
family will when the other head pulls the other way.

“Well, Jim, the warmest place I know of is in my
kitchen. I left a rousing fire there ten minutes ago.
You all stay here until I come back, which will be in
about seven minutes ; then you shall eo heme with

a

But



me, and I will give you a good hot dinner. You may
stay all night, if you like, and perhaps I can advise
you. You will be rested, at the least, for a fresh
start.”

Rose Moncton lifted her listless head, and looked
in my face. “Laws!” said she. “Laws!” said
she again.

Jim pulled his forelock to me, vailed the flash in his
warm umbery eyes with a timely wink of the heavy
lids. He composed himself at once into a waiting
attitude. :

I heard another “Laws!” as I hastened away.
“That young mistis is done crazy. She'll nebber
kim back hyar, ’pend on dat!” Such was Rose’s
opinion of me.

I opened my ears for Jim’s.
reply.

Father and mother had gone out of town for two
days. Our hired girl had left. I really was “ mistis”
of the premises. If I chose to gather in a circle of
shivering little “niggas” around my kitchen stove,
and heat that stove red-hot, there was nobody to say
I better not.

I was back in five minutes, instead of seven. Jim.
stood straight up on his feet the moment he dis-
covered me coming. Rose showed some faint signs
of life and interest. “’Clar, now, mistis! Kim
along, den, Jim, and see ye look to that there verlise.
Hyar, you Kit!” She managed to rouse her sister
with her foot, still keeping her hands warmly hidden,
and her face to the sun.

But the other head took the little ones actively. in
charge. “Come, Peyty, boy! come, Kit! we’s gwine
now!”

Peyty opened his eyes — how starry they were!
“O, we goin’, mo’? Jim, I don’t want to go no mo’!

“ Ain’t gwine clar thar no, Peyty, boy ; come, Kit —
only to a house to warm the Peyty boy — come,
Kit!”

Kit was coming fast enough.
be taken by the arm and pulled up. Then he stepped
slowly, the tears coming. The movement revealed
great swollen welts, where his stiff, tattered, leathern
shoes had chafed and worn into the fat, black little
legs. “Is dat ar Mistis Nelly?” he asked, opening

But Jim made nc

Eut Peyty had te

| his eyes, wonderingly, at the white lady.

Rose had got up now.
her face. “Mo, Peyty.

A sudden quiver ran over
Mist’? Nelly’s dead, you



THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.





xnow. Wish we’s back to Mas’r Moncton’s, and
Mist’ Nelly libbin’, an’ Linkum sojers dead afore
dey cum!”

There was a long sigh from everybody, even from
Jim. But he drew in his lips tightly the next moment.
“Some niggas nebber was worf freein’.
Peyty, boy—ready, mistis.”

I walked slowly along at the head of the strangers
trom the south. Little feet were so sore, Peyty
couldn’t walk fast. Kit’s big woman’s size shoes
were so stiff she could only shuffle along. Jim’s toes
were protruding, and I fancied he and Rose were as
foot-sore as the little ones. I dare say people looked
and wondered ; but I am not ashamed to be seen with
any kind of children.

I took them around to the back door, into the
kitchen, which I had found unendurable while baking
my bread and pies. The heated air rushed out against
my face as I opened the door. It was a delicious
May-day ; but the procession behind me, entering,
proceeded direct to the stove, and surrounded it in
winter fashion, holding their hands out to the heat.
Even from Jim I heard a soft sigh of satisfaction.

Poor, shivering children of the tropics ! I drew up
the shades. There were no outer blinds, and the
sun streamed in freely.

“There, now. Warm yourselves, and take your
own time for it. Put in wood, Jim, and keep as much
fire as you like. Iam going to my room to rest for an
hour.- Be sure that you don’t go off, for I wish you
to stay here until you are thoroughly rested. I have
plenty of wood for you to saw, Jim.”

I brought out a pan of cookies. I set them on the
table. ‘“ Here, Rose, see that Peyty and Kit have

all they want. When I come down, I’ll get you some
clinner.”

Come along,

The poor children in stories, and in real life, too,
for that matter, always get. only bread and butter —
lear me, poor dears ! When I undertake a romance
for these waifs in real life, or story, I always give them
cookies — cookies, sweet, golden, and crusty, with
sifted sugar,

I left them all, even to Jim, looking over into the
pan. My! rich, sugary jumbles, and plummy queen’s
cakes? When I saw their eyes dance —no sleep in
those eyes now —I was glad it wasn’t simply whole-
Some sandwiches and plain fried cakes, as somebody
at my elbow Says now it ought to have been. I

available.





would have set out a picnic table, with ice-cream and
candies, for those wretched little “ niggas,” if Icould!
I nodded to them, and went away. It is so nice, after
you have made a child happy, to add some unmistaka-
ble sign that it is quite welcome to the happiness !

I knew there was nothing which they could steal.
I expected they would explore the pantry. I judged
them by some of my little white friends. But the silver
was locked up. China and glass would hardly be
If, after they had stuffed themselves with
those cookies, they could want cold meat, and bread
and butter, I surely shouldn’t begrudge it. Then I
thought of my own especial lemon tart, which stood
cooling on the shelf before the window ; but I was

; not going back to insult that manly Jim Moncton by

removing it.

Just as I was slipping on my dressing-gown up in
my own cool, quiet chamber, I caught a faint sound
of the outside door of the kitchen, Something like a
shriek, or a scream, followed. ‘Then there was an
unmistakable and mighty overturning of chairs. I
rushed down. At the very least I expected to see my
romantic “Rose Moncton” with her hands clenched
in brother Jim’s kinky hair. With loosened tresses,
without belt or collar, I appeared on the scene.

What did I see? Why, I saw Phillis, Mrs. Jack
Graham’s black cook, with every one of my little
“niggas”? in her arms — heads of the family and all!
There they were, sobbing and laughing together, the
portly Phillis the loudest of the whole. One of Mrs.
Jack’s favorite china bowls lay in fragments on the
floor.

Phillis called out hysterically as she saw me. Jim
discovered me the same moment. He detached him-
self, went up to the window, and bowed his head down
upon the sash. I saw the tears roll down his cheek
and drop.

“Laws, Miss Carry! dese my ole mas’r’s niggers !
dey’s Mas’r Moncton’s little nigs, ebery one! dey’s
runned roun’ under my feet in Mas’r Moncton’s
kitchen many a day down in ole Carline —bress em
souls!” She hugged them again, and sobbed afresh,
The children clung to the old cook’s neck,and waist, and
arms like so many helpless, frightened black kittens.

Phillis at last recovered her dignity. She pointed
them to their chairs. She picked up the pieces of
china in her apron. ‘“ Done gone, anyhow — dese
pickaninnies gib ole Phillis sich a turn ! It mose like



WI!’ WEE WINKERS BLINKIN’.



seein’ Mas’r Moncton an’ Miss Nelly demselves.
Whar you git ’em, Miss Carry?”

I told her.

“Bress your heart, Miss Carry! Len’ me a cup,
and git me some yeast, and I'll bring Mistis Graham
ober, an’ I’ll be boun’, when she sees dat ar lubly
little Peyty, she’ll hire him to—to—to—lor! she’ll
hire him to look into his diamint eyes.”

I know she herself kissed tears out of more than
one pair of “diamint eyes” while I was getting the
yeast. I heard her.

“OQ, Maum Phillis!” I heard Jim say. “You think
we'll hire out roun’ hyar?” :

“Could we, Maum Phillis?” pleaded Rose, her
voice soft and warm now. “ We’s done tired out.
I’m clean ready to drop down in my tracks long this
yer blessed stove, and nebber stir anywhars |”

“ Bress you, chilluns ! You Aev tromped like sojers,
clar from ole Carline! Spec it seems like home,
findin’ one of de old place hands— Phillis knows.
Dar, dar! don’t take on so. Miss Carry, she’l] bunk



you down somewhar it’s warm, and thar you stay an”
rest dem feet. I’ll send my mistis ober, and dey
two’ll pervide fer ye on dis yer street ; dis yer one ob.

' de Lord’s own streets.”

Well, do you think Mistis Graham and Mistis Carry
dishonored Maum Phillis’s faith in them?

No, indeed! The family found homes on “de
Lord’s own street.” Jam is coachman at Squire
Lee’s. Peyty is at the same place, taken in at first.
for his sweet disposition, and “diamint eyes,” I sus-
pect. He is now a favorite table-waiter.

Kit is Maum Phillis’s right-hand woman. Rose is
our own hired girl. She is somewhat given to sleep-
iness, and to idling in sunny windows, and to scorch-~
ing her shoes and aprons against the stove of a
winter’s evening. But, on the whole, she is a good
servant; and we have built her a bedroom out of
the kitchen.

I have never regretted crossing the street to speak

| to the strangers from the south.

+

WI?

WEE WINKERS BLINKIN’.

BY J. E. RANKIN, D. D.

V’ wee winkers blinkin’,
Blinkin’ like the starn,

What’s wee tottie thinkin’?
Tell her mither, bairn.

On night’s downy dream-wings,
Where’s the bairnie been,

That she has sic seemings
In her blinkin’ een?

Let her mither brood her,
Like the mither-doe ;

When enough she’s woo’d her,
She maun prie her mou’:

Let her mither shake her,
Like an apple bough,

Frae her dreams to wake her:—
That’s our bairnie now!



There! I’ve got her crowin’
Like the cock at dawn ;
Mow’ wi’ fistie stowin’,
When she tries to yawn:
She’ll na play the stranger
Drappit frae the blue,
Lest there might be danger
Back she sud gae through!

She’s our little mousie,
In this housie born,
That I tumble tousie,
Ilka, ilka morn:
She’s her mither’s bairnie,
Only flesh an’ blood ;
Blinkin’ like the starnie
Through a neebor cloud.















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































LuUCY’S PET.





THE CHILDRENS’ SHOES.



BY BLANCHE B. BAKER (wine years’ ol@).



OUR pairs of little shoes Four pairs of little shoes
All in a row; White at the toe.
Four pairs of little shoes
For to-morrow. Four pairs of little shoes
Travelling all day ;
Four pairs of little shoes Four pairs of little shoes
Worn every day ; Resting from play.
Four pairs of little shoes
Ready for play. : Four pairs of little shoes
Waiting for day ;
Four pairs of little shoes Four pairs of little shoes
By the fire’s glow ; Never go astray !

ETHEL’S EXPERIMENT.



BY B. E. E,



HITE flakes on the upland, white flakes on Green leaves on the upland, green leaves on the plain,

the plain, And bluebirds and robins and south winds again.

Frost bon-bons in meadow, in garden, in lane ; The brook in the meadow is wide awake now,
And wise little Ethel — the strangest of girls — And fragrant bloom drops from the old willows
Puts on her grave thinking-cap, shakes her brown bough,

curls, When Ethel remembers her treasure, her prize,
And talks to herself, in a curious way, That under the edge of the great boulder lies ;
Of “snow” anda “ball” aud a “hot summer’s day!” And stealthily creeping close down to the brink,
Then, down to the brook, where the gnarled willows Where the slender reeds quiver — now what do you

grow, think
And the ice-covered reeds stand like soldiers in row, Our little girl found? Why, never a trace
Our brave little girl trudges off all alone, Of the snow-ball— O no! but just in its place
And rolls a large snow-ball just under the stone A tiny white violet, sweetest of sweet,
That lies on the brink of the streamlet, and then Because of the coverlid over its feet
In this wise begins her soliloquy: “ When Through all the long winter! And Ethel’s mamma,
The Fourth of July comes, what fun it, will be When she heard the whole story said, “ Truly we are
To have all this snow tucked away, for you see No wiser than children. We bury our grief,

Nobody will guess how it came there, — but me!” And find in its hiding-place Hope’s tender leaf!”



CINDERS: THE FORTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.



CINDERS:
THE FORTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.



BY MADGE ELLIOT.



OW artful the wind was that cold March morn-

ing, hiding away every now and then, pretend-

ing to be quite gone, only to rush out with a fearful

howl at such unexpected moments that Carl was
nearly blown off his feet each time.

But he struggled bravely forward, bending his head
to the blast, and holding his brimless hat on with one
hand, while he carried his battered tin pail in the
other.

There was not a gleam of fire in the wretched room
he had just left; and Tony and Lena, his little sisters,
_wrapped in the old piece of carpet that served them
for a blanket, were a/most crying with hunger and
with cold.

They would have cried outright if Carl had not
kissed them, and said, “Never mind, young uns —
wait till I can give you each a reg’lar bang-up lace
hankercher to cry on, — zen you may cry as much as
you please.”

Father and mother had died within a week of each
other, when February’s snows were upon the ground,
leaving these three poor children without money and
without friends —a bad way for even grown-ups to be
left.

So Carl, poor boy, found himself, at ten years of
age, the head of a family.

Of course he became a newsboy.

Almost all heads of families ten years and under,

become newsboys.

Twenty-five cents given him by an old woman whe
sold apples and peanuts, and who, by the way, was
not much better off than he was himself, started him
in business.

But the business, I am sorry to say, scarcely paid
the rent, leaving nothing for clothing, food and fire,
three very necessary things,—be a home ever so
humble.

So every morning, almost as soon as the cay



dawned — and I can tell you day dawns very quickly
in a room where the window hasn’t a scrap of shade
or curtain— before he went down town for his stock —
of morning papers, Carl started out to bring hom¢
the family fuel.

This consisted of whatever sticks and bits of woo
he could find lying about the streets, and whateve
cinders and pieces of coal he could pick from th
ash-barrels and boxes.

If the weather was at all mild, Tony, the eldest
sister, and the housekeeper, went with him, and helped
him fill the old pail.

She carried a forlorn-looking basket, that seemed
ashamed of the old piece of rope that served for its
handle, and stopped on her way home at several
houses, where the servant girls had taken a fancy to
the gray-eyed, shy little thing, to get the family mar-
keting.

But alas! very very often the supply fell far short
of the demand, for the winter had been a very sever>
one, and everybody had such a number of calls from
all sorts of needy people, that they could afford ts
give but little to each one.

This particular March morning Carl wentout alonc,
wondering as he went when “ the fortune” was going
to “turn up.”

For these poor children, shut out from dolls,
fairy-books, and all things that make childhood merry
and bright, used to while away many an hour, talking

of “a fortune” which the brother had prophesied
would one day be found in the ashes.

At different times this dream took different shapes.

Sometimes it was a pocket-book, oh! so fat with
greenbacks, sometimes a purse of gold, sometimes ‘“‘a
diamint ring:” but, whatever it should prove to be,
Carl was convinced, “felt it in his bones,” he said,
it would be found, and found hidden among the

cinders.



CINDERS: THE FORTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.

Once he had brought home a silver fork, ‘‘ scooped,”
as he called it in newsboy’s slang, from an ash-heap
in an open lot. -

On this fork the family had lived for three days.

Once he rescued a doll, which would have been
Jovely if it had had a head ; and at various times there
were scraps of ribbon, lace and silk, all of which
served to strengthen the belief that something wonder-
ful must “turn up ” at last.

“ Cricky ! how that old wind does holler,” said Carl
to himself, as he toiled along, “an’ it cuts right
through me, my jacket’s so thin an’ torn —I’d mend
it myself if I only knew how, and somebody’d lend
me a needle and thread.

“ Don’t I wish I’d find the fortune this morning!

“T dreamt of it last night dreamt it was a bar of
gold, long as my arm, and precious thick, too.

“Guess I’ll go to that big bar’l afore them orful
high flat houses — that’s a//us full of cinders.

' “Tt’s lucky for us them big bugs don’t sift their
ashes! Wewouldn’t have no fire if they did, —that’s
what’s the matter.”

So he made his way to the “big bar’l,” hoping no
-one had been there before him, and, leaning over
without looking, put his cold, red hand into the ashes,
but he drew it out again in a hurry, for, cold as z¢ was,
it had touched something colder.

“Hello!” cried Carl, “what’s that? It don’t feel
’zactly like the bar of gold,” and, dropping on his
‘knees, he peeped in.

A dirty little, shaggy, once-white dog raised a pair
-of soft, dark, wistful eyes to his face.

“Why! I’m blessed,” said Carl, in great surprise,
“if it ain’ta dog. Poor little beggar! that was his
nose I felt, an’ wasn’t it cold?”

“T s’pose he’s got in among the ashes to keep
warm; wot pooty eyes he’s got, just like that
woman’s wot give meaten cent stamp for the 7rzbune
the other day, and wouldn’t take no change. Poor
-old feller! Are you lost?”

The dog had risen to its feet, and still looking
pleadingly at Carl, commenced wagging its tail ina
friendly manner.

“Oh! you want me to take you home,” continued
‘Carl. “I can’t cause I dunno where you live, and
my family eats all they can git theirselves — they’re
awful pigs, they are,” and he laughed softly, ‘an’
-couldn’t board a dog nohow.”

an





But the dog kept on wagging his tail, and as soon
as Carl ceased speaking, as though grateful for even
a few kind words, it licked the cold hand that rested
on the side of the barrel.

That dog-kiss won the poor boy’s heart completely.
“Vou shall go with me,” he cried impulsively. “ Jest
come out of that barrel till I fill this pail with cin-
ders, and then we'll be off. He kin have the bones
we can’t crack with our teeth ennyhow,” he said to
himself, — not a very cheerful prospect, it must be
confessed, for the boarder.

The dog, as though he understood every word,
jumped from the box, and seated himself on the icy
pavement to wait for his new landlord and master.

In a few moments the pail was full, and the boy
turned toward his home, running as fast as he could,
with the dog trotting along by his side.

“See wot I foun’ in the ashes,’ he cried, bounding
into the room. ‘ Here’s the fortune alive an’ kickin’.
Wot you think of it?”

“Oh, wot a funny fortune!” said Tony, and “ Wot
a funny fortune!” repeated little Lena.

“Te’s kinder queer, —the pocket-book an’ the di-
mint ring a-turnin’ into a dog!” Tony continued.
“ But no matter, if we can’t buy nothin’ with him, we
can love him, poor little feller !”

“Poor ’ittle feller!”? repeated Lina. “He nicer
than dollie ’ithout a head, ennyhow. Wecan lub him.”

“ An’ now, Carl,” said the housekeeper, ‘you make
the fire, an’ I’ll run to market, for it’s most time you
went after your papers.” ;

And away she sped, to return in a few minutes with
five or six cold potatoes, a few crusts of bread, and
one bone, with very little meat —and that gristle —
clinging to it.

And this bone — think if you can of a greater act
of self-denial and charity—the children decided with
one accord should be given to “ Cinders,” as they had
named the dog on the spot.

That night, after Carl had sold his papers, and
come home tired but hopeful, for he had made thirty
cents clear profit to save toward the rent, they all
huddled together, with doggie in the midst of them,
around the old iron furnace that held their tiny fire.

Presently the Head of the Family began whistling
a merry tune, which was a great favorite with the
newsboys.

Imagine. the astonishment of the children when



CINDERS: THE FORTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.



Cinders pricked up his ears, rose on his hind legs,
and, after gravely walking across the room once,
began to walk round and round, keeping perfect time
to the music!

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Carl, his eyes spark-
ling. “Look at that! look at that! Tony, it ’#s the
fortune after all! an’ I ad find it in the ash-box!”

“Why, wot do you mean, Bub?” cried Tony, al-
most as excited as her brother. ‘ Wot do you mean,
an’ ware’s ‘the fortune ?’”

“Why there, right afore your eyes. I mean Cin-
‘ders is one o’ them orful smart hundred-dollar dogs
‘wot does tricks. He’s bin lost by that circus wot
‘went away night afore last, an’ he’s bin lost a-purpose
to make my dreams come true! I’ll take him out the
fust fine day, an’ we’ll bring home lots of stamps.
You see if we don’t!”

“UM sell the papers,” said Tony, by this time guzte
as excited as her brother; “I kin do it, Carl. ‘’Ere’s
the mornin’ Herald, Sun, Times an’ Zribune!’”
imitating the shrill cry of the newsboy, and doing it
very well, too, “an’ the fellers’ll be good to me, ’cos
I’m your sister, an’ they like you.”

“You're a brick, Tony!” said Carl, “an, for sich a
small brick the brickiest brick I ever knowed ; but I
kin sell em myself in the mornin’, an’ you kin take
’em in the afternooon, for that’s the time Cinders an’
me must perform. ‘ Monseer Carlosky an’ his werry
talented dog Cinders, son of the well-known French
performing poodle Cinderella.’ How’s that, Tony? O
I've read all about ’em on the circus bills, and that’s
the way they do it. Yes, you'll have to take the
Papers in the afternoon, cos then’s when the swell
Doys an’ gals is home from school, —’cept Saturdays,
then we'll be out most all day.”

“ Dance more, Tinders, dance more!” here broke in
little Lena ; but Cinders stood looking at his master,
evidently waiting for the music.

So Carl commenced whistling —did I tell you he
whistled like a bird?—and Cinders once more
marched gravely across the room, and then began
waltzing again in the most comical manner.

He had evidently been trained to perform his tricks

Just twice ; for when the music ceased ¢sés time he

Proceeded to stand on his head, and then sitting up

‘on his hind legs, he nodded politely to the audience,

and held out one of his paws, as much as to say,
Now pay if you please.”



The poor children forgot hunger and cold in their
delight, and that miserable room resounded to more
innocent, merry laughter that night than it had heard
for many long years, perhaps ever before.

Cinders got another bone for his supper — the
others had nothing — and then they all went to bed,
if lying on the bare floor, with nothing for a pillow
can be called going to bed, and dreamed of “the
fortune ” found at last in the ashes.

The next afternoon, which fortunately was a fine
one, for March having “come in like a lion was pre-
paring to go out like a lamb,” Carl came racing up
the crazy stairs, taking two steps at a time, and, toss-
ing a bundle of evening papers to Tony, he whistled

‘to Cinders, and away they went.

Poor Carl looked shabby enough, with his toes
sticking out of a pair of old shoes—a part of the
treasures “scooped” from the ash-heap—and not
mates at that, one being as much too large as the
other was too small, his tattered jacket and his brim-
less hat.

But Cinders followed him as faithfully as though

-he had been clad in a costly suit of the very latest

style.

Turning into a handsome, quiet street, Carl stopped
at last before a house where three or four rosy-cheeked
children were flattening their noses against the panes
of the parlor windows, trying to see a doll which
another rosy-cheeked child was holding up at a win-
dow just opposite.

“ Now Cinders, ole feller!” said Carl, while his
heart beat fast, “do your best. Bones!” and he
began to whistle.

At the first note Cinders stood up on his hind legs,
at the second he took his first step forward.

At the beginning of the fourth bar the waltz began ;
and by this time the rosy-cheeked children had lost
all interest in the doll over the way, and were all
shouting and calling “Mamma!” and the cook and
chambermaid had made their appearance at the area
gate.

The march and waltz having been gone through
with twice, Cinders stood on his head — “shure,” said
the cook, “I couldn’t do it betther myself’ —tumbled
quickly to his feet again, nodded affably once to the
right, once to the left, and once to the front of him,
and held out his right paw.

“He’s the cliverest baste ever 7 seen,” said the



CINDERS: THE F( RTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.

chambermaid, “so he is!”” and she threw a five cent
piece in Carl’s old hat ; and, at the same moment the
window was opened, and out flew a perfect shower of
pennies, while the little girl across the way kept shout-
ing, “Come here, ragged little boy! Come here,
funny doggie! Oh, why don’t you come here?”

And, making his best bow to his first audience,
Carl went over to the doll’s house, and was received
by the whole family, including grandpa and grandma,
with great delight and laughter, and was rewarded at
the end of his entertainment with much applause,
three oranges, and a new ten cent stamp.

That afternoon Cinders earned one dollar and
three cents for his little master ; and I can’t describe
to you the joy that reigned in that small bare room
when Carl, in honor of his debut as “ Monseer Carl-
osky” brought in, and spread out on a newspaper on
the floor, a wonderful feast! Real loaf of bread,
bought at the baker’s, bottle of sarsaparilla at the
grocer’s, and peanuts, apples, and a hunk of some
extraordinary candy from the old woman who kept a
stand at the corner, and who had started Carl asa
newsboy. She also received her twenty-five cents
again, with five cents added by way of interest.

“Why! didn’t they look when they see me a-order-
in’ things, and payin’ for ’em on the spot!” said
“ Monseer,” with honest pride, as he carved the loaf
with an old jackknife.

As for Cinders, no meatless bone, but half a pound
of delicious liver, did that remarkable dog receive,
and more kisses on his cold, black nose than he knew
what to do with.

After that, as the weather grew finer and finer, and
the days longer, Carl and his dog wandered farther
and farther, and earned more and more money every
day, until the little sisters rejoiced in new shoes, hats





and dresses, and the housekeeper had a splendid bas-
ket— not very large, of course —with a handle that
any basket could be proud of, and actually ad go to
ma Vet, fair and square, and no make believe about it.

And Carl presented himself with a brand-new suit
of clothes, from the second-hand shop next door, in-
cluding shoes that were made for each other, and.a
hat with a brim.

By-and-by the cheerless room was exchanged for a
pleasanter one ; and the story of the fair-haired Head
of the Family, and the fortune he found in the ashes,
took wings, and returned to him laden with blessings.

And five years from that bleak March morning,
when Cinder looked up so pleadingly in the boy’s
face, Carl found himself a clerk in the counting-room
of a generous, kind-hearted merchant.

“ A boy who worked so hard and so patiently to
take care of his litttle sisters,” this gentleman said to
his wife, “and who was ready to share his scanty
meals with a vagrant dog, must be a good boy, and
good boys make good men.”

And Tony and Lena, both grown to be bright,
healthy, merry girls, befriended by many good women,
were going to school, taking care of the house, earn-
ing a little in odd moments by helping the seamstress
who lived on the floor below, and still looking up with
love and respect to the Head of the Family.

Cinders, petted and beloved by all, performed in
public no more, but spent most of his time lying by
the fire in winter, and on the door-step in summer,
waiting and listening for the step of his master.

So you see Carl was right.

He did find his fortune among the ashes.

But would it have proved a fortune had he been a °
cruel, selfish, hard-hearted boy?

Ah! that’s the question.





TOM’S CENTENNIAL.



TOM’S CENTENNIAL.

A FOURTH OF FULY STORY.



BY MARGARET EYTINGE,







To-morrow’s the Fourth of July —

the glorious Fourth!” shouted Tom Wallace,
careering wildly around tne flower garden, as a Roman
candle he held in his hand, evidently unable to contain
\tself until the proper time, went off with a fizz and a
pop and flashed against the evening sky, “and it’s
going to be the greatest Fourth that ever was known,

URRAH!





Centennial!”

“A cenf-tennial!”
said his little sister
Caddy, “‘that won’t be
anything great.”

“Pooh! you don’t understand —
girls never do—Centennial don’t
mean anything about money. Centennial means ‘per-
taining to, or happening every hundred years’ —if
you don’t believe me ask Noah Webster — and just
a hundred years ago this magnificent Republic of
America, gentlemen of the jury,” he continued, mount-
ing a garden-chair, and making the most absurd gest-
ures, “was declared free and independent, and its
brave citizens determined not to drink tea unless they
chose to, and our cousins from the other side of the
Atlantic went marching home to the tune the old cow
died on.”

“ What tune was that?” asked Caddy.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said Tom, “I’m aston-
ished to find such ignorance in this great and enlight-
éned country. The name of that memorable tune was
and still is, as Your Honor well knows, Yankee Doo-
dle ;” and the orator, descending ‘from the chair,
commenced whistling that famous melody.

“Well, then,’ said Caddy, after a moment's,
thought, “if a Centinal is something about a hundred
years old, Aunt Patience is one, for she’s a hundrea
years old to-morrow — she told me so —and she feels





TOM’S CENTENNIAL.

Oh i A ee eee re eee SS SS SS Se ee

real bad ’cause she can’t go to the green to see the
fire-works, on count of the pain in her back, and Faith
ain’t got any shoes or hat, and the flour’s ’most gone,
and so’s the tea, and she says ‘the poor-house
looms.’ ”

“The poor-house looms,’ does it?” said Tom
laughing ; and then he stuck his hands inhis pockets,
and hummed “Hail Columbia ” in a thoughtful man-
ner.

“T say, Frank,” he called out at last, going up on
the porch, and poking his head in at a window, “ what
are you doing?”

«The king was in the parlor, counting out his money,’”

answered Frank.

“ How much, king?”

“Twenty — thirty — thirty-five,” said Frank, “one
dollar and thirty-five cents. How do you figure?”

“Two, fifteen. Come out here, I want to tell you
something.”

Frank, who was two years younger than Tom, ap
peared.

“What’s up?” he asked, throwing himself into the
hammock which hung from the roof of the porch, and
swinging lazily.

“Would it break your heart, and smash the fellows
generally, if we didn’t go to the meeting on the green
to-morrow evening, after all the fuss we’ve made about
it?”

“ What?” asked Frank, in a tone of surprise, as-
suming a sitting position so suddenly that the ham-
mock —hammocks are treacherous things— gave a
sudden lurch, and landed him on the floor.

Tom’s laughter woke all the echoes around.

“Forgive these tears,” he said, as he wiped his
eyes, “and now to business. You know not, perhaps,
my gentle brother, that we have a centenarian, ov as
Caddy says, a centinal among us?”

“A centinal?” said Frank, stretching himself out
on the floor where he had fallen.

“ A centenarian, or centinal, whichever you choose,
most noble kinsman, and she lives on the outskirts of
this town. Her name—a most admirable one —is
Patience. Her granddaughter’s — another admirable
one — Faith.

“Patience has the rheumatism. Faith has no shoes.
They want to see some fire-works, and hear some





Fourth of July — being centinals they naturally’
would.

“What say you? Shall we and our faithful clan,
instead of swelling the ranks of the militia on the
green, march to the humble cottage behind the hill,
and gladden the hearts of old Patience and young
Faith with a pyr-o-tech-nic display?”

“Good!” said Frank, who always followed the
lead of his elder brother.

And “Good!” echoed Caddy ; “ but don’t spend all
your money for fire-works. Give some to Aunt Pa-
tience, ‘cause she’s the only centinal we’ve got.”

“ And she’ll never be another,” said Tom,

«While the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.’”

So on the evening of the Fourth the people of
Tomstown were somewhat astonished to see the
young Centennial Guards march down the principal
street, pass the green, where extensive preparations
for festivities had been made, and keep on up the hill
until, beginning to descend on the other side, they
were lost to sight.

At the head marched Frank with his drum, Caddy
came directly behind him with a bunch of brilliant
flowers. The others carried flags, Chinese lanterns,
and boxes of fire-works, while Captain Tom flew here
and there and everywhere, trying to keep — an almost
hopeless task — the mischievous company in some-
thing like order.

“Where away?” shouted Uncle Al—an old sailor
home for the holiday—as the guards passed his
door.

“To Aunt Patience — our own special Centennial,”
Frank shouted back with a tremendous roll of the
drum.

Uncle Al, always ready for fun, pipe in mouth, fell
in line, waving his tarpaulin on the end of a stick, and
Ex, his yellow dog, and Ander, his black one, followed
after, grinning and wagging their tails.

Then the butcher’s boy, and his chum the baker’s
boy, who were going by, turned and joined the pro-
cession, and away they all went, hurrahing, laughing
and drumming, to the door of the very small cottage.

“Bless my heart!” said Aunt Patience, who was
sitting in a wooden arm-chair on the stoop, and who,
hearing faintly, poor, dear, deaf old soul, the noise of



TOM’S CENTENNIAL.

the approaching “ guards,” had been thinking the frogs
croaked much louder than usual, “what’s this?”

And bare-footed, brown-eyed Faith came out with
wonder written all over her pretty face.

“ Three cheers for our special Centennial !” shouted
the boys ; and they gave three with a will, as Caddy
placed her flowers in the old woman’s hand.

“Now for the pyr-o-tech-nic display !”” commanded

“Captain Tom ; and for nearly an hour Roman candles
fizzed, blue-lights popped, torpedoes cracked, pin-
wheels whizzed, and fire-crackers banged.

Old Patience said it was worth living a hundred
years to see,





And as the last fire-~vork went up a rocket and came
down a stick, the gallant company formed in single
file, and, marching past Aunt Patience, each member
bade her “good-night,” and dropped some money in
her lap.

As for Uncle Al—that generous, jolly, warm-
hearted old sailor, his gift was three old-fashioned
silver dollars ; one for himself, one for Ex, and one
for Ander.

“No one should think,” he said, “that Ads dogs
were mean dogs.”

Then away they all went again, hurrahing, shouting,
and drumming like mad!



Full Text


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IN THE BULL-CIRCUS, MADRID,
~ALL THE WORLD OVER

INTERESTING STORIES OF TRAVEL, THRILLING
| ADVENTURE AND HOME LIFE

BY

ELLA FARMAN, MRS. LUCIA CHASE BELL, FRANK H. CONVERSE, LOUISE STOCKTON,
AND OTHER POPULAR AUTHORS





FULLY ILLUSTRATED

BOSTON
D. LOTHROP COMPANY
1893.
CoPYRIGHT, 1892,
BY
D. Lorurop Company.



All rights reserved.



ALL THE WORLD OVER

ERHAPS one of the most vivid impressions which the tourist receives



upon his entrance into any Spanish city whatsoever, is of its muscular
beggars —- men of enormous.size, with their ruffianly swaggering strength
exaggerated by the national cloak. This garment is of heavy, tufted
woollens, long and fringed, almost indestructable, and is frequently worn
to muffle half the face; and the broad slouch hat, usually with a couple of rough
feathers stuck in its band, does not tend to soften the general brigandish effect.

These beggars are licensed by the government, which must reap a goodly revenue
from the disgraceful crowd, as they are numerous, and therefore they pursue their
avocation in the most open manner. They will frequently follow the traveller a
half-mile, especially should they find him to be ignorant of that magic formula of
dismissal which is known to all Spaniards :

Pardon, for God’s sake, Brother !

This" appeal is constantly on the lip of every Spanish lady. She utters it ln
without so much as a glance, a dozen times of a morning on her way to church,
as a dozen gaunt, dirty hands are thrust in her face as she passes; and hearing it,
the most persistent fellow of them all is at once silenced, and falls back.

Coming in from their kennel-homes among the ruins and the holes in the hills
outside, it is the custom to make an early morning tour of the city before they
take up their stations for the day at the various church and hotel doors. Each seems
to be provided with “green pudding,” in his garlic pot, and he eats as he goes
along, and prays as he eats, stopping in front of the great oval patio or court gates
of iron lattice, which guard the mansions of the rich.

At these patio doors he makes a prodigious racket, shaking the iron rods furi-
ously, and all the while muttering his prayers, until some one of the family
appears at a gallery window. Then instantly the mutter becomes a whine, a piti-
ful tale is wailed forth, and alms are dolefully implored “for the love of God.”
But although such mottoes as “Poverty is no Crime’ are very often painted
on the walls of their fine houses, the probability is that the unmoved Sefiorita
will murmur a swift ‘“ Pardon, for God’s sake, Brother!” and retire, to soon appear
again to silence another of the fraternity with the same potent formula.

However, each of the countless horde is sure to gather in centimes sufficient
for the day’s cigarettes and garlic, and, in the long run, to support life to a

good old age.
.,HE Spaniards are a nation of dancers and singers. Every Spanish
* child seems born with the steps, gestures, snappings and clappings
of the national fandango dance, at the ends of his fingers and toes.
A guitar is the universal possession, and every owner is a fine



player. The solitary horseman, the traveller by rail, takes along his
guitar; and in car, or at cross-roads, he is sure of dancers at the first
thrilling twang. There is always a merry youth and maiden aboard ready to
make acquaintance in a dance, and anywhere the whole household will troop from
the cottage, the plowman will leave his team in the furrow, and the laborer
drop his hoe, for a half-hour’s joyous “footing o’t.”

One of the interesting sights of Toledo is the great city fountain on Street
St. Isabel, near the cathedral. It is a good place to study donkeys and their
drivers, and the lower classes of the populace. The water, deliciously sweet
and cool, is brought from the mountains by the old Moorish-built water-ways,
and flows by faucet. There is no public system of delivery, consequently a good
business falls into the hands of private water-carriers. These supply families at
a franc a month. The poorer households go to and fro with their own water-
jars as need calls, carrying them on their heads. They often wear a cushioned
ring, fitting the Head, to render the carrying of the jar an easier matter.

A picturesque article of dress among Spanish men, is the national sash,
a broad woollen some four yards in length, of gay colorings. This is wound three
or four times around the waist, its fringed end tucked in to hang floating, and the
inevitable broad knife thrust. within its folds, which also hold the daily supply
of tobacco. A common sight is the sudden stop on the street, a lighting of a
fresh cigarette, a loosening of the loosened sash, a twitch of the short breeches,
and then a tight, snug wind-up, when the lounger moves on again,

Another amusing sight is the picturesque beggar who seems at first glance
to be hanging in effigy against the cathedral walls, so motionless will some of
these fellows stand, hat slouched over the face, the brass government “license”
labelling the breast, a hand extended, and, in many cases, a crest worn prom
inently on the ragged garments, to show that the wearer is a proud descend-
ant of some old grandee family. To address this crested beggar by any other
title than Cadallero (gentleman) is a deadly insult.
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MONG the many small sights of the Plaza about Christmas time, are
the sellers of zambombas,.or Devil's Fiddles. This toy, which the
stranger sometime takes for a receptacle of sweet drinks to be im-
bibed through a hollow cane, is a favorite plaything with Spanish



children. A skin is stretched over a bottomless jar; into this is
fastened a stout length of sugar-cane, and lo! a zambomba. Its urchin-owner
spits on his palms, rubs them smartly up and down the ridgy cane, when the
skin-drum reverberates delightfully.

The fruit markets are of a primitive sort. The peasant fills his donkey-panniers
with grapes, garlic, melons straw-cased and straw-handled, whatever he has ripe,
and starts for town. Reaching the Plaza, in the shade of the cathedral, he
spreads his cloak, rolling a rim. On this huge woollen plate he arranges his
fruit, weighing it out as customers demand, —

From the old Moorish casements, the traveller looks down on the most rudi-
mentary sort of life. He sees no labor-saving machinery. Instead of huge vans
loaded with compact hay bales, he beholds the donkey hay-train. The farmer
binds a mountain of loose hay on each of his donkeys, lashes them together,
and with a neighbor to help beat the train along, starts for market. These

trains may be seen any day crooking about among the steep mountain-ways.

The student of folk-life notes the shoemakers on the Plaza at work in the
open air. Formerly the sandal was universally worn, with its sole of knotted
hemp, and its canvas brought up over the toe, at which point was fastened a
pair of ribbons about four feet long, and these ribbons each province had its
own fashion of lacing and tying. But now the conventional footgear of Paris
is common, and one buys boots of the fine glossy Cordovan leather for a trifle.

The proprietors of the neighboring vineyards visit the wine shops weekly to
bring full wine-skins, and take such as are emptied. . These skins, often with
their wool unsheared, are cured by remaining several weeks filled with wine-oil,
and all seams are coated with pitch to prevent leakage. The wholesale skins
hold about eight gallons, being usually those of well-grown animals. They are
stoutly sewn, tied at each knee, and also at the neck, whence the wine is
decanted into smaller skins by means of a tunnel.


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HE beggars of Spain are a most devout class. Piety is, with them, the
= form under which they conduct business; a shield, and a certificate of
character. They walk the streets under the protection of the patron
(ead saint of the principal church in town, and they formally demand alms

a of you in the name of that saint. It is Religion that solicits you —
the beggar’s own personality is not at all involved; and it is thus that the
proud Spanish self-respect is saved from hurt.



The tourist who has not tarried in French towns, is, at first, astonished to
behold women passing to and fro upon the streets with no head covering what-
ever. Hats and bonnets are rarely seen upon Spanish women of the lowe- and
middle classes. Those who are street-venders sit bareheaded all day long in their
chairs on the Plaza, wholly indifferent to the great heat and blinding dazzle of
the Spanish sun. About Christmas, dozens of “stands”’ spring up along the
Plaza. It is at that season that the gypsy girls come in with their roasters
and their bags of big foreign chestnuts; and they do a thriving business,
for every good Spanish child expects roast chestnuts and salt at Christmas.

Many of the mountain families about Toledo’ keep small flocks of sheep—
flocks that, instead of dotting a green landscape with peaceful white, as in
America and Northern Europe, only darken the reddish-brown soil of Spain with
a restless shading of a redder and a deeper hue. These brown sheep are
herded daily down on the fenceless wastes. The shepherd-boys are usually
attended by shepherd-dogs so enormous in size that the traveller often mistakes
them for donkeys. They are sagacious, and do most of the herding, their masters
devoting themselves to the guitar, the siesta, the cigarette, and the garlic pudding.

Toledo, more than any other Spanish city, abounds with interesting bits and
noble examples of the old Moorish architecture, for the reason that it has not
been rebuilt at all, and that few of its ruins: have been restored, or even
retouched. Color alone has changed. The city now is of the soft hue of a
withered pomegranate. Turn where you will, your eye is delighted by an ornate
fagade, a carved gateway with its small reticent entrance door, a window with
balcony and cross-bars, and everywhere there is the horseshoe arch with its beau-
tiful curve. The old Alcazar is standing, though occupied as a Spanish arsenal,
and on the height opposite is the ruin of a fine Moorish castle.
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fa NE of the best “small businesses” in a Spanish city, is that of the
‘ domestic water-supply. Those dealers who have no donkeys, convey it
to their customers in long wheelbarrows constructed with a frame to
receive and hold several jars securely, Stone jars, with wood stopples
attached with a cord, are used, the carrying-jars, being emptied into
larger jars in the water-cellars, The peasants have a poetic appellation
for the soft, constant drip of the water from the old aqueducts: The sigh of the Moor.



s

With the Spaniard, as with the American, the turkey is a special Christmas
luxury. But the tempting rows of dressed fowls common to our markets and
groceries, are never to be seen. As the holiday season draws very close at hand,
the mountain men come down into the city, driving before them their cackling,
gobbling, lustrous-feathered flocks, bestowing upon them, of course, the usual daily
allowance of blows which is meted out to the patient family donkey. These poultry
dealers congregate upon the Plaza, where they smoke, and chaff, and dicker, keep-
ing their droves in place with the whip; and the buyer shares in the capture
of his flying, screaming, flapping’ purchase, in company with all the children on
the street, for the turkey market is usually great fun for the Spanish youngster.

In the cold season, one of the morning sights of a Spanish town is the prepara-
tion of the big charcoal braziers outside the gates of the fine dwelling-houses.
The coals are laid and lighted, and then the servant blows them with a large
grass fan until the ashes are white, when he may consider that all deadly fumes
are dissipated, and that it is safe to carry it within to the room it is to warm,

Nearly all the peasants in the near vicinity of cities are market gardeners
on a small scale. They cultivate small plots, and whenever any crop is ripe,
they load their donkey-panniers and go into the cities, where they sell from
house to house. These vegetable-panniers have enormous pockets, and are woven
of coarse, dyed grasses, in stripes and patterns of gaudy blue and red. When
filled, they often cover and broaden the donkey’s back to such an extent that
the lazy owner, determined to ride, must sit on the very last section of back-
bone. Some of the streets in Toledo are so narrow that the brick or stone
walls of the buildings have been hewn and hollowed out at donkey-height, to
allow the loaded panniers to pass. The buyers make their bargains from the
windows, a sample vegetable being handed up for inspection.
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RAVELLERS should deny themselves Spain during December, January
and February. The heating apparatus of the American and the English
house is unknown in Spanish dwellings — fireplace, stove, nor fur-
nace. The peasant draws his cloak up to his nose and shivers and
cowers, while the middle-class family lights a single brazier, and the



household, gathering in one room, hovers over the charcoal smouldering
away in its brass cage, and the cats sit and purr on the broad wooden rim.
These braziers are expensive — constructed of brass and copper — and few families
afford more than one, making winter comfort out of the question, as the floors,
of marble or stone, never get well warmed.

With the coming of pleasant weather Spanish families usually forsake the
blinded, draperied, balconied rooms of the gallery for the secluded and garden-
like patio. This court is often fifty feet square, and in its enclosure there is
generally a fountain; the floor is tiled with marble, there are stately tropic plants
in tubs, and orange and palm-trees are growing. Should the sunshine become too
fierce there are smoothly-running screens and awnings to roof the whole court
in an instant. Some of the old Moorish patios contain quaint wells, dry at
some seasons, but often affording water sufficient for housekeeping needs:

The water-jars come from the famous potteries of Seville, and, made of a
rude red clay, are similar in hue to our plant pots. They are brought in high
loads by oxen—and these pottery carts are often an enlivening feature of the
dull country roads.

The water cellar is not a cellar at all, but a stone-paved room off the patio,
delightfully cool and sloppy of a fiery July day, with the water-carriers unload-
ing, and filling the array of dripping red jars with the day’s supply from the
public fountain.

Every Spanish peasant wears a knife in his sash. These knives are usually
about eighteen inches long, with a broad, sharp, murderous blade. The handles
are of tortoise or ivory, often carved richly, or inlaid with figures of the Virgin,
the Saviour, or the crucifix. The knife is “kept open by a curious little wheel,
between blade and handle, and is used indiscriminately, to slice a melon or lay
bare a quarrelsome neighbor’s heart.
EVILLE is celebrated for its oranges and its pottery. Nearly the
whole Spanish supply of water-jars comes from. this city; and the
outlying country is agreeably dotted with orange orchards, as olive



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wt hg considerable business. The most delicious orange in the world may

Bid, Oases enliven the vicinity of Cordova. The export of the fruit is

be bought in the streets of Seville for a cent, and the ordinary rate for the ordinary
fruit is four for a cent. In the Christmas season large and selected oranges are
sold in the outdoor booths. They are carefully brought, and temptingly hung in
nets, along with melons cased in straw, fine bunches of garlic, chestnuts,
assorted lengths of sugar-cane, tambourines, zambombas, and such other sweet

and noisy objects as delight the Spanish youngster,

The decorative plant of Spain is the aloe —truly decorative, with its base of
long, dark, clear-cut, sword-like leaves, its tall slender trunk often rising twenty
feet high, and its broad candelabras of crimson blooms.

A picturesque industry of Seville is the spinning of the green rope so much
used by Spanish farmers. It is manufactured from the coarse pampas grass of
the plains, and the operation is a very leisurely and social one, requiring three
persons: one to feed the wheel, one to turn it, and a third to receive the
twisted rope.

Plowing, in Spain, is still a very rude performance. The primitive plow of
the Garden of Eden era is yet in use—a sharp crotch of a tree, crudely shod,

however, with iron.

An indispensable article of peasants’ costume for both men and women, should
an absence of even two hours be contemplated, is the alforja, or peasant’s bag.
This, in idea, is similar to the donkey-pannier —a long, stout, woollen strip
thickly tufted with bunches of red and blue wool, with a bag at either end,
and is worn slung over the shoulder. The pockets of the alforja invariably con-
tain, one a pot of garlic, or green pudding, the other a wine skin.

The mouths of some wine-skins are fitted with a bottomless wooden saucer,
and are lifted to the lips for drinking ; but the preferable and national style is
to catch the stream with the skin held aloft and away at arm’s-length,








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CENTRAL point of interest for visitors to Seville is the Cathedral.
Its tower, known as the Giralda, is one of the most celebrated
examples: of sacred Moorish architecture. It was erected in an early
century, and was considered very ancient when the Spaniards, in
; f the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, built upon it the fine Cathedral.
In the interior, the Tribuna de la Puorta Mayor is much visited for its lofty



and beautiful sunlight effects, and there are several precious Murillos.
The ascent of the Giralda is usually made by tourists an agreeable variety in
European climbing, as there are no stairs, the whole progress being by an easy
series of inclined planes of brick masonry, Queen Isabella, not long ago, made
the entire ascent and return upon horseback. From the summit, one views the
whole of Seville, with its dark-green rim of orange gardens, set in the great
flat barrens that stretch out towards Cadiz. A comic sight usual at the foot of
the tower, significant as a sign of the complete contempt in which the Catholic
Spaniard holds all things Moslem and Moorish, is that of a goat belonging to
one of the custodians, tethered from morning till night to a fine old Muezzin bell.

Another noted building is the Tower of Gold, on the banks of the Guadal-
quiver, opposite the Gypsy quarter. Tourists visit it to get the fine architectural
effect of the Cathedral, also for its view of the Bull Ring. It stands on

the site of the old Inquisition, where hosts of Moorish captives were tortured.

The Alcazar, always visited, is an ancient Moorish palace, and is considered,
in point of elegance, second to only the Alhambra. It is now set aside by
the government as the residence of the Queen-mother Isabella.

San Telmo is also much visited. It is the palace of the Duc de Montpensier,
known throughout Spain as “the orange man.’ He owns numerous orange

orchards, and lavishes much time and money on his plantations and hothouses.

Another point of curiosity is known as the House of Pilate. It is said to be
an exact reproduction of the celebrated House of Pilate in Jerusalem. It is

remarkable for some exquisite tiles, and it bears many interesting inscriptions.

Seville presents an odd aspect to the stranger between the hours of threé
and six p. m. During this hot interval the streets and shops are deserted,

everybody, even to the beggars, being under cover and asleep.
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OST of the peasant girls in the vicinity of Spanish cities con-~
trive to keep a bit of flower-garden for their own personal



Ag purposes. She is a thriftless lass indeed, who has not at least
arr one fragrant double red rose in tending, or some other red-
flowered shrub. From Christmas on through the spring féte-days of the Church,
they reap their tiny harvests. During this season every Spanish man and woman
who can, wears a red flower in button-hole or over the ear, and the streets are
thronged with bareheaded, black-tressed peasant and gypsy flower-venders.
Flowers are a part of the daily marketing, and two or three centimos—a
centimo is one fifth of a cent —suffice to buy a fresh nosegay. New Year's is
a marked féte in Seville, as then “The Old Queen” in the Alcazar rides out
in state, the Alameda is thronged with carriages, and the whole populace is
a-blossom with red.

A custom noticed by the tourist who lingers about cathedral doors, is one
most observed, perhaps, by the poorer and more superstitious classes. Men and
women dip the fingers, on entrance and departure, in holy water, and wet some.
one of the countless crosses which are set in the wall just above the cash-
boxes —the cash-box in Spain being the inevitable accompaniment of the cross.

As in other Spanish cities, the noble Profession of Beggary considers itself
_under the protection of the Church, and the entrance to the cathedral is down
a long vista of outstretched hands, the fortunate one at the far end, who holds
aside the matting portiere for you to enter, feeling sure of a fee, however the
others fare. The whole vicinity abounds with loathsome spectacles of disease
and distress, those entirely helpless managing to be conveyed daily into holy
"precincts. It is often amusing to witness an adult beggar ‘giving points” to
some young amateur in the art, the dignity of the national calling evidently
being insisted upon.

An agreeable sight in this city of churches and beggars, is the afternoon
stroll of companies of young priests and students from the convents. They are
very noticeable, as part of the panorama, with their broad, silky shovel hats and
black flowing gowns. Some are scholastic and intent upon their studies even in
the streets, while others evidently take a most young man-of-the-world enjoy-
ment in their cigarettes and the street-sights.
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EVENUES are collected in most primitive ways by the Span-
ish City Fathers. As there are no important sources of public
income, there are few transactions, however trifling, that do not pay
tax and toll. Every man is suspected of smuggling and “false



returns,’ and it is a small bunch of garlic that escapes. Burly
officials, often in shirt-sleeves and with club, lounge at all the entrances to the
town, to levy duty upon any chance donkey-pannier or cart bringing in fruit
and vegetables for sale. Frequently there are scenes of confusion, sometimes of
violence. The government is determined that not a turnip, not a carrot, not a
cabbage shall escape the yield of its due; and it is not to be denied that the
poor farmer hopes fervently to smuggle in a winesskin or two—a dozen of
eggs, or some other article of price, among his cheaper commodities. As a rule,
he fails; for, suspicious of over-much gesticulation and protestation, the official
is quite likely to tumble out sacks, baskets, bundles and bales, and empty every
one upon the ground, leaving the angry farmer to pick up and load again at
his leisure.

Andalusia is a brown region stretching gravely between Cadiz and Granada.
The effect of this landscape, all in low tones, upon natives of the green lands
of America and England, is most depressing. The soil itself is red, and the
grass grows so sparsely that the color of the ground crops up, giving. impres-
sion of general sun-blight, broken here and there by the glimmering moonlight
gray of an olive orchard, or the dark-green of an orange garden. The huts of
the farmers are built of the red clay; the clothing of the population appears
to be of the undyed wool of the brown sheep, while to add to the prevailing
russet hue, the general occupation seems to be that of herding pigs on the
plains——and the pigs are hideously brown also. It is said that they derive
their color from feeding on the great brown bug, or beetle, which abounds in the
soil. The traveller counts these feeding droves by the dozen, each with two lazy,

smoking swineherds.

Travelling by rail over the Andalusian levels, one passes a succession of petty
stations, villages of half a dozen houses each, where the only visible business
appears to be in the hands of women, in the shape of one or two open-air
tables, with pitchers and glasses, and a cow or goat tethered near in order to
supply travellers, as the trains stop, with drinks of fresh milk.
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aes ANY of the public buildings of Spanish cities stand as they were
j VIN captured from the Moors. Sometimes, as in Cadiz, the town has
-§\% received a coat of whitewash; but more frequently the only Spanish



eddivione and improvements are a few crosses’inlaid in the old cement, or a plas-
ter Virgin niched, in rude contrast, beside some richly wrought Moorish door of
horseshoe form. The town hall of Seville remains to-day as ten centuries ago.

The Spanish towns lie, for the most part, in the valley. The Moors usually
chose the site for their cities with a view to the natural defences of mountain.
and river. The hills of course, remain, but the rivers, once full rushing tides,
are now dried into stagnant shallow waters, a natural result in a country long
uncultivated.

A favorite business with the young men among the mountain peasants is the
breeding of poultry; not alone of fat pullets for the Christmas markets — that
is a minor interest so far as enjoyment goes— but of choice young game cocks:
‘—cock-fighting being the staple, everyday national amusement, while the bull.
fight is to be regarded as féte and festival — “the taste of blood” is a wel-~
come ingredient in any Spanish pleasure. All poultry is taken to market
alive; the pullets, hanging head downwards, are slung in a bunch at the saddle
bow, anc the cocks are carried carefully in cages. Fowls are not a common
article of food, as in France, but are, instead, a holiday luxury, and the costliest
meat in the market.

Looking idly abroad as he-crosses the Andalusian plains, the tourist on donkey-~
back notices the queer carts that take passengers from one station to another.
These odd omnibuses are but rude carts, two-wheeled, and covered with coarse
mats of pampas grass, and they are drawn by two, three, four or five donkeys.
harnessed tandem. On the rough, movable seats, gentlemen in broadcloth, and
common folk with laced canvas shoes and peasant- -bags, huddle together, all eating -
from the garlic-pots as they are passed, and drinking from the same wine-skin;
this good fellowship of travellers is one of the unwritten laws of Spain. Mean,
time the sauntering boys of the roadside hop up on the cart behind with the
identical vagrant joy experienced by the American urchin after a like achieve
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OU never can be sure when a Spaniard will arrive. Due at noon,
should he meet a guitar, he comes at nightfall; and as it is certain

that every second Spaniard, walking or riding, will have his guitar



along, it is best not to look for the return of any messenger before -
evening. He may have chosen to alight from his donkey and dance an hour,
or he may have elected to sit still and clap and snap a dance in pantomime —
either is exciting and deeply satisfactory — and a fulfilment of one of the obli-
gations of daily life which no true Spaniard can be expected to neglect for any
such simple considerations as promise given, command laid, or bargain made.

A peculiarly gloomy look is lent to the Spanish landscape by the cypress,
“sometimes growing in groups, sometimes towering singly in solitude. This tree,
funereal in its best aspect, has a dead, dry, white trunk, and the branches begin
at a height of twenty, thirty, or forty feet, and then drape themselves in a
cone-like monumental mass of purplish green. These gloomy evergreens are common,
and the tourist feels, even if he does not note, the absence of the lively sunny
greens of American and French landscapes, with the bowery shadows that every-
where invite the wayfarer to stop and rest,

The Bergh Societies would’ find ample range for work in ‘Spain, for the beat-
ing and prodding of the donkey is one of the national occupations. As a rule,
poor Burro is overloaded. A whole family will frequently come down into the
city on his back, and tired though he be with plodding and stumbling and hold-
ing back, the officer at the gate is sure to give him a blow, and a bruise with
his bludgeon of authority as he passes in; and the poor creature sometimes very
justly lies down in the street and dies without warning, allowing his owners to
clinb homeward on foot.

Now and then one comes unexpectedly on an example of ancient enterprise
put to use. There are spots in the brown waste which are green and fertile,
because the old irrigating wells have been cleaned out and set in motion—a
pair of wheels studded with great cups operated by means of a pair of poles,
and a pair of donkeys, and a pair of drivers. The land is cut in ditches, and
often the farmer can be seen hoeing his garlic and his cabbages while he stands
in water ankle-deep,


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REATLY dreaded by the unmarried young Spanish woman is the Beggars’
ye, Curse; and a goodly portion of the beggars’ revenue is ensured by -
ae this superstitious national fear. The more vicious of the fraternity
keep good watch upon the wealthy young sefioritas and their cavaliers when
they go out for pleasure. They do not follow them, perhaps; instead they take
up their stations around the doors of those restaurants — whence they never are
driven —where ladies and their escorts are wont to stop for chocolate, or
coffee, or aguardente, on their return from calls or the theatre, or the Bull Ring.
As the pair are departing, the burly beggar approaches, half barring the way
perhaps, and asks for alms. It is usually bestowed; but he begs insolently for
more; and if it be not forthcoming, a bony and rosaried arm is raised, “the
evil eye” is fastened upon the doomed ones, and the. Beggars’ Curse —the Curse
of the Unfortunate — which all Spaniards dread, is threatened; and if it be evening,
it is quite probable that the group stand near some crucifix of the suffering
Saviour, with the red light of the street lantern shining down upon its ghastli-
ness, so that the feeling of pious dread is greatly heightened, and a frightened pres-
sure on the cavalier’s arm carries the doubled alms into the outstretched hand.

The dress of Spanish people’ of fashion is singularly artistic and pleasing.
Although Paris styles are now followed by the sefioritas, they still cling to the
national black satin with its lustrous foldings and flouncings, to the effective
ball fringes, and to the mantilla, draping face and shoulder with its heavy black
or white laces, the national red rose set just above the ear. Nor is this too
remarkable under the high broad lights of the Spanish sky, though it might seen
theatrical in our cold, harsh, Northern atmosphere. The dress of the Spanish
gentlemen is as picturesque. The hat is usually a curious, double-brimmed silky
beaver, while the cloak is most artistic in color and in drapery. This cloak,
lasting a life-time, is of fine broadcloth, lined with heavy blue or crimson velvet ;
and it is so disposed that the folding brings this gorgeous lining in a round collar
about. the neck, while another broad fold is turned over upon the whole long
left side of the garment. The peasant’s cloak, of the same cut, is lined with red
flannel, but it is often worn as gracefully. Long trousers are becoming general,
but in some districts’ the tight pantaloon, slashed at the knee, is still seen, with
its gay garter embroidered with some fanciful motto. One just brought from Spain
bears this legend: There is a girl in this town—with her love she kills me.
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OUTHERN Spain is so mountainous that herding naturally becomes
the occupation of the peasantry, rather than tillage. Great flocks
of goats browse and frolic among the rocky heights and along
the steep ravines where it seems hardly possible for the tiny
hoofs to keep foothold; and the traveller often beholds far above

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him dozens of these bounding creatures, leaping down the cliffs to drink at
the valley streams. They are generally followed, at the same fearless pace, by
a short-frocked shepherdess as sure-footed as they. Her rough, hempen-soled
shoe, however, yields her excellent support, being flexible and not slippery, like

boot-leather.

Along the narrow mountain highways, the traveller frequently comes upon little
booths built in among the cliffy recesses, like quaint pantries hewn in the rock.
Melons, and grapes, and garlic, and oranges in nets, hang against the wall, and
the heavy red wine of the country is for sale by the glass, also goat’s
milk.

Farming processes go on at all times of year in Spain. Subsistence is a
matter comparatively independent of care and calculation. Crops may be sown
at any time. The whole year round the peasant lights no fire in -his earthen,
bowllike hut of one room. He cooks outside his door, in gypsy fashion. His
furniture consists of some rude wool mattresses, a table, and some stools with
low backs. A few bowls, plates, and knives and forks suffice to set his table. A
kettle and a garlic pot comprise his cooking utensils. Frequently he and his
family are to be seen at meals, leaning their elbows on the table in company,
and sipping like so many cats, from the huge platter of hot garlic soup, crumb-
ling their slices of coarse black bread, as they need. In contrast with this crude
bread of the common people, are the long, fine, sweet white loaves to be had at
the Seville bakeries —a bread so cake-like, so delicious, as to require no butter,
even with Americans accustomed to the use of butter with every meal.
The salted butter of American creameries, made to keep for months, is wholly
unknown in Spain, Spanish butter being a soft mass, and always eaten unsalted.
But with his strong garlic and his fine fragrant tobacco, the Spaniard hardly
demands or appreciates the refinements of food, and his tobacco is of the best,
coming from the Spanish plantations in Cuba, and is very cheap, as it enters

the country free of duties.




YEA -
a
? ve
Tain

5 ag

&
OUSEWORK, among the sun-basking, siesta-loving Spaniards, seems

to be not the formidable, systematic matter that it is made in America.
} ye Washing, as well as cookery, is of simplest form. “Blue Monday ”’
does not follow Sunday in Spain. A necessary garment is washed when needed;



superfluous ones are allowed to accumulate until it is worth while to -give a day
to the task. Then, among the peasants, “the washing.” is carried to a mountain
torrent, and the garments are rubbed and rinsed in the swift waters, while
picnic fun makes the labor agreeable, as often several families wash in company.
Among townspeople, the work is done in great stone tubs in the patio, or in the
water-cellar. There the goods, repeatedly wetted, are laid upon a big stone table
and beaten with flat wooden paddles. The snowy array of the American clothes-
line is seldom seen. The washed garments are hung upon the table edges, and
held fast by stones or other weights until dried.

A frequent incident in mountain travel is the sight of some stout lazy peasant away
up the heights, holding fast by his donkey’s tail to help himself along as the
poor creature scrambles up the zigzag steeps. At the base and along the face
of these rocks cacti grow abundantly, often presenting a beautiful cliff-side of
cacti fifty feet high.

Another sight, not so agreeable, along many a Spanish roadside, is that of the
ancient wooden crosses, erected on the sites where travellers have been mur-
dered by banditti. These roads are often desolate and dreary beyond description,
unfenced, seldom travelled, and set with the constantly recurring stones of the
Moorish road-makers. Leading across brown, treeless wastes, with habitations far
apart, both peasant and tourist would easily wander from these roads, were it not
for those rude mile-stones, which are often the only guide-posts: and land-marks.
When a fence is required, a hedge of aloe is usually started.

Spanish children chew sugar-cane as American children munch candy, The
cane is brought from Cuba and is sold everywhere; carried about by venders in
big bundles of handy lengths, to capture all stray centimos.

Not so well patronized is the street dealer in soap — “old Castile” soap — for this
business is recognized to be a form of beggary, and though bargains are made
and money paid, the soap is seldom carried away by the purchaser.


do oy
ime See.
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4

Sg
VO

okt
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Somp Seacas,
VERY male Spaniard is obliged to render three years of military
service; but usually this is no severe hardship, and loving his
ease, he leaves home cheerily enough. The government is rather



embarrassed than served, in the matter of stationing this soldiery,
especially since the close of the Carlist War. The conscripts are set to guard
the palaces, the parks, the national buildings; they are sent to Cuba and
elsewhere, whenever it is possible, in fact all opportunities and pretexts are seized
to set up a soldier on duty, or rather a pair of them, as two are usually to be
seen together. Leave of absence is easily obtained, and but few days of actual
presence and service are required during the third year. However, the military
requirements by the government never relax, as “insurrections” are indigenous
to the country and climate.

As the ancient Moorish doors are still frequent, so is the old form of knock
and admission. The arrival raps smartly at the small door set within the great
nail-studded gate. Presently an eye, a face, appears at the little wicket window
to reconnoitre, to question. Should the examination reveal nothing dangerous or
disagreeable, the latch-string is pulled, and entrance is permitted.

“Burro” must needs appear in all Spanish picture and story, for he is prominent
in all Spanish folk-life. He is to be seen everywhere, with his rude harness
tufted with gay woollens, and big brass nails, moving over the landscape in town
or country —the helpless slave. and abused burden-bearer, seldom petted, even
by the children of the family. There are very handsome mules in Madrid and
a few elsewhere; but the donkey is the national carrier. He is small, brown,
brave, and always bruised. The Spaniards’ “Get up!” is a brutal blow between
the eyes. He is seldom stabled, seldom decently fed. He is tethered anywhere —
under the grapevine, by the door, among the rocks, but always at his master’s
convenience; and his food is in matter and manner best known to himself.
His harness is heavy and uncomfortable, and his hair is clipped close on his
back where he needs protection most from the burning sun. ‘This clipping is
usually done at the blacksmith’s, by a professional clipper, and is a sight of
interest to the lazy populace. Under the great shears Burro’s body is often
decorated with half moons, eyes, monograms, garlands —whatever the fancy of
his master, or the clipper, or the bystander may direct. Poor Burro! from first
to last— poor Burro!


5

,

a

ART



ECORATIVE

AD



0 Sery



os ve
ae
N Cordova, a sudden stir in the street often betokens “The Return
from the Chase ’’ — not, however, the picturesque scattering of the
“meet” after an English fox-hunt, but the arrival home of some
solitary mule and rider, with a pack of harriers. The huntsman has



been riding across country all by himself, his cigarette, and his dogs,
to ferret out some luckless colony of hares in a distant olive orchard.
The rabbits are very mischievous in the young olive plantations, and the hunts-
man and his pack are warmly welcomed by the olive-growers. These Spanish
harriers are a keen-nosed race of dogs; quite as good hunters as the English
fox-hounds, Nearly every breed of dog is found in Spain, except, perhaps, the
Newfoundland. In most Spanish cities the dogs are one of the early morning
sights as they gather in snarling, quarrelsome packs of from fifteen to twenty,
before the doors of the hotels and restaurants, to devour the daily kitchen refuse
—a very disagreeable spectacle; but there seems to be no other street-cleaning

machinery.

The chief streets of a Spanish town are usually thronged with fruit-sellers, °
especially the Plaza, where the great portion of the population seems to congre-
gate to lounge and sleep in the sun all day long, naturally waking now and
then to crave an orange, a palmete, or a pomegranate — “ regular meals” appearing
to be a regulation of daily life quite unknown. These fruit sellers are girls, for
the most part, though sometimes there may be seen some old man who has.
not been able to procure a beggar’s license. Oranges are always plenty. Palm-
etes, a tender, bulbous growth, half vegetable, half fruit, are brought into the
city in January, and are consumed largely by the peasants and beggars, who
strip them into sections, chewing them for their rather insipid sweetish juices.

The Spanish peasant cooks out-of-doors, like a gypsy. Often his kettle is his
only “stove furniture;” in it he stews, boils, fries and bakes. Even in January,
the cold month in Spain, he makes no change in his housekeeping. The
peasants’ daily bread is hardly bread at all, but rather a pudding, a batter of
coarse flour, water and garlic, stirred, and boiled, and half baked in his kettle, and
then pressed into a jar. This “garlic pot” he always carries about with him in
his shoulder bag. In the patio apartments of some of the ancient, Moorish-built
houses there are quaint arches with stone ovens, which are sometimes utilized
for cookery.


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DRUNKEN Spaniard is rarely seen, although the « wine-skin” keeps
constant company with the “garlic pot” in the peasant’s bag. The



heavy red wine of the country is used as freely as water, being sold
for four cents a wine-skin; this wine-skin holds a quart or more. Not to drink
with the skin held at arms-length, is to be not Spanish, but French— their
generic name for a foreigner or stranger. Fine and delicate wines are made in
the neighborhood of some of the great vineyards, but they are chiefly for
exportation.

There is a popular saying, that Spanish ladies dress their hair but once a
week. This is on Sunday, when they meet on one another's balconies to chat
and gossip while their maids arrange their coiffures, each maid taking care that
she pat, and pull, and puff until her mistress be taller than her friends, for
height is a Spanish requisite for beauty and style. Certain it is that the tourist
sometimes looks up and beholds this leisurely out-of-doors toilet-making. The glossy
black hair is universal, a fair-haired woman becoming an occasion for persistent
stares, although Murillo, in his time, seems to have found plenty of red-haired
Spanish blondes to paint. Happy is the gazing traveller if he also may listen;
for the music of a high-bred Spanish woman’s voice is remarkable, holding in
its flow, sometimes, the tones of a guitar, and the liquid sounds of dropping

water.

Spanish urchins are as noted for never combing their hair as Italian boys are
for never washing their faces. The change of the yellow handkerchief dotted
with big white eyes, which they knot about their heads and wear day and
night, seems to be the only attention they think needful ever to bestow upon
their raven locks.

That Spanish peasant is very poor and unthrifty indeed, who does not con-
trive to own a foot or two of land upon which to grow a choice Malaga grape-
vine. Owning the vines, he erects an out-of-door cellar to presérve his crop—
a simple arbor, upon the slats of which he suspends his clusters for winter use.
Hanging all winter in the current of wind, the bunches of pale-green grapes
may be taken down as late as February, and still be found as plump and
delicious and as full of flavor as when hung. It is in this simple manner that
they are preserved for the holiday markets.
ce
LE x se
et

~
























































































































































































































NE of the most picturesque features of natural scenery which the
traveller comes upon in Southern Spain, is that of the olive orchards,
especially those which cluster about Cordova. As the time of har-



vest draws near, the coloring of these orchards is particularly pleas-
ing. The ripening fruit varies in tint, from vivid greens to gay reds and
lovely purples, while the foliage, of willow-leaf shape, restless and quivering,
is of a tender, shimmering, greenish gray, and the trunks often have a solemn
and aged aspect. Many of these plantations are very ancient indeed, planted
perhaps by the grandsires of the present owners. They are usually a source of
much profit, as the best eating olives are those grown in Spain, and though
the trees come into bearing late, there are orchards which have been known to
yield fruit for centuries.

Each orchard has a guard, or watchman, who tends it the year round, for
the pruning, the tillage, and the watch upon the ripening fruit, demand constant
care. In the harvest season the watch is by night as well as by day, for 2
vigorous shake of the branches will dislodge almost every berry, and a thief,
with his donkeys and his panniers, might easily and almost noiselessly strip an
entire orchard in a few hours. The olive guard lives in a hut of thatch or

grass in summer, and in a sort of cave, or burrow, in winter.

The crop is mainly harvested by girls and women, and the scene is like a
picnic all day long, for Spanish girls turn all their labors into merry-making
whenever it is possible to do so. The gray orchards are lighted up with the
rainbowy colors of the peasant costumes, and the air is musical with. the donkey
bells, while the overseer, prone on the ground with his cigarette, ‘“loafs and
invites his soul,” evidently finding great delight in the double drudgery he con-
trols —that of the donkeys and the damsels.

In regard to the great age of olive-trees, a recent writer says: “ When
raised from seed it rarely bears fruit under fifty years, and when propagated in
other ways it requires at least from twenty to twenty-five years. But, on the
other hand, it lives for centuries. The monster olive at Beaulieu, near Nice, is
supposed by Risso to be a thousand years old. Its trunk at four feet from the
ground has a circumference of twenty-three feet, and it is said to have yielded
five hundred pounds of oil in a single year.”


ew ered yp










“THE OLWE BRAN wre,
To

eye 1



IN AN OLIVE ORCHARD: i .
GATHERERS ¢f Bees ois ihe
| ars eee ie
gage =
ORDOVA, lying in the beautiful valley of the Guadalquiver, sur-
rounded with gardens and villas, is well named the city of Age,



Mellowness, and Tranquility. It abounds with antiquities, and at:
ee every turn memories are awakened of old Roman emperors, and
the Arabian caliphs; the gates, the sculptures, the towers, the mullioned
windows and nail-studded doors, the galleried houses and their’ beautiful patios
fitted for idle life in the soft Andalusian weather, the mosques and the great
bridges are all of those times. Even the streets are named after the old
Roman and Spanish scholars and poets.

The large bridge over the Guadalquiver was originally built by the Roman
Emperor, Octavius Augustus; it was afterwards remodelled by the Arabs,
The gate is very fine which leads into the gypsy quarter. The Moors had
three thousand baths on the banks of the river, but in their day it was a full
shining tide; now it is a muddy current, hardly in need of bridging at all.

The mosques of Cordova are fine, and among them is the greatest
Moslem temple in the world, with its beautiful chapels, its Court of Oranges,
and its wondrous grove of marbles. This mosque, now used for Christian
worship, was erected on the ruins of an old cathedral, which it is said had
been built upon the site of a Roman temple. The Moslem structure was
erected by the Caliph Abdurrahman, in the seventh century, and was a hundred
years in building. The principal entrance is through the Court of Oranges,
where beautiful palms also grow, and other tropical trees. Thence one emerges
among a very forest of marble pillars, where countless magnificent naves stretch
away and intersect, and the shining columns and pilasters spring upward into deli-
cate double horseshoe arches. One marble is shown where a Christian captive,
chained at its base, scratched a cross upon the stone with his nails. In some
sections the ceiling is dazzling with arabesques and crystals. Within the mosque,
in its very centre, rises a fine Catholic church, built in the time of Charles
the Fifth. It contains many illuminated missals and rare old choir books.

The Cordovans, like the people of other Spanish cities, are indebted to the
Moors for the fine aqueducts which bring the cold mountain water across the
valley into the public watering places. These great reservoirs are good points
for observing some phases of folk-life.

















































































































































































































































































































































RANADA, the beautiful city, with beautiful rivers, is named for
a “grenade” or pomegranate. At the time of the Conquest, King
Ferdinand on being assured how valiantly the Moors would defend

4 iy



their last stronghold, replied, “I will pick out the seeds of ‘this
grenade one by one.”

There is a tradition among the Moors that when the hand carved over the
principal entrance of the Alhambra shall reach down and grasp the key, also
carved there, they shall regain their city, the ancient home of their -
caliphs.

*

The Generalife lies across’ the valley from the Alhambra. It was the sum.
mer palace of the Moorish sovereigns, and is built on a mountain slope by
the Darro River, and its white walls gleam out from lovely terraced gardens,
and groves of laurel. The grounds abound with fountains and summer houses.

The Alhambra—the great royal castle—a town in itself —is built on a
lovely tree-embowered height, its many towers rising high above the mass of
foliage. From these towers one looks across the vale of the Vega to the spot
where Columbus is said to have turned back, recalled by Isabella, on his
way to seek English aid in his discovery of a New World. From these
towers, too, can be seen the valley in the. distance, where Boabdil, last of the
Moorish Kings, looked back on Granada for the last time; and across the
river, one gazes upon the sombre region of the gypsy quarter, a swarming
town of caves in the hillside.

Two relics of Alhambra housekeeping still remain; a great oven, and a fine
well. Both are utilized by the custodian of the palace. The palace itself has
many beautiful patios. . The finest is known as the Court of Lions, named from
the sculptured figures which support the fountain in the centre. Another is
known sometimes as the Court of the Lake, and sometimes as the Court of
the Myrtles; and still another, entered by subterranean ways, is the Hall of
Divans, the special retreat of the Favorites. There are many others, and all
these patios and halls are bewilderingly beautiful with arabesques, mosaics,
inscriptions and wondrous arches and columns, porticos, vistas, alcoves and
temples —and everywhere elegance of effect indescribable.
Jory 1 Ty BRAUTY WITHERED FR-DES PoE D
SITY oF GROVES AND FOUN TAINS
QORISH LAMENT.





Hye crass StAUL TG THA CRESCEATIVANE,
Grow SSC AND DIDAPPEARS

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PARI GRAS









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Ay T Granada, whenever it is desired, the proprietor of the Washington
bass Irving Hotel will engage the Gypsy King to come with his
ed a . daughters and dance the national dance at the house of one of
ste 7 the guides. This dance is a most wild and weird performance.
There is an incessant clapping of hands and ‘clatter of castafiets, a sharp

3,
ry

stamping of heels, an agonized swaying of the body and the arms; and often
the castafiets and guitar are accompanied by a wild and mournful wail from
the dancers. The king of the Granada gypsies is said to be the best guitar
player in Spain.

The climb from the city up to the vast Gypsy Quarter, known as the
suburb of the Albaycin, is an adventure of a nightmare sort. The squalor and
horror of the life to be witnessed on the way up along narrow streets swarm-
ing with the weirdest and dirtiest of brown beggars, may not be painted, may not be
written; yet now and then one goes under a superb Arab arch, passes a door
rich with arabesques, or comes upon a group of elegant columns supporting a
roof of mud and rock. The long hillside seems’ honeycombed with the den-
like habitations of the gitanos, many of whom, among the men, are blacksmiths,
while others work at pottery, turning out very handsome plates and water jars,
while the women weave cloth, and do a rude kind of embroidery, all selling
their wares in the streets —in fact the spinning and weaving and sewing is
often carried on in the street itself.

But the little ones too (/as udfas) add largely to the family income, as they dance
for the visitor; the traveller and his guide being always invited to enter the
caves. These gypsy children dance with much spirit, and they also sing many
beautiful old ballads of Spanish prowess. The most beautiful ones among the
girls are early trained to practice fortune-telling.

With their dances, their songs, their fortune-telling, their importunate, imperious
begging, and their rude industries, these Granada gypsies live here from century to
century, in swarms of thousands, never attempting to improve their condition,
but boasting, instead, of the comfort of their dismal caves as being cool in
summer and warm in winter. It is plain that they consider themselves and their
Quarter “a part of the show,” and hardly second in interest to the Alhambra
itself.
~



SSNS

AXING
POTTERY
ICIPSY CAVES

a“






































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































ARDLY is there a Spanisi town of note, that does not possess its
great Bull Ring; and there are scores of inferior Bull Circuses
throughout Spain. There is but a slight public sentiment against



the brutal sport which is the favorite Sunday recreation of the whole
nation. Spanish kings and queens for many centuries: have sat in the royal
boxes to applaud, and many of the Spanish noblemen of the present time
breed choice fighting bulls on their farms, and there is the same mad admiration
of the agile, skilful essado or bull slayer, as a hundred years ago. To be
a fine picador or banderillo, is to be sure of the praise and the presents of the
entire populace. Men, women and children go; the amphitheatre is always
crowded and always the crowd will sit breathless and happy to see six or
eight bulls killed, and three times that count of horses —the rich and the
nobles on the shady side under the awnings, the peasants sweltering and
burning in the sun. It is the picador who rides on horseback to invite with
his lance the attacks of the bull as he enters the arena; it is the capeador
who springs into the arena with his cloak of maddening red or yellow, to dis-
tract the bull’s attention from the fallen horseman; it is the banderilo who
taunts the wounded creature with metal-tipped arrows, the ‘barbs of which
cannot be extracted, or with his long pole leaps tauntingly over the back of
the confused creature; but it is the gorgeous espado with his sword, entering
the arena, at last, who draws all eyes. With his red flag he plays with the
bull as a cat with the mouse, until the amphitheatre is mad for life blood; then
with a swift, graceful stroke he ends all, his superb foe lies dead, and he turns
from him to meet the wild shower of hats, cigars, flowers, fans, purses that
beats upon him from all sides—it is a scene of unimaginable exultation, for
there are glad cries and plaudits, and royalty itself throws the bull-slayer a
golden purse and a pleased smile, and the beautiful Spanish sefioritas lavish
upon him the most bewildering attentions.

The Spanish boy is born with a thirst for this sport. Their favorite game
is Zoro, One lad mounts on his fellow’s back to take the part of the picador
and his horse; another, with horns of sticks, represents the bull: and the rest
are capeadors banderillos, and escod@as, while the audience of adult loungers look
on with fierce excitement. It is in this fierce, popular street sport that the
future champions of the Bull Ring are trained and developed —to be an escoda
is usually the height of a Spanish boy’s ambition,








ie

o sip Sonk SkeTCHeS «fH SPORT. WHICH BURRO WOULD NoT WITNES s
oe ae

























































































































































































































































































































WINDING-ON THEBELT
ATRIEWD IN NEED 18 APRUEND INDEED,


OWHERE in Spain are you refreshed with the restful sound of water,
sometimes soft, sometimes gay, as in Granada. Vou hear the flow of
the Darro over its stones and rocks, you hear the splash of fountains:
the gay hurry of mountain brooks, the soft sound of springs — everywhere

flow, or gurgle, or drip. You hear it on the tree—bordered and bowered

Alameda in your moonlit walks, and you hear it through the windows of your

fonda, or hotel, when you wake. It is everywhere about the Alhambra heights,

and the Generalife terraces. The Spaniards call this continuous water-sound,

“The Sigh of the Moor.”



Most of the young Spanish women as _ well as the men, are accomplished
guitar-players. The guitar belongs in story to the Sefiorita, along with her
mantilla and her fan. It usually hangs on her casement, brave with ribbons
and gay wool tufts and all manner of decorations, and by moonlight she will
come out upon the balcony to answer her cavelier’s serenade with a song as
sweet as his own. You feel the atmosphere of the Spanish night vibrating all
about you, as you stroll along the moonlit street, with the low, soft, delicate
twinkle of a hundred guitars, the players half-hidden in the dim patio
balconies.

It is often the custom to.drive the goats from door to door to be milked, and
often an accustomed goat, tinkling its bells, will go along the street, stopping
of its own will and knowledge at the doors of its customers, and knocking
smartly with its horns should no one appear. The servant of the house comes
out into the street and milks the desired quantity, while the “milkman ”
lounges near by with his cigarette.

Often it is as amusing to watch the dogs of the beggars by the
churches as the men themselves. While the noble Caballeros, Don Miguel and
Don Pedro, exhausted with the saying of prayers and the much asking of
centimos, have fallen asleep in the shade, their respective dogs remain
awake to glare at each other with true professional jealousy, and to growl and
snap, should a chance stranger drop a coin in one hat and not in the other.
The begger is the last sight, as well as the first, which greets the traveler in
Spain. é
















































































































































































QUEEN LOUISA AND THE CHILDREN.

BY MARY STUART SMITH.

UEEN LOUISA of Prussia was the mother of | come, or some pretty gift. A sweet little girl ad-
William I., Emperor of Germany, and although | vanced to give the queen a bunch of flowers, and
she has been dead over sixty years her one hun- | Louisa was so struck with the child’s loveliness that
dredth birthday was celebrated elaborately through- | she stooped down and kissed her on the forehead.
out her son’s do- “ Mein Gott!” ex-
minions, with al- es claimed the horrified
mistress of cere-
monies. ‘What has
your majesty done?”
Louisa was as artless
and simple as a child
herself. “What?”
said she, “is that
wrong? Must I
never do so again?”
But the prince,
her husband, was no
fonder of show and
ceremony than her-
self, and asserted
manfully the right
of his wife and him-
self to act like other
affectionate people,
in spite of being king
and queen.

This royal pair
had eight children,
and upon these
children was lav-
ished every care and
attention. Itis said
that every night the
king and queen went

most as many rejoic-
ings as we made
here over the one
hundredth birthday
of these United
States.

When a child
Louisa was very
beautiful, and as she
grew up did not dis-
appoint the promise
of those early days.

She was married
to Frederick Wil-
jiam, Crown Prince
of Prussia,when only
seventeen years of
age, and brought
down upon herself a
sharp rebuke from
the proud mistress
of ceremonies for
the love she showed
to a little child as
she was making her
public entry inte
Berlin, preparatory
to the solmnization hertovisitthiel

: together to visit tneir

The streets were thronged with people who had | ter they had been put into their little bedssand eee
come to catch a glimpse of the fair young bride, | a time wer: they surprised by a bright pair of wide-
while every now and then seléct persons would step | awake eyes smiling back upon them adook gE nee te
forward and present complimentary poems of wel- | return. Queen Louisa used to say, “The children’s

\


QUEEN LOUISA AND THE CHILDREN.

world is my world,” nor were the little creatures slow
to reciprocate the love she gave.

You know Christmas is observed in Germany
with peculiar reverence, and is a season set apart for
mirthful recreation among all classes, but more es-
pecially for the enjoyment of children. Berlin is gay
with Christmas trees and a brilliant array of toys
etc., for at least a week beforehand.

Like other parents the king and queen found de-
light in preparing pleasant surprises for their little
ones. While engaged in choosing presents for them,
on one occasion they entered a top-shop where a
citizen’s wife was busy making purchases, but recog-
nizing the new-comers she bowed respectfully and
retired. The queen addressed her in her peculiarly
winning way and sweet voice. ‘Stop, dear lady,
what will the stall-keeper say if we drive away his
customers?” She then inquired if the lady had come
to buy toys for her children, and asked how many
little onesshe had. Hearing there was a son about
the age of the Crown Prince, the queen bought some
toys and gave them to the mother,saying, “Take
them, dear lady, and give them to your crown prince
in the name of mine.”

But I must tell you a yetprettier story, showing the
wieen’s fondness for making children happy.

There lived in Berlin a father and mother, who from
some cause were so poor, and low-spirited besides,
that when the holiday came which all children love
best, they quietly resigned themselves to having noth-
ing to give their little ones. What can be more sad
than a house which no Kriss Kringle visits? Just
think of it! They told their children that there was
to be.no Christmas tree for them this year. The little
boy and his sister had been led to believe that the
Christ-kind or Christ-child provides the tree and
the gifts which are placed on tables round it; only
ornaments, sweets and tapers are hung upon the
branches. Under this disappointment the children, in
the innocent simplicity of their faith, sought the aid of
the good Christ-Aind in their own way.

Christmas Eve came, and the poor troubled parents
looked on with wonder as they beheld their children
hopping and skipping about with joy, although they
were to be the only children for whom no Christ-
mas tree would be lighted, nor pretty gifts provided.
Still in high spirits they watched at the window, and
clapped their hands when the door-bell rang, exclaim-



ing: “Here it comes!” The door was opened and a
man-servant appeared, laden with a gay tree and
several packets, each addressed to some member of
the family.

“There must be some mistake! ” said the mother.

“No, no!” cried the boy, “it is allright. I wrote
to the good Christ-kind, and told him what we wanted,
and that you could not buy anything this year.”

The parents enjoyed the evening with their child-
ren and afterwards unravelled the mystery. The
postmaster, astonished by a letter evidently written
by a very young scribe and addressed to the Christ-
kind, had sent it to the palace with a respectful inquiry
as to what should be done with a letter so strangely _
directed. Queen Louisa read it and, as a handmaid
of the Christ-Rind, she answered his little children.*

Lousia’s sympathies were ever ready to flow for
the sorrows of childhood, which so many grown peo-
ple will not stoop to even notice.

One day as the king and queen were entering a
town, a band of young girls came forward to strew
flowers and to present a nosegay. Her majesty in-
quired how many little girls there were. “ Nine-
teen,” replied the artless child; “there would have
been twenty of us but one was sent back home be-
cause she was too ugly.”

The kind queen feeling for the child’s mortification
sent for her and requested that she might by all
means be allowed to join in the festivities of the day.

Nor did Louisa slight the boys,

She was one day walking in the streets of Char-
lottenburg, attended by a lady-in-waiting ; a number
of boys were running and tumbling and playing
somewhat rudely, and one of them ran up against the
queen. Her lady reproved him sharply, and the
little fellow looked frightened and abashed. The
queen patted his rosy cheek, saying: “Boys will be
a little wild; never mind, my dear boy, I am not
angry.” She then asked his name and bade him
give her compliments to his mother. The child knew
who the lady was, and besides having the’ pleasant
memory of her gracious speech and looks received
a lesson in politeness which he never forgot.

Sometimes the royal children were allowed to have
a party, and this indulgence young princes and prin-
cesses enjoy just as much as other juveniles. A
queer anecdote is told of the only daughter of the

* Mrs. Hudson’s Life of Queen Louisa.


QUEEN LOUISA AND THE CHILDREN.

famous Madame de Stael, in relation to one of these
entertainments.

The little lady was about ten years of age, but
had already imbibed many opinions and prejudices.
At all events she had a high idea of her own im-
portance, and was totally wanting in respect for her
superiors in rank. She was apt to be very rude in
her manners and in her remarks. On this occasion
she took offence at something which the little Crown
Prince said or did to her, and very coolly gave him
a sharp box on the ear, upon which he ran crying to
his mother and hid his face in the folds of her dress.
As mademoiselle, when remonstrated with, showed
not a particle of concern, and refused to say she was
sorry, she was not invited again, and her learned
mamma found that she must keep her daughter at
home until she taught her better manners.*

The annual fair at Paretz, the king’s beloved coun-
try home, took place during the merry harvest-time.
A number of booths were then put up near the vil-
lage, and besides buying and selling there was a
great deal or dancing and singing going on, and all
sorts of games and sports. It was then that the
wheel of fortune was turned for the children’s lottery.
Lots of cakes and fruit were set round in order, which

$s Ae en Do ee SS EE

* Sir George Jackson.



were given away according to the movements of a
pointer, turned by the wheel.

Queen Louisa encouraged the children to crowd
around her on these occasions ; she could not bear
to see them afraid of her, and placed herself beside
the wheel, in order to secure fair play and to watch
carefully that she might make some amends for the
unkindness of fortune. She had her own ample
store of good things which she dispensed among the
unlucky children, many of whom thought more of the
sweet words and looks of the queen than of any-
thing else she could give them. Moreover she was
glad to have a chance of leading even one of her little
subjects to be generous and self-denying. For, while
she liked to see them all happy, she at the same
time interested herself in giving pleasantly little
hints as to conduct that might be of lasting benefit.

All her life Queen Louisa watched beside the
wheel in a higher sense. She overlooked the whole
circle of which she was the centre, anxiously seeking
to hold out a helping hand to any whom she saw

likely to be ruined by losses in the great lottery of

real life.

Is it matter for wonder then that German chil-
dren still cherish her memory, and delight to place
flowers upon vase or tomb that bears her name?





a
THE PLAYTHING

OF AN EMPRESS.



BY M. S. P,

OUBTLESS the readers of Grammar SCHOOL
have heard it said that ‘Men and Women are
only children of a larger growth.” No matter how
stately the grand ladies that we often meet with may ap-
pear, you may be very sure that they sometimes envy the
pleasures of children, who have no thoughts about
fine houses and servants, and a hundred other cares.
Even wearing a crown does not bring happiness; the
dignity it entails often becomes burdensome.

Once a young prince, who had everything that he
could possibly want given him, —books, jewels, play-
things of inconceivable variety, horses and dogs, in
fact all the nice things that you can imagine to bring
him pleasure, — was observed by his attendants to be
standing by the window, crying. When asked the
cause of his tears he replied that he was unhappy be-
cause he could not join the boys in the street who
were making mud pies! ;

The Indians who use the bow and arrow say that
the proper way to keep the strength of their bows is
to unstring them after use and let them relax. So it
is with those whose minds or bodies are engaged in one
long strain of work ; they must be relaxed or they be-
come useless. The late Pope of Rome was a very
dignified old man, and was also surrounded by
learned and great men. He rode in a gilded coach
drawn by four horses, and was in public a very grand
and stately person. But I read the other day that
the old gentleman and some of his cardinals were
once seen playing ball in his garden, for the purpose
of amusing a:little boy.

More than a hundred years ago the great country
east of Germany, known as Russia, was ruled by the
It is a very cold country and the
winter is very long. The capital is St, Petersburg,
and through it the river Neva runs. This river
freezes in winter, and the ice is frequently so solid
that it will bear up an army of several thousand men
with all their heavy guns and mortars, and these be

Empress Anne.

‘wide, and twenty-one feet high.



discharged without so much as cracking the ice.

At the close of the year 1739, during an extremely
cold winter, the empress ordered one of her archi-
tects to build an Ze Palace. The great square in front
of the royal palace was chosen for its site. Blocks of
the clearest ice were selected, carefully measured,
and even ornamented with architectural designs..
They were raised with cranes and carefully placed in
position, and were cemented together by the pouring:
of water over them. The water soon froze and
made the blocks one solid wall of ice. The palace:
was fifty-six feet long, seventeen and one half feet:
Can you imagine
anything more beautiful than such a building made
of transparent ice and sparkling in the sun ?

It was’ surrounded by a balustrade, behind which
were placed six ice cannon on carriages. These can-
non were exactly like real metal ones, and were so
hard and solid that powder could be fired in them.
The charge used was a quarter of a pound of pow-
der anda ball of oakum. At the first trial of the
cannon an iron ball was used. The empress with all
her court was present, and the ball was fired. It
pierced a plank two inches thick at a distance of
sixty feet.

Besides: these six cannon in front of the palace,
there were two ice mortars which carried iron balls.
weighing eighty pounds with a charge of one quarter
of a pound of powder. Then, too, there were two
ice dolphins, from whose mouths a flame of burning
naptha was thrown at night with most wonderful ef-
fect. Between the cannon and dolphins, in front of
the palace, there was a balustrade of ice ornamented
with square pillars. Along the top of the palace:
there was a gallery and a balustrade which was orna-
mented with round balls. In the centre of this stood
four beautiful ice statues, ;

‘The frames of the doors and windows were painted

green to imitate marble. There were two entrances
THE PLAYTHING

to the palace, on opposite sides, leading into a square
vestibule which had four windows. All the windows
were made of perfectly transparent ice, and at night
they were hung with linen shades on which grotesque
figures were painted, and illuminated by a great num-
ber of candles.

Before entering the palace one naturally stopped
to admire the pots of flowers on the balustrade, and
the orange trees on whose branches birds were perch-
ing. Think of the labor and patience required to
make such perfect imitations of nature z# ze!

Standing in the vestibule, facing one entrance and
having another -behind, one could see a door on
either hand. Let us imagine ourselves in the room
on the left. It is asleeping-room apparently, but if
you stop to think that every article in it is made of
ice you will hardly care to spend a night there;
and yet it is said that two persons actually slept on
the bed there for an entire night. On one side is a
toilet-table. Over it hangs a mirror, on each side of
which are candelabra with ice candles. Sometimes
at night these candles were lit by being dipped in
naptha. On the table is a watch-pocket, and a vari-
ety of vases, boxes, and ornaments of curious and
beautiful design. At the other side of the room we
see the bed hung with curtains, furnished with sheets
and a coverlid and two pillows, on which are placed
two night-caps. By the side of the bed on a foot-
stool are two pairs of slippers. Opposite the bed is
the fireplace which is beautifully carved and orna-
mented. In the grate lie sticks of wood also made
of ice, which are sometimes lighted like the candles
by having naptha poured over them.

The opposite room is a dining-room. In the cen-
tre stands a table on which is a clock of most won-
derful workmanship. The ice used is so transparent
that all the wheels and works are visible. On each
side of this table two beautifully carved sofas are
placed, and in the corners of the room there are stat-
ues. On one side we see a sideboard covered with a
variety of ornaments. We open the doors and find



OF AN EMPRESS.

inside a tea-set, glasses and plates which contain a
variety of fruits and vegetables, all made of ice but
painted in imitation of nature.

Let us now go through the opposite door and no-
tice the other curious things outside the palace. At
each end of the balustrade we see a pyramid with an
opening in each side like the dial of a clock. These
pyramids are hollow, and at night a man stands in-
side of them and exhibits illuminated pictures at the
grand openings.

Perhaps the greatest curiosity of all is the life-like
elephant at the right of the palace. On his back sits.
a Persian holding a battle-axe, and by his side stand.
two men as large as life. The elephant, too, is hol-
low, and is so constructed that in the daytime a
stream of water is thrown from his trunk to a height
of twenty-four feet, and at night a flame of burning
naptha, In addition to this, the wonderful animal is
so arranged that from time to time he utters the most
natural cries. This is done by means of pipes into.
which air is forced.

On the left of the palace stands a small house,
built of round blocks of ice resembling logs, inter-
laced one with another. This is the bath-house,
without which no Russian establishment is complete.
This bath-house was actually heated and used on sev-.
eral occasions.

When this wonderful ice-palace was completed it
was thrown open to the public, and such crowds came.
to see it that sentinels were stationed in the house to
prevent disorder.

This beautiful palace stood from the beginning of
January until the end of March. Then, as the
weather became warmer, it began to melt on the south
side ; but even after it lost its beauty and symmetry as
a palace it did not become entirely useless, for the
largest blocks of ice were transferred to the ice-
houses of the imperial palace, and thus afforded
grateful refreshment during the summer, as well as a
pleasent reminder of “ Zhe Plaything of an Em.
press.”
CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON.



CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON.



BY CHARLES E. HURD.



HARLIE was going to Boston.

The ceaseless clatter of his little copper-toed
boots over all the bare places in the house, and the
pertinacious hammering he kept up upon everything
capable of emitting sound, rendered it impossible for
his mamma or the new baby to get any rest, and so
it was that the decision came about. Aunt Mary,
who had lent her presence to the household for the
preceding fortnight, was to return home the following
day, and with her, after infinite discussion, it was
decided that he was to go for a week.

The momentous news was withheld from Charlie
until the next morning, for fear of the result upon his
night’s sleep, but it was injudiciously let out by Aunt
Mary before breakfast, the effect being to at once
plunge the young gentleman into the highest state of
excitement. He had played “go to Boston” a thou-
sand times with his little cart and wheelbarrow, but
to take such a journey in reality was something he
could hardly imagine possible.

“Am I going to Boston, real live?” he wildly in-
quired. ‘Where’s my rubber boots, and my little
chair, and my cart, and I want my piece of gum
mamma tooked away, and where’s my sled?”

“ But, Charlie,” said Aunt Mary, persuasively, “ you
are not going now, and you don’t want to take all
those things. There isn’t any snow in Boston, and
good little boys don’t chew gum, You must have
some breakfast.”

“T don’t want any breakfast. I want to go to Bos-
‘ton. I got to go, now you said so.”

“Yes, but you must have something to eat first.
It would make you sick to ride so far without eating.
And then you must have a nice bath, and put on
your new suit that papa bought last week. You’ve
plenty of time.”

But Charlie, generally good to mind, was thor-
oughly demoralized by the new turn in affairs, and
had to be brought to the table by main force.

“Jt’s like taking a horse to water,” said Aunt





Mary. “You can get him to the trcugh, but you
can’t make him drink without he likes. Charlie,
have a nice large griddle-cake ?”

Griddle-cakes were Charlie’s weak point, but ina
time like this he rose superior to the temptation.

“Don’t want griddle-cakes; don’t want bread;
don’t want toast; don’t want anything. I want to
get right down out of my little chair, and go to Bos-
ton, awful quick !” .

“The child will be down sick if he goes away on
an empty stomach,” said grandma from her bed-
room, where she could see all that transpired at the
table. ‘Can’t you make him eat?”

“Tt’s all very well to say ‘Make him eat,’ but he
won’t,” said Aunt Mary. “You might just as well
make a squirrel sit down and eat in a respectabl
manner.”

“Let him go till he gets hungry, then,” said his
father. ‘‘He’ll come to it soon enough, There’s no
danger of his starving.”

If Charlie had been a grown man, with whiskers,
and going to some European Court as Minister Ex:
traordinary, he couldn’t have felt the importance of
his prospective journey more, or been more weighed
down by the preparations for it. The train which
was to carry him did not start until two o’clock, and
in the six hours which intervened his little tongue was
in constant motion, and his little feet tramping up and
down stairs, “ getting ready.”

“But you're only going to stay for a week, you
know, Charlie,” said Aunt Mary, dismayed at the heap
of toys he had industriously gathered in a corner of
the sitting-room for transportation, “and you'll see
so many pretty things that you won’t care for any of
these.”

“IT want to carry my wheelbarrow. I will be cross
if I don’t carry my wheelbarrow. And my cunnin’
little cunnin’ watlin’ pot, and my high chair, and some
more.”

“But Aunt Mary couldn’t get them into her trunk,
CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON,
a

and the railroad man wouldn’t let Charlie take them
into the cars. Put them all away nicely, and then
Charlie will have them when he comes home.”

It required a great deal of judicious argument,
intermingled with promises, to gain the point, and
~ final success was only achieved by a formal agreement,
to which grandma was made a witness, by virtue of
which Charlie was to become the possessor of “a
speckled rocking-horse, just like Johnny Baker’s,
with real hair ears, and a tight tail, that boys couldn’t
pull out.” This compact having been made, Charlie
submitted to the washing and dressing process with
comparative good grace.

An exceedingly light dinner preceded the start,
- varied by excursions to the front door to see if the
depot stage was coming. It came at last, and, after
the leave-taking, Charlie and Aunt Mary were packed
in among half a dozen others. The whip cracked,
the coach gave a sudden lurch, and then dashed
down the street at the heels of the horses, who seemed
anxious to get to the station at the earliest possible
moment. There was just time to get tickets and seats
before the train started.

If Charlie was unmanageable before, he was doubly
so now. At every stopping-place he made desperate
efforts to get out of the car, and once or twice, in
spite of Aunt Mary’s efforts, very nearly succeeded.
He dropped his hat out of the window ; he dirtied
his face beyond redemption with dust and cinders ;
he put cake crumbs down the neck of an old lady
who had fallen asleep on the seat just in front, and
horrified the more staid portion of the passengers in
the car by a series of acts highly inconsistent with
the rules of good breeding, and the character of a
nice boy. :

Boston was reached at last, and the perils of pro-
curing a hack and getting safely home in it were
surmounted. So thankful was Aunt Mary that she
could have dropped upon her knees on the sidewalk
in front of the door; but she managed to control her
feelings, paid the hackman his dollar, still keeping a
tight grip upon Charlie, and, despite his struggles to
join the distant audience of a hand-organ, managed
to get him safely into the house, where he was at
once delivered over to the other members of the
household.

“T never, never, zever will go out of the house with
that child again!” she declared, half crying, and



sinking into a chair without taking her bonnet off.
“ He’s enough to kill anyone outright. No wonder
they wanted to get rid of him at home! It'll bea
mercy if he don’t drive us all crazy before the week
is out. One thing is certain, they’ll have to send for
him, 747 never take him home again.”

“Why didn’t you drug him, Aunt Mary,” asked
Tom, with a great show of sympathy. ‘“ Z would.”

“J declare I would have done anything, if I had
only known how he was going to act! You may
laugh and think it’s all very funny, but I just wish
you’d some of you try it yourselves. Where is he
now? If he’s out of sight a single minute he’ll be in
some mischief. There he goes now!”

The last declaration of Aunt Mary was preceded
by a series of violent bumps, followed by a loud
scream from the bottom of the basement stairs. A
grand rush to the spot revealed Charlie lying at the
foot, beating the air with his legs, with a vigor that
at once dispelled all fears as to his serious injury.
He was picked up and borne into the kitchen by the
cook, where the gift of a doughnut soon dried his
tears, and he was returned to the sitting-room to
await the ringing of the bell for tea.

“ Has he had a nap to-day?” asked grandmother.

“Nap! I should think the child would be dead for
want of sleep. I don’t believe he’s winked to-day!”

“He looks like it now, anyway,” said ‘Tom, who
was holding him in his arms.

Sure enough, his eyelids were beginning to droop,
and a moment after the half-eaten doughnut dropped
from his loosened fingers upon the carpet.

“Carry him up to my room, Tom, and lay him
upon my bed. Don’t for mercy’s sake hit his head
against anything. We shan’t have any peace if he
gets awake again.”

Slowly and carefully Tom staggered under his little
burden up-stairs, and laid it upon the clean white
coverlet of Aunt Mary’s bed.

“That will do,” said Aunt Mary, who had followed
close behind. “He’s thoroughly tired out, and no
wonder. You may go down now and I will take care
of him, dear little fellow.”

With careful fingers she untied the laces of his little
boots, and pulled them off. The stockings came
next, and the hot little feet were released from con-
finement. The tiny jacket was then removed, the
tangled hair put back, and then, with a sponge wet in
CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON.





cool water, the dirty, sweaty little face was softly
bathed until it became quite presentable again.

“There!” she said at last, surveying him with a
feeling of satisfaction, ‘he will sleep at least a couple
of hours. By that time I shall get rested, and can
manage him better. I suppose it’s because he’s so
tired, and everything is new.”

With this apology for Charlie in her heart, and a
half remorseful feeling for her lately displayed impa-
tience, she descended the stairs to the dining-room,
where the rest of the family were already seated at
the table.

A few minutes later, and while she was deep in an
account of matters and things at Charlie’s home, the
cook came up-stairs in something of a fluster.

“Plaze, ma’am, there’s something on the house.”

“Something on the house?”

“Yes. McKillop’s boarders across the way are all
at the windows, an’ the men is laughin’ and the
women frightened.”

With one accord a sudden and informal adjourn-
ment to the parlor window was made, the result being
a verification of the cook’s statement.

“What on earth can be the matter?” said grand-
mother.

At this moment Mrs. McKillop, after a series of
incomprehensible gestures, which nobody could trans-
late with any clearness, dispatched her girl across the
street.

“ There’s achild, ma’am,” she exclaimed, in breath-
less excitement, “a baby, walking about on the out-
“side of your house like a fly! he’s— Howly Father!”

This sudden exclamation was caused by the descent
of a flower pot, which, coming with the swiftness of a
meteor, missed the head of the speaker by less than
a hand’s-breadth, and crashed into a thousand pieces
on the front steps.

The situation was taken in at once. With a suc-
cession of screams Aunt Mary flew up the stairs two
at atime. By this a crowd was rapidly gathering.

“ Bring out something to catch him in if he falls,”
shouted a fat old gentleman, pushing his way to the
front.

Grandmother caught a tidy from the arm of the
sofa, and, snatching a volume of Tennyson from the
centre-table, rushed frantically into the street, closely
followed by Tom with a feather duster.

A single glance told the whole story. There sat



the occasion.



Charlie, utterly innocent of clothing save a shirt of
exceeding scantness, on the very edge of the broad
projection below the third-story window, his legs dan-
gling in space, watching with delighted interest the
proceedings of the excited crowd in the street below.
No one knows what might have happened, for, at that
moment, while a hot discussion was being carried on
among the gathered spectators, as to the propriety of
sounding a fire alarm for a hook and ladder company,
the arms of Aunt Mary came through the window,
and closed upon him like a pair of animated pincers.
There was a brief struggle, productive of a perfect
shower of flower-pots, and then, amid a hurricane of
shouts and cheers, the little white body and kicking
legs disappeared within the room. When, two min-
utes later, the entire household, with a fair sprinkling
of the McKillop boarders, had reached the scene,
they found Charlie shut up in the wardrobe, and Aunt
Mary in hysterics, with her back against the door.

“Tf he stays here a week we shall have to board up
the windows, and keep a policeman,” said grand-
mother, that night, after Charlie had been guarded
to sleep on the sitting-room lounge, with the door
locked. “We shall have to have watchers for him,
for I would no more dare to go to sleep without some
one awake with him than I would trust him with a
card of matches and a keg of gunpowder. And that
makes me think: we musn’t leave matches where he
can get them; and, father, you'll have to go down
town the first thing in the morning, and see about an
insurance.”

Notwithstanding the universally expressed fears,
Charlie slept like a top all night, and really behaved
so well the next morning that it was deemed safe to
give him an airing, and introduce him to the sights of
Boston. Right after dinner he was taken in hand,
and dressed and curled and frilled as he never had
been before, creating serious doubts in his own mind
as to whether he was really himself, or another boy of
about the same size and general make.

At half-past two o’clock the party set out, Aunt
Mary on one side, tightly grasping Charlie’s hand, and
on the other a female friend, especially engaged for
Tom followed on behind as a sort ol
rear guard, ready to be called upon in case of emer
gency.

First the Public Garden was visited. Hardly had
half*the circuit of the lake beén made, when Charlie,
CHARLIE’S WEEK IN BOSTON.



attracted by one of the gayly painted boats which was
‘moored a few feet from the shore, broke loose and
made a sudden dash to reach it, to the utter ruin of
his stockings and gaiters. In vain Aunt Mary coaxed
and. remonstrated and threatened; in vain she at-
tempted to hook him out with the handle of her para-
sol; he was just out of reach and he kept there. He
was brought out by one of the gardeners at last, who
seemed to look up-
on it as an excel-
lent joke. Tom,
who had lagged be-
hind, was sent back
after dry stockings
and Charlie’s sec-
oond-best shoes,
which, when
brought,
changed in the ves-
‘tibule of the Public
Library, and the
line of march again
taken up. The
deer on the Com-
‘mon were fed,
Punch and Judy
viewed and criti-
rized, and the thou-
sand and one vari-
ous objects in the
vicinity visited.
‘Charlie was de-
lighted with every-
thing, but through
and above all one
grand desire and
determination rode rampant —the desire and deter-
mination to enter into possession of the promised,
but as yet unrealized, ‘“ wocking-horse.”

Down Winter Street to Washington, in the great,
sweeping crowd of men, women and children; past
the gorgeous dry goods'stores ; past candy and apple
stands ; past all sorts of strange and funny and bewil-
lering things, Charlie was slowly dragged, a helpless
and unwilling prisoner. He only broke silence once.
Passing a window filled with braids and chignons, and
‘doubtless taking them for scalps, he inquired with
considerable interest if “Indians kept store there.”

were

Wil}



“ Mounrep UPON THE BACK OF THE LARGEST AND REALEST LOOKING HORSE.”



“Oh! what a lovely silk!” ejaculated Aunt Mary’s
friend, coming to a sudden stop before one of the
great dry goods emporiums on Washington Street.

Aunt Mary stopped, too. The pattern was too

gorgeous to be lightly passed. She raised her hand
to remove her vail, forgot her charge for a moment,
and when she looked again Charlie had disappeared.

“Charlie! Charlie!

Why, where is he?” she ex-
claimed, pale with
fright. “TI thought
you had hold of
him!”

“T dropped his
hand not a minute
ago, to be sure my
pocket hadn’t been
picked. I thought
you would look out
for him.”

In vain they
searched ;
they questioned
clerks and police-
men and apple-wo-
men. Nobody had
seen such a boy,
and yet everybody
seemed to think
that they certainly
should remember
if they had. It
was now half past
four. And Tom,
who might have
helped them so
much, was gone!

“Perhaps,” suggested a pitying apothecary’s clerk,
with a very small moustache and very smooth hair,

“perhaps the young man Tom has taken him home.”

There was a small spark of comfort in this sugges-
tion and, though unbelieving, the two hurried home-
wards, only to find Tom sitting on the doorstep, lazily
fanning himself, and hear his surprised ejaculation :

“Why! what have you done with Charlie ?”

“ TTe’s lost |” said Aunt Mary, bursting into tears.
“He'll get run over, or carried away, or something
terrible will happen to him. I shall never have
another minute’s peace while I live!”

in vain
CHARLIE’S WEEK iN BOSTON. —



Tom listened impatiently to the details of the
story, told by both together, and, tossing his fan into
the hall, started down the steps.

“Don’t fret till I come back. He’s all right some-
where, and I’ll bring him home with me.”

“Ym going back. I can’t stay here. I can help
search,” said Aunt Mary, still in tears, and her loyal
companion avowed her determination to stand by her.

Tom had hurried away without stopping to listen,
and was now out of sight; but the two wretched
women, heated, footsore and wearied, followed reso-
lutely after. The scene of the mysterious disappearance
was at last reached, and again the oft repeated in-
quiries were made, but with the same result.

“ Here is where I was intending to bring him,” said
Aunt Mary, pausing mournfully before the window of
a toy-bazar crowded with drums, guns, trumpets and
wooden monkeys. “He had talked so much about
his rocking-horse, the poor lost lamb! And now —”

The sentence was never finished, for, with a half
hysterical shriek, she dropped her parasol upon the
sidewalk and rushed into the store, where the appari-
tion of a curly head of flaxen hair, slowly oscillating
back and forth, had that instant caught her eye. It
was Charlie, sure enough, in the highest feather,
mounted upon the back of the largest and realest-
looking horse in the entire stock of the establishment,
whose speed he was endeavoring to accelerate by the
aid of divers kicks and cluckings, while the proprie-
tor and unemployed clerks looked admiringly on. ,

Aunt Mary, despite her regard for appearances,
hugged him and cried over him without stint, and
finally made a brave attempt to scold him, but her
heart failed her, at the very outset.

“ He’s been here nigh upon two hours,” said the
proprietor, as he made change for the coveted horse.
“ He came in alone and went right to that horse, and
there he’s stuck ever since. I don’t let boys handle
’em much without I know they’re going to buy, but
he made me think so much of a little fellow I lost a
year ago that I let him do just as he liked.”

No mishap occurred in getting Charlie home this
time. The toyman’s boy was sent for a hack, and,
with the rocking-horse perched up by the side of
the driver, and the doors tightly closed, nothing hap-
pened beyond what happens to ordinary boys who
are carried about in hacks. Some little difficulty was
experienced in getting him out on arrival home, for



it appeared that he had formed the plan on the way
of taking his horse into the coach and making a tour
of the city by himself. He could not in any manner
be satisfied of the impossibility of such an arrange-
ment, and was at last taken out in a high state of in-
dignation by the driver, who expressed a vehement
wish to himself that “e had such a young one!”
Nothing took place worthy of mention before bed-
time, with the exception, perhaps, of the breaking of
the carving-knife, and the ruin of Aunt Mary’s gold
pen in an attempt to vaccinate his new acquisition.

For three days peace—comparative peace —reigned.
in the household. From morning till night, in season.
and out of season, Charlie was busy with his horse,,
astride of it, or feeding it, or leading it to water, or
punishing it for imaginary kicks and bites, and so:
keeping out of mischief; but with the dawn of the
fourth he awoke, apparently for the first time, to a
realization of the fact that he was not lying in his own
little bed, and a sudden flood of homesickness rolled
over his soul, drowning out rocking-horse, hand-organs,
Tom’s music-box, and each and every Bostonian de-
light which, until that moment, had led him captive.

From that moment his mourning was as incessant
and obstinate as that of Rachael. He sat on the
top stair, and filled the house with wailings. Cakes,
candy and coaxings were alike in vain, and even a
desperate promise of Tom’s—to show him a whole
drove of elephants, had no more effect upon him, to
use the cook’s simile, “than the wind that blows.”

“No human being can endure it any longer,”
declared grandma, and in that statement every mem-
ber of the household cordially agreed.

That fact having been estabtished without dis-
cussion, but one thing remained to do; to get him
home in as good condition as when he left there.

“ One can hardly do that,” said Tom. “He’s got
a rag on every finger but one, and I don’t know how
much court-plaster about him.”

Notwithstanding, the afternoon train saw Charlie
on board, under thé double guardianship of Aunt
Mary and Tom, and at five o’clock he was in his
mother’s arms.

“The silence in the house was a thousand times
worse than the sound of his little feet,” she said, with ~
her eyes full of tears, “and made me think of that
possible time when I should never hear them any
more,”


elohnny’s a drummer and drams for {lf King”

ML D Cc 9 Vv £


A WONDERFUL TRIO.

BY JANE HOWARD.

N a little stone hut among the mountains lived
Gredel and her son Peterkin, and this is how
they lived: They kept about a dozen goats; and all
they had to do was to watch them browse, milk them,
and make the butter and cheese, which they partly
ate and partly sold down in the village, or, rather,
exchanged for bread. ‘They were content with bread,
butter, and cheese ; and all they thought about was
the goats. As for their clothes, it would be impossi-
ble to speak of them with patience. They had no
ambition, no hope, no thought beyond the day, and
no sense of gratitude towards yesterday. So they
lived, doing no harm, and effecting little good ; care-
less of the future, and not honestly proud of any-
thing they had done in the past.

But one day Gredel (who was the widow of a

shepherd that had dropped over the edge of a cliff)
sat slowly churning the previous day’s milk, while
Peterkin sat near her, doing nothing at all, thinking
nothing at all, because he had nothing to ponder over,
and looking at nothing at all, for the goats were an
everyday sight, and they took such capital care of
themselves that Peterkin always stared away over
their heads.

“ Heigho!” suddenly exclaimed Gredel, stopping
in her churning; and Peterkin dropped his stick,
looked at his mother slowly, and obediently repeated,
“ Heigho !”

“The-sun rises,” said Gredel, “and the sun sets ;
the day comes, and the day goes ; and we were yes-
terday, and we are to-day, and we shall be for some
tomorrows ; and that is all, all, all.”

Said Peterkin, ‘“ Mother, what is
world?”

“Men and women,” repeated the. wise parent ;
“goats, and many other things.”

“But is it the end of life to get up, watch goats,
eat and drink, and fall asleep again? Sometimes I
wonder what is on the other side of the hill.”

“Who can say what is the end of life?” asked

there in the

?



slow-thoughted Gredel. “Are you not happy?”

“Yes. But there is something more.”

“Do you not love me — your mother? ”

“Yes. But still I think — think — think.”

“Love is enough,” said Gredel, who had passed
more than half way through life, and was content to
rest.

“Then it must be,” said Peterkin, “that I want
more than enough.”

“Tf so, you must be wicked,” remarked Gredel ;
“for Iam at peace in loving you, and you should be
content in loving me. What more do you want?
You bave enough to eat—a warm bed in winter—
and your mother who loves you.”

Peterkin shook his head.

“Tt will rain to-night,” said Gredel ; “and you will
be warm while many will be shivering in the wet.”

Gredel was quite right ; for when the sun had set,
and the heavens were all of one dead, sad color,
down came the rain, and the inside of the hut looked
very warm and comfortable.

Nevertheless, Peterkin still thought of the some-
thing beyond the mountain, .and wondered what it
might be. Had some wise one whispered in his ear,
he must have learnt that it was healthy ambition,
which helped the world and the worker at the same
time.

Soon it began to thunder, and Peterkin lazily
opened the wooden shutters to look at the lightning.

By this time Gredel, having thanked Providence
for a large bowl of black bread steeped in hot goat’s
milk, was nodding and bobbing towards the flaming
wood fire.

“Mother mother! here comes something from this
world !”

“And what comes from the world? ”

“Something like three aged women, older than
you are a very great deal. Let me wait for another
flash of lightening. Ha! The first has a big stick ;
the second has a great pair of round things on her
A WONDERFUL TRIO.

eyes ; and the third has a sack on her back, but it is
as flat as the palm of my hand, and can have noth-





ing in it.”
“Ts there enough bread, and cheese, and milk,
and salt in the house?—- We must consider.”

“Aye,” answered Peterkin ; “there
is plenty of each and all.”

“Then let them come in, if they
will,” said Gredel. “But they shall
knock at the door first, for we go not
out on the highways and in the by-.
ways to help others. Let them come
to us—good. But let us not go to
them, for they have their business,
and we have ours; and so the world
goes round !”

“They are near the door,” whis-
pered Peterkin, “and very good old
women they look.”

The next moment there was a very
soft and civil tapping at the door.

“Who goes there?” asked Peterkin.

“Three honest old women,” cried a
voice.

“And what do three honest old
women want?” called Gredel.

“A bit of bread each,” replied the
voice, ‘a mug of milk each, and one
corner for all three to sleep in until
in the morning up comes the sweet
yellow sun.”

“Lift up the latch,” said Gredel.
“Come in. There is bread, there is
milk, and a corner laid with three
sacks of thistle down. Come in, and
welcome.”

Then up went the latch, and in
stepped the three travellers. Gredel
looked at them without moving; but
when she saw they were pleasant in















































































IN STEPPED THE THREE,



who carried the stick. “I am
commonly called Sister Trot.”
“And 1,” said the second,

appearance — that their eyes were who wore the spectacles, “am
keen in spite of their many wrinkles, commonly called Sister Pansy.”
and that their smiles were very fresh and pleasant “And I,” added the third, who carried the bag,
notwithstanding the lines about their mouth, lazy but | “am styled Sister Satchel.”
good-hearted Gredel got up and made a neat little “Your mother and father must have been a good-
bow of welcome. looking couple,” said Gredel, smiling.

“ Are you sisters?” she asked. “They were born handsome,” quoth Trot, rearing

“We are three sisters,” answered the leader, she | her head proudly, “and they grew handsomer.”


A WONDERFUL TRIO.

»

“How came they to grow handsomer?” asked
Peterkin, who had been standing in a corner.

“Because they were brisk and hurried about,”
replied Pansy, “and never found the day too long.
But pray, sir, who are you?”

“Tam Peterkin, son of Gredel.”

“ And may I ask what you do?” inquired Trot.

“ Watch the goats.”

“ And what do you do when you watch the goats?”

“Look about.”

“What do you see when you look about?” asked
Sister Pansy.

“The sky, and the earth, and the goats.”

“Ah!” said Pansy, “it is very good to look at the
sky, and truly wise to look at the earth, while it is
clever to keep an eye on the goats ; but Peterkin —
Peterkin — you do not look far enough !”

“And when you look about,” queried Sister
Satchel, “what do you pick up?”

“ Nothing,” said Peterkin.

“Nothing!” echoed the visitor.
an idea?”

“What is an idea?” asked Peterkin.

“Oh, oh, oh!” said the three sisters. ‘“ Here is
Peterkin, who not only never picks up an idea, but
actually does not know what one is!”

“This comes of not moving about,” said Trot.
“Of not looking about,” said Pansy.
“And of not: picking up something every day,”

“What! not even

said Satchel. ‘And a worse example I, for one,
never came across.” :
“Nor1I!” ‘Nor I!” echoed the other sisters.

Whereupon they all looked at Peterkin, and seemed
dreadfully serious.

“Why, whatever have I done?” he demanded.

“That’s just it!” said the sisters. “ What have
you done?”

“Nothing!” exclaimed Peterkin, quite with the
intention of justifying himself. ‘‘ Nothing at all!”

“ Ah!” said Trot, ‘“¢2az is the truth, indeed ; what-
ever else may be wrong — done nothing at all!”

“Nothing!” “Nothing!” repeated Satchel and
Pansy, in a breath.

“Dear me!” said Peterkin.

Whereupon Gredel, half-frightened herself, and
partly indignant that her boy should be lamented
over in this uncalled-for manner, said, “Would you
be pleased to take a seat?”





“Certainly!” said Trot. “Still I, for one, would
not think of such a thing until your stools were
dusted.”

Gredel could zof believe her eyes, for actually Trot
raised one end of her stick and it became a brush,
with which she dusted three stools.

“T think, too,” said Sister Pansy, looking out
sharp through her spectacles, “that if we were to
stop up that hole in the corner we should have less
draught. Asarule, holes are bad things in a house.”

So off she went, and stopped up the hole’with a
handful of dried grass she took from a corner.

“Bless me!” said Satchel ; “here are four pins on
the floor!”

Whereupon she picked up the pins and popped
them into her wallet. Meanwhile Gredel looked on,
much astonished at these preceedings.

“T may as well have a rout while I am about it,”
said Trot, beginning at once to sweep up.

“Cobwebs in every corner!” cried Pansy; and
away she went, looking after the walls.

“No wonder you could not find your wooden
spoon,” remarked Satchel; “why, here it is, most
mysteriously up the chimney!”

There was such a dusting, sweeping, and general
cleaning as the place had never seen before.

“This is great fun!” said Peterkin ; “but how it
makes you sneeze! ”

“Here, dame Gredel,” cried Satchel; “I have
picked up all the things you must have lost for the
last three years. Here is your thimble; and now
you can take the bit of leather off your finger. Here
are your scissors, which will cut cloth better than
that knife ; and here is the lost leg of the third stool
—so that I can now sit down in safety.”

“Why,” exclaimed Peterkin, “the place looks
twice as large as it did, and ten times brighter.
Mother, I am glad the ladies have come.”

“T am sure, ladies,” said the good woman, “I
shall never forget your visit.”

To tell the truth, however, there was something
very ambiguous in Gredel’s words.

“There!” said Trot; “ and now I can sit down in
comfort to my bread and milk.”

“ And very good bread and milk, too,” said Satchel.
“T think, sisters, we are quite fortunate to fall upon
this goodly cot.”

“Ves,” remarked Trot, “they are not bad souls,
A WONDERFUL TRIO.

this Gredel and Peterkin ; but, they sadly want mend-
However, they have good hearts, and you know
that those who love much are forgiven much; and
indeed I would sooner eat my supper here than in
some palaces you and I, sisters, know something
about.”

“Quite true!” assented the others, ‘quite true!”
And so they went on talking as though ‘hey had
been in their own house and no oné #2 themselves
in the room. Gredel listened w?/: astonishment, and
Peterkin with all his ears. ico delighted even to be
astonished.

“Now this,” thought 16, “comes of their knowing
something of what goes «n beyond the Great Hill as
far away asI can see.”

“Time for bed,” suddenly said Dame Trot, who
evidently was the ieader, “if we are to see the sun
rise.”

The sisters then made themselves quite comfort-
able, and tucked up their thistle-down beds and
home-spun sheets with perfect good humor.

ing.

Peterkin awoke cheerily, and he was dressed even
before the sun appeared. He made the fire, set the
table, gave the place a cheerful air, and then opened
the door to look after the goats, wondering why he
felt so light and happy. He was soon joined by the
three sisters, who made a great to-do with some cold
water and their washing.

“Is it good to put your head souse in a pail?”
asked Peterkin.

“Try it,” replied Dame Trot.

So by this time, quite trusting the old women, he
did so, and found his breath gone in a moment.
However, he enjoyed breathing all the more when he
found his head once more out of the pail, and after
Pansy had rubbed him dry with a rough towel,
which she took out of Satchel’s wallet, he thought he
had never experienced such a delightful feeling as
then took possession of him. Even since the previ-
ous night he felt quite a new being, and alas! he
found himself forgetting Gredel — his mother Gredel,
who toved him and taught him only to live for to-day.

‘And shall I show you down the hill-side?” asked
Peterkin, when the three sisters had taken their por-
ridge and were sprucing themselves for departure.

“Yes,” said dame Trot, “and glad am I thou hast
saved us the trouble of asking thee.”





“ A good lad,” remarked Pansy to Gredel, “but he
must look about him.”

“Truly,” said Satchel. ‘And, above all, he must
pick up everything he comes xsross, when he can do
so without robbing a neighbor, aszs$ ne may steal all
his neighbor Azows, without depriving the gentle-
man of anything.”

Then Peterkin, feeling as light as a feather, started
off down the hillside, the three old sisters.chatting,
whispering, and chuckling in a very wonderful man-
ner. So, when they were quite in the valley, Peter-
kin said, “ Please you, I will leave you now, ladies ;
and many thanks for your coming.” ‘Then he very
civilly touched his tattered cap, and was turning on
his battered heels, when Sister Trot said, “Stop!”
and he turned.

“Peterkin,” she said, “thou art worth loving and
thinking about, and for your kindness to us wander-
ers we must ask you to keep something in remem-
brance of our visit. Here, take my wonderful stick
and believe in it. You know me as Trot, but grown-
up men call me the Fairy Work-o’-Day.” Peterkin
made his obeisance, and took the stick.

“J will never lose it!” said he.

“Vou never will,” said Trot, “after once you know
how to use it.”

“Well,” said sister Pansy, “I am not to be beaten
by my sister, and so here are my spectacles.”

“T shall look very funny in them,” said Peterkin,
eyeing them doubtfully.

“Nay; nobody will see them on your nose as you
mark them on mine. The world will observe their
wisdom in your eyes, but the wires will be invisible.
By-the-by, sister Pansy is only my home-name ; men
call me Fairy See-far ; and so be good.”

“ As for me,” said the third sister, “I am but the
younger of the family. JI could not be in existence
had not my sisters been born into the world. I am
going to give you my sack; but take heed, it were
better that you had no sack at all than that you should
fill it too full, than that you should fling into it all
that you see; than that you should pass by on the
other side when, your sack being full, another human
being, fallen amongst thieves, lies bleeding and want-
ing help! And now know that, though I am some-
times called Satchel, my name amongst the good
people is the Fairy Save-some.”

“Good by,” suddenly said the three sisters. They
A WONDERFUL TRIO.

smiled, and instantly they were gone— just like
Three Thoughts.

So he turned his face towards home, with sorrow in
his heart as he thought of the three sisters, while hope
was mixed with the sadness as he glanced towards
the far-off mountain which was called Mons Futura.

Now, Peterkin had never cared to climb hiisides,
and, therefore he rarely went down them if he could
help it, always lazily stopping at the top. But now
the wonderful stick, as he pressed it upon the ground,
seemed to give him a light heart, and a lighter pair of
heels, and he danced up the hillside just as though
he were holiday-making, soon reaching home.

“See, mother,” said Peterkin, “the good women
have given me each a present— the one her stick, the
second her glasses, and the third her wallet.”

“Ho!” said Gredel.
are gone, for I am afraid they would soon have made
you despise your mother. They are very pleasant old
people no doubt, but rude and certainly ill-bred, or
they would not have put my house to rights.”

“ But it looked all the better for it.”

“Tt looked very well as it was.”

“ But the world goes on and on,” said Peterkin.

Gredel shook her head. “Humph!” she said, “a
stick, an old pair of spectacles, and a sack not worth
adime! When people give gifts, let them be gifts
and not cast-offs.”

“ Anyhow,” said Peterkin, “I can tell you that the
stick is a good stick, and helps you over the hill
famously. I will keep it, and you may have the sack
and the spectacles.”

“ Let us try your spectacles,” cried Gredel. “O4/”
she said, trying them on carelessly. “These are the
most wonderful spectacles in the world,” she went on ;
“but no more civil than those three old women.”

“What do you mean, mother?”

“J see you, Peterkin — and a very sad sight, too.
Why, you are lazy, careless, unwashed, and stupid ;
and a more deplorable object was never seen by hon-
est woman.”

Poor Peterkin blushed very much ; but’at this point,
his mother taking off the glasses, he seized and placed
them before his own eyes. “ O%/” he exclaimed.

“ What now?” asked Gredel in some alarm.

“Now I see you as you are—and a very bad
example are you to set before your own son! Why,
you are careless, and love me not for myself but your-

“Well, Iam not sorry they”



self, or you would do your best for me, and send me
out in the world.”

“What? and dare you talk to your mother in such
fashion? Give me the spectacles once more!” and
she clapped them on again. “Bless me!” she con-
tinued, “the boy is quite right, and I see I am selfish,
and that [ am making him selfish—a very pretty
business, indeed! This is to be thought over,” she
said, laying aside the spectacles.

By this time Peterkin had possessed himself of the
stick, and then, to his amazement, he round it had
taken the shape of a spade.

“Well,” said he, ‘as here is a spade I think I will
turn over the potato-patch.” This he did; and: com-
ing in to breakfast he was admonished to find how
fine the milk tasted. ‘‘ Mother,” said he, “here is a
penny. I havé found in the field.”’”

“ Put it in the bag,” said Gredel.

He did so, and immediately there was a chink.

Over he turned the sack, and lo! there were ten
pennies sprinkled on the table.

“Ho,ho ” said Peterkin, “if, now, the bag increases
money after such a pleasant manner, I have but to
take out one coin and cast it in again, and soon I
shall have a fortune.” He did so; but he heard
no chinking. He inverted the bag again, and out
fell the one coin he had picked up while digging the
potato-patch.

“This, now, is very singular,” he said; “let me
put on the spectacles.” This done, ‘ Ha!” he cried,
“‘T see now how it is. The money will never grow in
the sack, unless one works hard ; and then it increases
whether one will or not.”

Meanwhile Gredel, taking up the stick, it took the
shape of a broom, and upon the hint she swept the
floor. Next, sitting down before Peterkin’s clothes,
the stick became a needle, and she stitched away
with a will.

So time rolled on. The cottage flourished, and
the garden was beautiful. Then a cow was brought
home, and it was wonderful how often fresh money
changed in the wallet. Gredel had grown handsomer,
and so also had Peterkin. But one day it came to
pass that Peterkin said: “ Mother, it is time I went
over the great hill.”

“What! canst thou leave me?”

“Thou didst leave thy father and mother.”

Gredel was wiser than she had been, and so she
A WONDERFUL TRIO.

quietly said: “Let us put on the spectacies. “Ah!
I see,” she then said, “a mother may love her son,
but she must not stand in his way as he goes on in
the world, or she becomes his enemy.”

Then Peterkin put on the spectacles. “Ah! I
see,” said he, “a son may love his mother, but his love
must not interfere with his duty to other men. The
glasses say that every man should try and leave the
world something the better for his coming ; that many
fail and but few succeed, yet that all must strive.”

“So be it,” said Gredel. ‘“ Go forth into the world,
my son, and leave me hopeful here alone.”

“The glasses say that the sense of duty done is the



greatest happiness in the world,” said Peterkin.

Then Gredel looked again through the glasses.

“T see,” said she ; “the glasses say it is better to
have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
Go forth into the world, my son: we shall both be
the happier for having done our duty.”

So out into the world went Peterkin.

What else is there to tell? Why, who can write of
to-morrow?

By the way, you should know that amongst the
very wise folk sister Trot is known as “ Industry,”
sister Pansy as “ Foresight,” while honest Satchel is
generally called “ Economy.” |

re ee,

S
2 Y ENICA LL

a Se BSS




































































































































































































































































































































































































































TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



BY ROSSITER JOHNSON.



NE afternoon I went over to see Fred Bar-
nard, and found him sitting on the back steps,
apparently meditating.

“ What are you doing?” said I.

“Waiting for that handkerchief to dry,” said he,
pointing to a red one with round white spots, which
hung on the clothes-line.

* And what are you going to do when it’s dry?”
said I.

“Tie up my things in it,” said he.

“Things! What things?”

“©, such things as a fellow needs when he’s trav-
eling. I’m going to seek my fortune.”

“Where are you going to seek it?” said I.

“T can’t tell exactly — anywhere and everywhere.
I’m going till I find it.”

“ But,” said I, “do you really expect to turn over
a stone, or pull up a bush, or get to the end of a
rainbow, and find a crock full of five-dollar gold
pieces ?” Z

“O,no!” said Fred. “Such things are gone by
long ago. You can’t do that nowadays, if you ever
could. But people do get rich nowadays, and there
must be some way to do it.”

“Don’t they get rich mostly by staying at home,
and minding their business,” said I, “instead of
going off tramping about the world?”



“Maybe some of them do,” said Fred ; “but my
father has always staid at home, and minded his busi-
ness, and #e hasn’t got rich; and I don’t believe he
ever will. But there’s uncle Silas, he’s always on the
go, so you never know where to direct a letter to him ;
and he has lots of money. Sometimes mother tells
him he ought to settle down; but he always says,
if he did he’s afraid he wouldn’t be able to settle
up by and by.”

I thought of my own father, and my mother’s
brother. They both staid at homeand minded their
own business, yet neither of them was rich. This
seemed to confirm Fred’s theory, and I was inclined
to think he was more than half right.

“T don’t know but I’d like to go with you,” said I.

“T don’t want you to,” said Fred.

“Why,” said I, in astonishment ; “are we not good
friends?”

““Q, yes, good friends as ever,” said Fred ; “but
you’re not very likely to find two fortunes close to-
gether ; and I think it’s better for every one to go
alone.”

“Then why couldn’t I’start at the same time you
do, and go a different way?”

“ That would do,” said Fred. “I’m going to start
to-morrow morning.” And he walked to the line,
and felt of the handkerchief.





TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



“T can take mother’s traveling-bag,” said I. “That
will be handier to carry than a bundle tied up.”

“Take it if you like,” said Fred ; “but 7 believe
there’s luck in an old-fashioned handkerchief. In all
the pictures of boys going to seek their fortunes, they
have their things tied up in a handkerchief, and a
stick put through it and over their shoulder.”

I did not sympathize much with Fred’s belief in
luck, though I thought it was possible there might
be something in it; but the bundle in the handker-
chief seemed to savor a little more of romance, and
I determined that I would conform to the ancient
style.

“Does your father know about it?” said I.

“Yes ; and he says I may go.”

Just then Fred’s father drove around from the
barn.

“T’m going away,” said he to Fred, “to be gone
several days. So, if you go in the morning, I shall
not see you again until you return from your travels.”
And he laughed a little.

“Well, I’m certainly going to-morrow morning,”
said Fred, in answer to the “if.”

“You ought to have a little money with you,” said
Mr. Barnard, taking out his wallet.

“No, sir, I thank you,” said Fred ; “but I’d rather
not have it.”

His father looked surprised.

“J think it’s luckier to start without it,” said Fred,
in explanation.

“Very well! Luck go with you!” said Mr.
nard, as he drove off.

“Do you think it best to go without any money
at all?” said IJ. “It seems to me it would be better
to have a little.”

“No,” said Fred; “a fellow ought to depend on
himself, and trust to luck. It wouldn’t be any fun at
all to stop at taverns and pay for meals and lodging,
just like ordinary travelers. And then, if people saw
I had money to pay for things, they wouldn’t believe
I was going to seek my fortune.”

“Why, do we want them to know that?” said I.

“ T do,” said he.

“That isn’t the way the boys in the stories do,”
said I.

“And that’s just where they missed it,” said Fred ;
“or would, if they lived nowadays. Don’t you see that
everybody that wants anything lets everybody know

Bar-





it? When I’m on my travels, I’m going to tell every
one what I’m after. That’s the way to find out where
to go and what to do.”

“ Won’t some of them fool you,” said I, “and tell
you lies, and send you on the wrong road?”

“A fellow’s got to look out for that,” said Fred,
knowingly. “We needn’t believe all they say.”

“What must we take in our bundles?” said I.

“T’m going to take some cookies, and a Bible, and
a tin cup, and a ball of string, and a pint of salt,’”
said Fred. g

“ What's the salt for?” said I.

“We may have to camp out some nights,” said
Fred, “and live on what we can find. There are lots
of things you can find in the woods and fields to
live on; but some of them ain’t good without salt —
mushrooms, for instance.” Fred was very fond of
mushrooms.

“ And is the string to tie up the bags of money?”
said I —not meaning to be at all sarcastic.

“O,no!” said Fred ; “but string’s always handy to:
have. We may want to set snares for game, or tie up:
things that break, or catch fish. And then if you
have to stay all night in a house where the people
look suspicious, you can fix a string so that if any one
opens the door of your room, it’ll wake you up.”

“Tf that happened, you’d want a pistol — wouldn’t
you?” said I. “Or else it wouldn’t do much good to
be waked up.”

“Td take a pistol, if I had one,” said Fred ; “ but
I can get along without it. You can always hit ’em
over the head with a chair, or a pitcher, or something.
You know you can swing a pitcher full of water
around quick, and not spill a drop; and if you should
hit a man a fair blow with it, ’twould knock him
senseless. Besides, it’s dangerous using a pistol in a
house. Sometimes the bullets go through the wall,
and kill innocent persons.”

“We don’t want to do that,” said I.

“No,” said Fred ; “that would be awful unlucky.”

Then he felt of the handkerchief again, said he
guessed it was dry enough, and took it off from the
line.

“Fred,” said I, “how much ¢s a fortune?”

“That depends on your ideas,” said Fred, as he
smoothed the handkerchief over his knee. “I should
not be satisfied with less than a hundred thousand

| dollars.”
TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.







“IT ought to be going home to get ready,” said I.
“ What time do we start?”

“ Five o’clock exactly,” said Fred.

So we agreed to meet at the horse-block, in front
of the house, a minute or two before five the next
morning, and start simultaneously on the search for
fortune.

I went home, and asked mother if there was a red
handkerchief, with round white spots on it, in the
house.

“T think there is,” said she.
with it?”

I told her all about our plan, just as Fred and I
had arranged it. She smiled, said she hoped we
would be successful, and went to get the handkerchief.

It proved to be just like Fred’s, except that the
spots were yellow, and had little red dots in the mid-
dle. I thought that would do, and then asked her
for the salt, the cup, and the cookies. She gave me
her pint measure full of salt, and as she had no cookies
in the house, she substituted four sandwiches.

“But,” said I, “won’t you want to use this cup
before I get back?”

“T think not,” said she, with a twinkle in her eye,
which puzzled me then, but which afterward I under-
stood.

I got my little Bible, and some twine, and then went
into the yard to hunt up a stick to carry the bundle
on. I found a slender spoke from an old carriage-
wheel, and adopted it at once. “That,” said I to
myself, as I handled and “hefted ” it, ‘‘ would be just
the thing to hit a burglar over the head with.”

I fixed the bundle all ready for a start, and went
to bed in good season. ; Mother rose early, got
me a nice breakfast, and called me at half past
four.

“Mother,” said I, as feelings of gratitude rose
within me at the excellence of the meal, ‘how does
a camel’s-hair shawl look ?”

“J don’t know, my son,” said she.
one.”

“Never saw one!” said I.
one, a big one, if I find my fortune.”

“Thank you,” said mother, and smiled again that
peculiar smile.

Fred and I met promptly at the horse-block. He
greatly admired my stick ; his was an old hoe-handie,
sawed short. I gave him two of my sandwiches for

“What do you want

“T never saw

“Well, you shai sce



half of his cookies, and we tied up the bundles snugly,.
and slung them over our shoulders.

“ How long do you think it will take us?” said I.

“Maybe three or four years— maybe more,’
said he.

“Let us agree to meet again on this spot five years.
from to-day,” said I.

“ All right!” said Fred; and he took out a bit of
lead pencil, and wrote the date on the side of the block.

“ The rains and snows will wash that off before the:
five years are up,” said I.

“Never mind! we can remember,” said Fred.
“ And now,” he continued, as he shook hands with.
me, “don’t look back. J’m not going to; it isn’t
lucky, and it'll make us want to be home again.
Good-bye !”

“Good-bye! Remember, five years,” said I.

He took the east road, I the west, and neither
looked back.

I think I must have walked about four miles with-
out seeing any human being. Then I fell in with a
boy, who was driving three cows to pasture, and we
scraped acquaintance.

“ Where y’ goin’?” said he, eyeing my bundle.

“ A long journey,” said I.

“ Chiny?” said he.

“ Maybe so— maybe not,” said I.

“What y’ got ’t sell?” said he.

“Nothing,” said I; “I’m only a traveler not a
peddler. Can you tell me whose house that is?”

“That big white one?” said he; “that’s Hath-
away’s.”

“Tt looks new,” said I.

“Ves, ’tis, spick an’ span,” said he. “ Hathaway’s
jest moved into it; used to live in that little brown
one over there.”

“ Mr. Hathaway must be rich,” said I.

“Jolly! I guess he is !— wish I was half as rich,”
said the boy. ‘“ Made’s money on the rise of prop’ty.
Used to own all this land round here, when twas a
fnowlin’ wilderness. I’ve heard dad say so lots ©
times. There he is now.”

“Who ?—your father ?” said I.

“No; Hathaway.” And the boy pointed to a very
old,.white-headed man, who was leaning ona cane, and
looking up at the cornice of the house.

“ He looks old,” said I.
“He is, awful old,” said the boy. “Can’t live
TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



‘much longer. His daughter Nancy ’ll take the hull.
Ain’t no other relations.”

“ How old is Nancy?” said I; and if I had been a
few years older myself, the question might have been
significant ; but among all the methods I had thought
‘over of acquiring a fortune, that of marrying one was
not included.

“O, she’s gray-headed too,” said the boy, “’n
deafer ’n a post, ’nd blind ’s a bat. I wish the old
man couldn’t swaller a mouthful o’ breakfast till
he’d give me “alf what he’s got.” And with this
‘charitable expression ne termed with the cows into
the lane, and I saw him no more.

While I was meditating on the venerable but not
venerated Mr. Hathaway and his property, a wagon
came rumbline along behind me.

“Doni you want to ride?” said the driver, as I
stepped aside to let it pass.

I thanked him, and climbed to a place beside him
on the rough seat. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and
wore a torn straw hat. He had reddish side-whiskers,
and has chin needed shaving, badly.

“Got far to go?” said he, as the team started up
again.

“T expect to walk all day,” said I.

“Then you must get a lift when you can,” said he.
“Don’t be afraid to ask. A good many that wouldn’t
invite you, as I did, would let you ride if you asked
them.”

I promised to remember his advice.

“Ever drive a team?” said he.

“Not much,” said I.

“J want a good boy to drive team,” said he. “ Sup-
pose you could learn.” And then he began to talk to
the horses, and to whistle.

“ How much would you pay?” said I.

“T’d give a good smart boy ten dollars a month and
board,” said he. “Git ap, Doc!”

“ How much of that could he save?” said I.

“Save eight dollars a month easy enough, if he’s
careful of his clothes, and don’t want to go to every
‘circus that comes along,” said he.

I made a mental calculation: “ Eight times twelve
are ninety-six— into a hundred thousand — one thou-
sand and forty-one years, and some months. O, yes!
interest — well, nearly a thousand years.” Then I
said aloud, “I guess I won’t hire; don’t believe I’d
make a very good teamster.”



“T think you would ; and it’s good wages,” said he.

“Nobody but Methuselah could get rich at it,”
said I.

“Rich?” said he. “Of course you couldn’t get
rich teaming. If that’s what you’re after, I’ll tell you
what you do: plant aforest. Timber’s good property.
The price of it’s more than doubled in ten years past,
and it “ll be higher yet. You plant a tree, and itll
grow while you sleep. Chess won’t choke it, and the
weevil can’t eat it. ‘You don’t have to hoe it, nor
mow it, nor pick it, nor rotate it, nor feed it, nor churn
it, nor nothing. That’s the beauty of it. And you
plant a forest of trees, and in time it ‘Il make you a
rich man.”

“ How much time ?” said I.

“Well, that piece of timber you see over there, —
that’s Eph Martin’s; he’s going to cut it next season.
The biggest trees must be—vwell, perhaps eighty
years old. You reckon up the interest on the cost of
the land, and you'll see it’s a good investment. I
wish I had such a piece.”

“ Why don’t you plant one ?”’ said I,

“OQ, I’m too old! My grandfather ought to have
done it for me. Whoa! Doc. Whoa! Tim.”

He drew up at a large, red barn, where a man and
a boy were grinding a scythe. I jumped down, and
trudged on. ;

After I had gone a mile or two, I began to feel
hungry, and sat done on a stone, under a great oak
tree, to eat a sandwich. Before I knew it I had eaten
two, and then I was thirsty. There was a well in a
door-yard close by, and I went to it. The bucket was
too heavy for me to lift, and so I turned the salt out
of my cup in a little pile on a clean-looking corner
of the well-curb, and drank.

The woman of the house came to the door, and took
a good look at me ; then she asked if I would not rather
have a drink of milk. I said I would, and she brought
a large bowlful, which I sat down on the door-step
to enjoy.

Presently a sun-browned, barefooted boy, wearing
a new chip hat, and having his trousers slung by a
single suspender, came around the corner of the house,
and stopped before me.

“Got any Shanghais at your house?” said he.

“No!”

“ Any Cochins?”

“No!”
TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.





« Any Malays?”

“No!”

“What have you got?”

“ About twenty common hens,” said I, perceiving
that his thoughts were running on fancy breeds of fowls.

“Don’t want to buy a nice pair of Shanghais — do
you?” said he.

“T couldn’t take them to-day,” said I.

“Tet’s go look at them,” said he; and I followed
him toward the barn.

“This is my hennery,” said he, with evident pride,
as we came to a small yard which was inclosed with
a fence made of long, narrow strips of board, set up
endwise, and nailed to a slight railing. Inside was
a low shed, with half a dozen small entrances near
the ground.

“Me and Jake built this,” said he.
brother.”

He unbuckled a strap.that fastened the gate, and
we went inside. A few fowls, of breeds unfamiliar to
me, were scratching about the yard.

“ Don’t you call them nice hens ?” said he.

“TY guess they are,” said I; “but I don’t know
much about hens.”

“Don’t you?” said he. “Then I’ll tell you some-
thing about them. There’s money in hens. Father
says so, and I know it’s so. I made fifty-one dollars
and thirteen cents on these last year. I wish I had
a million.”

““A million dollars,” said I, “is a good deal of
money. I should be satisfied with one tenth of that.”

“JT meant a million hens,” said he. “I'd rather
have a million hens than a million dollars.”

I went .through a mental calculation similar to the
one I had indulged in while riding with the teamster :
“Fifty-one, thirteen— almost two thousand years.
Great Caesar! Yes, Great Casar sure enough! I
ought to have begun keeping hens about the time
Cassius was egging on the conspirators to lay out that
gentleman. But I forgot the interest again. Call it
fifteen hundred.” :

“Let’s go in and look at the nests,” said the boy,
opening the door of the shed.

The nests were in a row of boxes nailed‘to the wall.
He took out some of the eggs, and showed them to
me. Several had pencil-writing on the shell, intended

to denote the breed. I remember Gaim, Schanghy,
and Cotching.

“Jake’s my



“There’s a pair of Shanghais,” said he as he went.
out, pointing with one hand while he tightened the
gate-strap with the other, “that I’ll sell you for five.
dollars. Or I’ll sell you half a dozen eggs for six
dollars.”

I told him I couldn’t trade that day, but would cer-

tainly come and see him when I wanted to buy any

fancy hens.

“Tf you see anybody,” said he, as we parted, “that
wants a nice pair of Shanghais reasonable, you tell
’em where I live.”

“J will,” said I, and pushed on.

“Money in hens, eh?” said I to myself. “ Then,.
if they belonged to me, I’d kill them, and get it out
of them. at once, notwithstanding the proverb about.
the goose.”

After some further journeying I came to a roadside.

tavern. A large, square sign, with a faded picture of

a horse, and the words ScuuyLer’s Horet, faintly
legible, hung from an arm that extended over the road.
from a high post by the pump.

I sat down on the steps, below a group of men who.
One, whe.

were tilted back in chairs on the piazza.
wore a red shirt, and chewed a very large quid of
tobacco, was just saying, —

“Take it by and through, a man can make wages.

at the mines, and that’s all he can make.”

“ Unless he strikes a big nugget,” said a little man:
with one eye.

“He might be there a hundred years, and not do.
that,” said Red Shirt. “I never struck one.”

“ And again he might strike it the very first day,’”

said One Eye.

“ Again he might,” said Red Shirt ; “but I’d rather

take my chances keeping tavern. Look at Schuyler,.
now. He'll die a rich man.”

The one who seemed to be Schuyler was well worth
looking at. I had never seen so much man packed
into so much chair; and it was an exact fit — just
enough chair for the man, just enough man for the
chair. Schuyler’s boundary from his chin to his toe
was nearly, if not exactly, a straight line.

“Die rich?” said One Eye. “He’s a livin’ rich ;.
he’s rich to-day.”

“Tf any of you gentlemen want to make your for-
tune keeping a hotel,” said Schuyler, “I'll sell om
easy terms.”

“ How much, ’squire ?” said Red Shirt.
TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.























































































































































































a = ae SK





“He ToOK THE Kast Roap, | THE WEST, AND NelTHER LOOKED BACK.” — See page 61.

“ Fifteen,” answered Schuyler.

“ Fifteen thousand -—furniture and all?” said One
‘Eye.

“Everything,” said Schuyler.

“Your gran’f’ther bought the place for fifteen hun-
‘dred,” said One Eye.
then.”

But money was wuth more

While listening to this conversation, I had taken |

‘out my cookies, and I was eating the last of them,
when One Eye made his last recorded remark.

“Won't you come in, sonny, and stay over night ? "
‘said Schuyler.

“Thank you, sir,” said I; “but I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t be mussing up my clean steps,”
said he.

I looked at him to see if he was in earnest ; for I
was too hungry to let a single crum fall, and could
not conceive what should make a muss. The whole
‘company were staring at me most uncomfortably.
Without saying another word, I picked up my stick
and bundle, and walked off.

“Thirteen thousand five hundred,” said I to myself,
slowly, — “in three generations —four thousand five
hundred to a generation. I ought to have come over



with Christopher Columbus, and set up a tavern for
the red-skins to lounge around. Then maybe if I
never let any. little Indian boys eat their lunches
on the steps, I’d be a rich man now. . Fifteen thou-
sand dollars—and so mean, so abominably mean —
and such a crowd of loafers for company. No, I
wouldn’t keep tavern if I could get rich in one gen-
eration.”

At the close of this soliloquy, I found I had in-
stinctively turned towards home when I left Schuyler’s
Hotel. “It’s just as well,” said I, “just as well !
I’d rather stay at home and mind my business, like
father, and not have any fortune, if that’s the way
people get them nowadays.”

I had the good luck to fall in with my friend the
teamster, who gave me a longer lift than before, and
sounded me once more on the subject of hiring out to
drive team for him.

As I passed over the crest of the last hill in the
road, I saw something in the distance that looked
very much like another boy with a bundle over his
shoulder. I waved my hat. It waved its hat; We
met at the horse-block, each carrying a broad grin the
last few rods of the way.


TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



“TLet’s see your fortune,” said I, as I laid my

bundle on the block.

“Tet’s see yours,” said he, as he laid his beside it.

“You started the plan,” said I; so you tell your
adventures first.”

Thereupon Fred told his story, which I give nearly
in his own words..

He traveled a long distance before he met with
any incident. Then he came to a house that had
several windows boarded up, and looked as if it might
not be inhabited. While Fred stood looking at it,
and wondering about it, he saw a shovelful of earth
come out of one of the cellar windows. It was fol-
lowed in a few seconds by another, and another, at
regular intervals.

“T know how it is,” said Fred. “Some old miser
thas lived and died in that house. He used to bury
his money in the cellar ; and now somebody’s digging
for it. J mean to see if I can’t help him.”

Going to the window, he stooped down and looked
in, At first he saw nothing but the gleam of a new
shovel. But when he had looked longer he discerned
the form of the man who wielded it.

“Hello!” said Fred, as the digger approached the
window to throw out a shovelful.

“Fello! Who are you?” said the man.

“T’m a boy going to seek my fortune,” said Fred.
“What are you digging for?”

“Digging for a fortune,” said the man, taking up
another shovelful.

“May I help you?” said Fred.

“Yes, if you like.”

“And have half?”

“Have all you find,” said the man, forcing down
his shovel with his foot.

Fred ran around to the cellar door, laid down his
bundle on the grass beside it, and entered. The
man pointed to an old shovel with a large corner
broken off, and Fred picked it up and went to
work.

Nearly half of the cellar bottom had been lowered
about a foot by digging, and the man was lowering
the remainder. With Fred’s help, after about two
hours of hard work, it was all cut down to the lower
level.

Fred had kept his eyes open, and scrutinized every
shovelful ; but nothing like a coin had gladdened his
sight. Once he thought he had one, and ran to the



light with it. But it proved to be only the iron ear
broken off from some old bucket.

“T guess that'll do,” said the man, wiping his brow,
when the leveling was completed.

“Do?” said Fred, in astonishment.
haven’t found any of the money yet.”

“What money?”

“The money the old miser buried, of course.”

The man laughed heartily. “I wasn’t digging for
any miser’s money,” said he.

“Vou said so,” said Fred.

“O, no!” said the man.
for a fortune.
all about it.”

They took seats on the highest of the cellar steps
that led out of doors.

“Vou see,” continued the man, “my wife went down
cellar one day, and struck her forehead against one
of those beams ; and she died of it. If she had lived
a week longer, she’d have inherited a very pretty
property. So I’ve lowered the cellar floor; and if I
should have another wife, her head couldn’t reach the
beams, unless she was very tall—taller than Iam. So
if she inherits a fortune, the cellar won’t prevent us
getting it. That’s the fortune I was digging for.”

“Tt’s a mean trick to play on a boy; and if I was
a tnan, I’d lick you,” said Fred, as he shouldered his
bundle and walked away.

Two or three miles farther down the road he came
to a small blacksmith shop. The smith, a stout, mid-
dle-aged man, was sitting astride of a small bench
with long legs, making horseshoe nails on a little
anvil that rose from one end of it.

Fred went in, and asked if he might sit there a
while to rest.

“Certainly,” said the blacksmith, as he threw a
finished nail into an open drawer under the bench.
“How far have you come?”

“T can’t tell,” said Fred; “it must be as much as
ten miles.”

“Got far to go?”

“T don’t know how far.

“Why, we

“T said I was digging
Come and sit down, and I'll tell you

I’m going to seek my for-
tune.”

The smith let his hammer rest on the anvil, and
took a good look at Fred. “You seem to be ip
earnest,” said he.

“T am,” said Fred.

‘Don’t you know that gold dollars don’t go rolling
TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



up hill in these days, for boys to chase them, and we
haven’t any fairies in this country, dancing by moon-
light over buried treasure?” said the smith.

““O, yes, I know that,” said Fred. “But people
get rich in these days as much as ever they did.
And I want to find out the best way to do it.”

“What is that nail made of ?” said the smith, hold-
ing out one.

“Tron,” said Fred, wondering what that had to do
with a boy seeking his fortune.

“ And that hammer?”

“Tron.”

“ And that anvil?”

“Tron.”

“Well, don’t you see,” said the smith, resting his
hammer on the anvil, and leaning over it toward
Fred, — “don’t you see that everything depends on
iron? A farmer can’t cultivate the ground until he
has a plow; and that plow is made of iron. A
butcher can’t cut up a critter until he has a knife ;
and that knife is made of iron. A tailor can’t make
a garment without a needle ; and that needle is made
of iron. You can’t build a ship without iron, nor
start a mill, nor arm a regiment. The stone age,
and the brass age, and the golden age are all gone
by. This is the iron age; and iron is the basis of all
wealth. The richest man is the man that has the
most iron. Railroads are made of iron, and the rich-
est men are those that own railroads.”

“How can one man own a railroad?” said Fred,
amazed at the vastness of such wealth.

“Well, he can’t exactly, unless he steals it,” said
the srnith.

“T should like to own a railroad,” said Fred ; and
he thought what fun he might have, as well as profit,
being conductor on his own train ; “but I didn’t come
to steal ; [ want to find a fortune honestly.”

“Then look for it in iron,’ said the smith. “Iron
in some form always paves the road to prosperity.”

“Would blacksmithing be a good way?” said
Fred.

“Now you've hit it,” said the smith. “I haven’t
got rich myself, and probably never shall. But I
didn’t take the right course. J was a sailor when I
was young, and spent half my life wandering around
the world, before I settled down and turned black-
smith. I dare say if I had learned the trade early
enough, and had gone and set up a shop in some



large place, or some rising place, and hadn’t always
been so low in my charges, I might be a rich man.”

Fred thought the blacksmith must be a very enter-
taining and learned man, whom it would be pleasant
as well as profitable to work with. So, after thinking
it over a few minutes, he said, —

“ Do you want to hire a boy to learn the business?”

“T’ll give you a chance,” said the smith, “and see
what you can do.” Then he went outside and drew
in a wagon, which was complete except part of the
iron-work, and started up his fire, and thrust in some:
small bars of iron.

Fred laid aside his bundle, threw off his jacket, and:
announced that he was ready for work. The smith
set him to blowing the bellows, and afterward gave
him a light sledge, and showed him how to strike the
red-hot bar on the anvil, alternating with the blows of
the smith’s own hammer.

At first it was very interesting to feel the soft iron:
give at every blow, and see the sparks fly, and the bars.
and rods taking the well-known shapes of carriage-irons.
But either the smith had reached the end of his polit-
ical economy, or else he was too much in earnest
about his work to deliver orations ; his talk now was.
of “swagging,” and “upsetting,” and “ countersink-
ing,” and “taps,” and “dies” — all of which terms he
taught Fred the use of.

Fred was quick enough to learn, but had never
been fond of work ; and this was work that made the
sweat roll down his whole body. After an hour or
two, he gave it up.

“JT think I’ll look further for my fortune,” said he ;
“this is too hard work.” :

“All right,” said the smith; “but maybe you'll
fare worse. You've earned a little something, any-
way ;” and he drew aside his leather apron, thrust his.
hand into his pocket, and brought out seven cents ;,
which Fred accepted with thanks, and resumed his.
journey.

His next encounter was with a farmer, who sat in
the grassy corner of a field, under the shade of a
maple tree, eating his dinner. This reminded Fred
that it was noon, and that he was hungry.

“How d’e do, mister?” said Fred, looking through
the rail-fence. ‘I should like to come over and take
dinner with you.” :

“You'll have to furnish your own victuals,” said
the farmer. :
TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.



“ That I can do,” said Fred, and climbed over the
fence, and sat down by his new acquaintance.

““Where you bound for?” said the farmer, as Fred
opened his bundle, and took out a sandwich.

“ Going to seek my fortune,” said Fred.

“You don’t look like a runaway. ’prentice,” said
the farmer ; ‘‘but that’s a curious answer to a civil
question.”

“Tt’s true,” said Fred.
fortune.”

““Where do you expect to find it?”

““T can’t tell—I suppose I must hunt for it.”

“Well, I can tell you where to look for it, if you’re
in earnest; and ’tain’t so very far off, either,” said
the farmer, as he raised the jug of milk to his mouth.

Fred indicated by his attitude that he was all-atten-
tion, while the farmer took a long drink.

“In the ground,” said he, as he sat down the jug
with one hand, and brushed the other across his
mouth. “There’s no wealth but what comes out of
the ground in some way. All the trees and plants,
all the grains, and grasses, and garden-sass, all the
brick and stone, all the metals— iron, gold, silver,
copper —- everything comes out of the ground. That’s
where man himself came from, according to the Bible:
‘Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’
And the first primary foundation of it all is agri-
culture. Hewson, the blacksmith, pretends to say
it’s iron; and he maintained that side in the debat-
ing club at the last meeting. But I maintained it
was agriculture, and I maintain so still. Says I, ‘Mr.
President, what’s your tailor, and your sailor, and
your ship-builder, and your soldier, and your black-
smith going to do without something to eat? [Here
the farmer made a vigorous gesture by bringing down
his fist upon his knee.] They can’t eat needles, nor
spikes, nor guns, nor anvils. The farmer’s got to
feed ’em, every one on ’em. And they’ve got to
have a good breakfast before they can do a good
day’s work, and a dinner in the middle of it, and a
supper at the end of it. Can’t plow without iron?’
says I. ‘Why, Mr. President, in Syria and there-
abouts they plow with a crooked limb of a tree to
this day. The gentleman can see a picture of it
in Barnes’s Notes, if he has access to that valuable
work.’ And says I, ‘Mr. President, who was first in

the order of time — Adam the farmer, or Tubal Cain
the blacksmith ?

“T am going to seek my

No, sir ; Adam was the precursor of



Tubal Cain ; Adam had to be created before Tubal
Cain could exist. First the farmer, and then the
blacksmith ;—that, Mr. President, is the divine order
in the great procession of creation.’ ”

Here the farmer stopped, and cut a piece of meat
with his pocket-knife.

“Boy,” he continued, “if you want a fortune, you
must dig it out of the ground. You won’t find one
anywhere else.”

Fred thought of his recent unpleasant experience
in digging for a fortune, and asked, “Isn’t digging
generally pretty hard work.”

“Yes,” said the farmer, as he took up his hoe, and
rose to his feet; “it zs hard work ; but it’s a great:
deal more respectable than wandering around like a.
vagrant, picking up old horse-shoes, and_ hollering -
‘Money !’ at falling stars.”

Fred thought the man was somehow getting per--
sonal. So he took his bundle, climbed the fence, and’
said good-bye to him.

He walked on until he came to a fork of the road,
and there he stopped, considering which road he would
take. He could find no sign-board of any sort, and
was about to toss one of his pennies to determine the
question, when he saw a white steeple at some dis-
tance down the right hand road. “It’s always good
luck to pass a church,” said he, and took that road.

When he reached the church, he sat down on the
steps to rest. While he sat there, thinking over all
he had seen and heard that day, a gentleman wearing
a black coat, a high hat, and a white cravat, came
through the gate of a little house almost buried in
vines and bushes, that stood next to the church. He
saw Fred, and approached him, saying, —

“ Whither away, my little pilgrim ?”

“T am going to seek my fortune,” said Fred.

“ Haven’t you a home?”

“ Ves, sir.”

“ Parents?”

“Ves, sir.”

“ Are they good to you?”

“O, yes, sir.”

“Then you are fortunate already,” said the gentle-
man. ‘When I was at your age, I had neither home
nor parents, and the people where I lived were very

?

unkind.”
“But my father isn’t rich,” said Fred; “and he
never will be.”
_TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.

“And you want to be rich ?” said the gentleman.
“Yes, sir. I thought I’d try to be,” said Fred.
“What for?” ;
‘What for?
money.”

“ And what would you do with the money, if you
had it?”

“Vd —I’d use it,” said Fred, beginning to feel that
he had come to debating school without sufficiently
understanding the question.

“Do you see that pile of large stones near my
barn?” said the gentleman.
and lend you a wheelbarrow to get them home.”

“J thank you,” said Fred ; “but I don’t want them.
They’re of no use.”

“©, yes, they are! You can build a house with
them,” said the gentleman.

“But I’m not ready to build a house,” said Fred.
“JT haven’t any land to build it on, nor any other
materials, nor anything to put into it; and I’m not
old enough to be married and keep house.”

“Very true, my son! and if you had a cart-load of
money now, it wouldn’t be of any more value to you
than a cart-load of those building stones. But, after
you have been to school a few years longer, and
trained yourself to some business, and made a man of
yourself, and developed your character, then you will
have tastes, and capacities, and duties that require
money ; and if you get it as you go along, and always
have enough to satisfy them, and none in excess to
encumber you, that will be the happiest fortune you
can find,”

Fred took a few minutes to think of it.
said, —

“T believe you have told me the truth, and set me
on the right track. I will go home again, and try to
make a man of myself first, and a rich.man afterward.”

Why — why —so as to have the

Then he

“T’ll give you those, .



“Before you start, perhaps you would like to come
into my house and get rested, and look at some
pictures.”

Fred accepted the invitation. The lady of the
house gave him a delicious lunch, and he spent an
hour in the clergyman’s study, looking over two or
three portfolios of prints and drawings, which they
explained to him. Then he bade them good-bye,
shouldered kis bundle, and started for home, having
the good fortune to catch a long ride, and arriving
just as I did.

“What I’ve learned,” said he, as he finished his
story, “is, that you can get rich if you don’t care for
anything else ; but you’ve either got to work yourself
to death for it, orelse cheat somebody. You can get
it out of the ground by working, or you can get it out
of men by cheating. But who wants to do either? I
don’t. And I believe it isn’t much use being rich,
any way.”

Then I told Fred my adventures. “And what
I’ve learned,” said I, “is, that you can get rich
without much trouble, if you’re willing to wait all
your life for forests to grow and property to rise.
But what’s the use of money to an old man or an
old woman that’s blind and deaf, and just ready to
die? Or what good does it do a mean man, with a
lot of loafers round him? It can’t make him a
gentleman.”

And meditating upon this newly-acquired philoso-
phy, Fred and I went to our homes.

“Mother,” said I, “I’ve got back.”

“Ves, my son, I expected you about this time.”

“But I haven’t found a fortune, nor brought your
camel’s-hair shawl.”

“Tt’s just as well,” said she; “for J haven’t any-
thing else that would be suitable to wear with it.”




























































































































THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS PIES.

“THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS PIES.



BY E. F.



E “LORIS shut up her book, and looked at mam-

ma. “Mamma, I wish we could be s’prised
Christmas !”

“Surprised.” It was a moment before mamma

understood. “It is somewhat difficult,” she said

then, “to surprise little girls who feel at liberty
to go to mamma’s drawers at any time, and to untie
all the packages when the delivery-man comes. Ina
small house like this people have to help surprise
themselves.”

“Who wants to help surprise theirselves!” ex-
claimed little Katy. “You ought to be cunning,
mamma, and hide things; a ‘truly’ hide — you
know—and not just in bureau drawers.”

“ That's not what I mean at all, Katy,” said Floris.
“‘Mamma, I mean a surprise, and not our Christmas
presents. Of course, Katy and I know what them’ll
be, or most know. It'll be our new hats, or some
aprons, or something we’d had to have any way, and
just one of the every-day Christmas presents besides ;
a book, or a horn of candy. I most know mine’ll be
a silver thimble this year, ’cause I lost my old one,
and I heard you tell papa that Katy ’d better have a
workbox, so’s to s’courage her to learn sewing more.
Now, see ’f ’tain’t so.”

Mamma sat before her little daughters, her guilt
confessed in her looks.

“Not that we blame you, mamma,” added Floris,
kindly. “I’m old ’nough now to know that if Santa
Klaus brings us anything, he comes round before-
hand, and gets every cent they cost out of papa—
great Santa Klaus, that is!”

“ But what did you mean by a surprise, Floris ?”

“O, I d’no, quite,” answered Floris. “But I
thought I sh’d like to have something happen that
never had before ; something planned for me ’n’ Katy
that we didn’t know a breath about, and there was no
chance of prying into, so that ’twould honestly s’prise
us. J never was s’prised in my life yet, mamma. I
always found out some way.”

Mrs. Dewey smiled. She went out to prepare



dinner, and nothing more was said; and Miss Floris
took up her book with a sigh.

But at night, while she was buttoning the two white
night-dresses, Mrs. Dewey returned to the subject.
“My little daughters, if you will keep out of the
kitchen to-morrow, all day, I think I can promise that
something very strange and delightful shall happen
on Christmas.”

Four little feet jumped right up and down, two little
faces flew up in her own, four little hands caught hold
of her, four bright eyes transfixed her — indeed, they
came pretty near having the secret right out of her on
the spot.

“O, mamma! What zs it?”

“You must be very anxious to be ‘truly s’prised,’”
remarked mamma.

Floris saw the point. She subsided at once. She
smiled at mamma with the first elder-daughter smile
that had ever crossed the bright child-face.

“T guess I shall be ‘truly s’prised’ if we are
s’prised,” she said, with a funny little grimace, as she
laid her head on the pillow.

“ Now, remember, it is to be a ‘truly keep-out,’”
warned Mrs. Dewey. “You are not to enter the
kitchen at all—not once all day to-morrow.”

“Why, surely, mamma Dewey, you are not to do
anything towa’ds it before breakfast,” reasoned little
Katy.

“T shall at least notice whether I am obeyed.”

« What’ll happen if we don’t?” inquired Katy.

“ Nothing’ll happen then,” said mamma, quietly.

The little voices said no more, and mamma went
down stairs. They said not a single word more, be-
cause the little Deweys were so constructed that had
there not been a standing command that they should
not speak after mamma closed the door, their little
pink tongues would have run all night; but they
squeezed each other’s hands very tightly, and also
remained awake somewhat longer than usual.

Mrs. Dewey smiled next morning to see her daugh-

' ters seated at their lessons in that part of the sitting-
THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS PIES.



room furthest from the door that opened into the
hall and thus into the kitchen. They never once
directly referred to last night’s conversation ; but they
were extremely civil to her personally, most charm-
ingly civil, obedient, and thoughtful. Indeed, Katy’s
little round shingled head would bob out into the hall
almost every time mamma’s step was heard. “You
must let me bring you anything I can, mamma— any-
thing I can, ’thout going into the kitchen, I mean.”

But, to Katy’s disappointment, mamma wished no
assistance. Floris offered to go down town, if mamma
needed. But mamma wished nothing that Floris could
do. However, to their delight, they saw the delivery-
man, when he came, taking down lots of orders in his
book. “Would it be w’ong to listen in the hall?”
Katy whispered. ‘“’Cause I could hear everything
she told him, ’*f I was a-mind to.”

Floris told her it would be very wrong.

The elder little girl studied, and played, and sang,
and amused her doll all the morning, and refused, to
listen to any pleasant sound she heard from the
kitchen. She shut her little nose, also, against a sud-

den whiff of deliciousness as some door opened. She

even went to the well, and brought hard water for her
room, because the rain water would have taken her
near the forbidden regions.

But little Katy was as restless as.a bee. She had
a thousand errands through the hall. When Floris
reprimanded her, she said she didn’t *tend to go a-near
the kitchen door. Floris looked out often ; but, at
last, the little one settled on the hall stairs with her
paint-box, and the elder sister felt at rest.

But even to her it finally grew along forenoon. Be-
fore ten o’clock she found herself infected with the
same restlessness. Then the various sounds which she
heard distracted her, such busy sounds — she would,
at last, have given almost anything to know what was
going on out there. .

The mantel clock was just striking eleven when the
hall door unclosed, and Katy’s plump little person
partially appeared.

“ Come here, quick, quick ! or she’ll be back. L’ve
found out, Flory /”

“O, have you— Why, Katy Dewey 1!” Floris over-
carned the music-stool as she ran. Katy, her head
turned listeningly toward the kitchen door, blindly
crowded a spoonful of something into her mouth.

“There | isn’t that ’licious good? O, Floris, such



things as I have seen out there !— the box of raisins
is down on the table, and all her extrach Lubin
bottles. I couldn’t stay to look much; but, Floris,
there’s twelve of the most beautiful mince patties —
O, the most beautiful! all iced, and ‘Merry Christ-
mas,’ in pink sand, on every one, and there’s twelve
more in the iron ready to fill— wasn’t that I gave
you crammed with raisins!”

Floris’s eyes danced. “Kit Dewey, I’ll bet we’re
going to have a Christmas party—a party of little
boys and girls! What else was there, do tell me!”

“O, I d’no; there was heaps of raisins — and,
mebbe, there was ice cream ;” suddenly remembering
Floris’s fondness for that delectable.

Floris knew better than that; but still- her eyes
danced. Suddenly they heard the back kitchen door,
and, as suddenly, Floris turned white. “The mince-
spoon, Katy! You've brought the mince-spoon !
Mamma’ll know!”

Katy’s little mouth dropped open.

“ Quick! She’s coming this way !”

Floris softly got into the sitting-room, so did Katy.

“Where is the spoon?” hurriedly whispered the
elder girl.

“TJ stuffed it under the stair carpet, where that rod
was up.”

They could hear mamma coming through the hall.
But she came only part way. After a pause, she
returned to the kitchen.

“ Katy, what if she’s found it?”

“ She couldn’t.”

They stole out into the hall. The spoon was gone!

“OQ, Katy! I'll bet you left it sticking out! ” said
Floris, and burst into tears. Katy did the same.
With one accord they ascended the stairs to their
room.

When, with red eyes, they came down to dinner,
they found mamma in the dining-room as placid as
usual. The kitchen door was wide open. After
dinner Floris was requested to wipe the dishes. Her
work took her into every part of the kitchen domains,
and her red eyes peered about sharply ; but nothing
unusual was to be seen— not one trace of the beau
tiful patties, not a raisin-stem, even !

Christmas day came and went. Floris had her
silver thimble, and Katy her work-box. The dinner
table was in the usual holiday trim. But the little
frosted pies, with the pink greetings, were not brought


















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THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.



forward —no, and not one word was said concerning
them, not even by mamma’s eyes.

At night they cried softly in their little white bed,
after mamma had gone down. “ And, Floris, I ’mem-
ber now, there was something else, under a white
cloth, like a plate of kisses, I thought,” sobbed Katy,
her wet little face pressed into the pillows; “and I
shall always think she was going to make fruit-
cake, for there was citron all cut up, and there was
almonds —”

“Don’t, Katy!

I don’t want to hear it! I can’t

®



hear it!” said Floris, in a thick voice ; “and don’t
let us disobey mamma more by talking.”

But what did become of the beautiful, frosted, pink~
lettered little pies — would you like to know?

Floris and Katy cannot tell you; for never yet
have mamma and her little daughters exchanged a
word upon the subject — but I think 7 can. At least
I was told that a factory-weaver’s family, where there
were several little girls, had the most lovely of patties,
and kisses, and sugar-plums sent them for their
Christmas dinner last year.



THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.



BY ELLA FARMAN.



NLESS I take a long half mile circle, my daily
U walk to the post-office leads me down through
an unsavory, wooden-built portion of town. I am
obliged to pass several cheap groceries, which smell
horribly of sauerkraut and Limburg cheese, a res-
taurant steamy with Frenchy soups, a livery stable,
besides two or three barns, and some gloomy, window-
less, shut-up buildings, of whose use I haven’t the
slightest idea.

Of course, when I go out in grand toilet, I take
the half mile circle. But, being a business woman,
and generally in a hurry, I usually go this short way
in my short walking-dress and big parasol ; and, prob-
ably, there is an indescribable expression to my nose,
just as Mrs. Jack Graham says.

Well, one morning I was going down town in the
greatest hurry. I was trying to walk so fast that I
needn’t breathe once going by the Dutch groceries ;
and I was almost to the open space which looks away
off to the sparkling river, and the distant park, and the
forenoon sun,—TI always take a good, long, sweet
breath there, coming and going, — when my eye was
caught by a remarkable group across the street.

Yes, during the night, evidently, while the town
was asleep, there had been an arrival —strangers
direct from the Sunny South.

And there the remarkable-looking strangers sat, in



a row, along the narrow step of one of the mysterious
buildings I have alluded to. They were sunning
themselves with all the delightful carelessness of the
experienced traveler. Though, evidently, they had
been presented with the liberty of the city, it was just
as evident that they didn't care a fig for sightseeing —
not a fig, either, for the inhabitants. All they asked
of our town was its sunshine. They had selected the
spot where they could get the most of it. Through
the open space opposite the sun streamed broadly ;
and the side of a weather-colored building is so
warm !

What a picture of dolce far niente, of “sweet-do--
nothing,” it was! I stopped, hung my parasol over
my shoulder, — there was a little too much sunshine
for me, —- and gazed at it.

“O, how you do love it! You bask like animals!
That fullness of enjoyment is denied to us white-skins.
What a visible absorption of luster and heat! You
are the true lotus-eaters !”

The umber-colored creatures —I suppose they are
as much warmer for being brown, as any brown sur-
face is warmer than a white one. I never did see
sunshine drank, and absorbed, and enjoyed as that
was. It was a bit of Egypt and the Nile life. I could
not bear to go on,

Finally, I crossed the street to them. Not one of
THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.



















































































: The eldest brother was standing, lean-
ing against the building. He turned one eye on me,

them stirred.
and kept it there. At his feet lay a bulging, ragged
satchel. Evidently he was the protector.

The elder sister, with hands tucked snugly under
her folded arms, winked and blinked at me dozily.
The little boy with the Nubian lips was sound asleep,
—a baby Osiris, —his chubby hands hiding together
between his knees for greater warmth. The youngest
sister, wrapped in an old woolen shawl, was the only
uncomfortable one of the lot. There was no doze nor
dream in her eyes yet — poor thing, sZe was cold!

_I didn’t believe they had had where to lay their
heads during the night. Liberty of a city, to one
kind of new arrivals, means just that, you know.
Sundry crumbs indicated an absence of the conven-
tional breakfast table. Poor little darkies !

ae Children,” I said, like a benevolently-disposed
oy marshal, “you mustn’t sit here in the street.”
Bee gwine on soon, mistis,” said the protector,



“T low we ain't, Jim!” The big sister said this
without any diminution of the utter happiness of her
look.

“Tt’s powerful cold comin’ up fru the norf, mistis.
I mus’ let ’em warm up once a day,” said Jim.

“Up through the north! Pray, where are you
going ?”

Jim twisted about.
his boot, reflectively.

“T ex-pect, I ex-pect—”

“Vou spec, Jim! You allers spectin’ !
we’s free—we kin go anywhars |”

I suspect there had been a great deal of long-
suffering on the part of Jim. He burst out like flame
from a smoldering fire, —

“ Anywhars / That's what ails niggas !

and so they're nuffin’ nor
Rose Moncton, you 2i#’t go

He looked down at the toe of

Mistis,

Freedom

means azywhars to ’em,
nobody. You vagabon’,
anywhars much longer — not ‘long o’? me!”

“OQ, you white folksy Jim! I ’low this trompin’

was yer own plan. When you finds a town whar it’s
THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.



any show of warm, I’ll hang up my things and stay,
and not afore—ye hyar that! I ‘low I won’t see
Peyty and Kit a-freezin’ !”

She scowled at me, she actually did, as if I froze
her with my pale face and cool leaf-green dress, and
kept the sun off her, talking with that “white folksy
Jim.”

I fancied Jim was hoping I would say something
more to them. I fancied he, at least, was in great
need of a friend’s advice.

“Where did you come from?” I asked him.
the other head of the family answered, —

“Come from nuff sight warmer place then we’s
goin’ anywhars.”

“Rose is allers techy when she’s cold, mistis,”
Jim apologized. “Ole Maum Phillis used fer to say
as Rose’s temper goose-pimpled when the cold air
struck it” We kim from Charleston, mistis. We’s
speckin’ to work out some land for ourselves, and
hev ahome. We kim up norf to git wages, so as we
kin all help at it. I’d like to stop hyar, mistis.”

“Hyar! I “low we’s goin’ soufard when we gits
from dis yer, you Jim,” sniffed “Rose Moncton,” her
face up to the sunshine.

Poor Jim looked care-worn. I dare say my face
was tolerably sympathetic. It felt so, at least.

“ Mistis,” the fellow said, “she’s kep us tackin’ souf
an’ norf, souf an’ norf; all dis yer week, or we’d been
somewhars. She don’t like de looks of no town yer.
We’s slep’ roun’ in sheds six weeks now. I gits
sawin’ an’ choppin’, an’ sich, to do once a day, while
dey warms up in de sun, an’ eats a bite. Den up we
gits, an’ tromps on. We’s got on so fur, but Rose
ain’t clar at all yit whar we'll stop. Mistis, whar is
de warmest place you knows on?”

I thought better and better of myself as the heavy-
faced fellow thus appealed to me. I felt flattered by
his confidence in me. I always feel flattered when a
strange kitty follows me, or the birdies hop near for
my crumbs. But I will confess that no human vaga-
bond had ever before so skillfully touched the soft
place in my heart. Poor, dusky wanderer! he looked
so hungry, he looked so worn-out, too, as a head of a
family will when the other head pulls the other way.

“Well, Jim, the warmest place I know of is in my
kitchen. I left a rousing fire there ten minutes ago.
You all stay here until I come back, which will be in
about seven minutes ; then you shall eo heme with

a

But



me, and I will give you a good hot dinner. You may
stay all night, if you like, and perhaps I can advise
you. You will be rested, at the least, for a fresh
start.”

Rose Moncton lifted her listless head, and looked
in my face. “Laws!” said she. “Laws!” said
she again.

Jim pulled his forelock to me, vailed the flash in his
warm umbery eyes with a timely wink of the heavy
lids. He composed himself at once into a waiting
attitude. :

I heard another “Laws!” as I hastened away.
“That young mistis is done crazy. She'll nebber
kim back hyar, ’pend on dat!” Such was Rose’s
opinion of me.

I opened my ears for Jim’s.
reply.

Father and mother had gone out of town for two
days. Our hired girl had left. I really was “ mistis”
of the premises. If I chose to gather in a circle of
shivering little “niggas” around my kitchen stove,
and heat that stove red-hot, there was nobody to say
I better not.

I was back in five minutes, instead of seven. Jim.
stood straight up on his feet the moment he dis-
covered me coming. Rose showed some faint signs
of life and interest. “’Clar, now, mistis! Kim
along, den, Jim, and see ye look to that there verlise.
Hyar, you Kit!” She managed to rouse her sister
with her foot, still keeping her hands warmly hidden,
and her face to the sun.

But the other head took the little ones actively. in
charge. “Come, Peyty, boy! come, Kit! we’s gwine
now!”

Peyty opened his eyes — how starry they were!
“O, we goin’, mo’? Jim, I don’t want to go no mo’!

“ Ain’t gwine clar thar no, Peyty, boy ; come, Kit —
only to a house to warm the Peyty boy — come,
Kit!”

Kit was coming fast enough.
be taken by the arm and pulled up. Then he stepped
slowly, the tears coming. The movement revealed
great swollen welts, where his stiff, tattered, leathern
shoes had chafed and worn into the fat, black little
legs. “Is dat ar Mistis Nelly?” he asked, opening

But Jim made nc

Eut Peyty had te

| his eyes, wonderingly, at the white lady.

Rose had got up now.
her face. “Mo, Peyty.

A sudden quiver ran over
Mist’? Nelly’s dead, you
THE STRANGERS FROM THE SOUTH.





xnow. Wish we’s back to Mas’r Moncton’s, and
Mist’ Nelly libbin’, an’ Linkum sojers dead afore
dey cum!”

There was a long sigh from everybody, even from
Jim. But he drew in his lips tightly the next moment.
“Some niggas nebber was worf freein’.
Peyty, boy—ready, mistis.”

I walked slowly along at the head of the strangers
trom the south. Little feet were so sore, Peyty
couldn’t walk fast. Kit’s big woman’s size shoes
were so stiff she could only shuffle along. Jim’s toes
were protruding, and I fancied he and Rose were as
foot-sore as the little ones. I dare say people looked
and wondered ; but I am not ashamed to be seen with
any kind of children.

I took them around to the back door, into the
kitchen, which I had found unendurable while baking
my bread and pies. The heated air rushed out against
my face as I opened the door. It was a delicious
May-day ; but the procession behind me, entering,
proceeded direct to the stove, and surrounded it in
winter fashion, holding their hands out to the heat.
Even from Jim I heard a soft sigh of satisfaction.

Poor, shivering children of the tropics ! I drew up
the shades. There were no outer blinds, and the
sun streamed in freely.

“There, now. Warm yourselves, and take your
own time for it. Put in wood, Jim, and keep as much
fire as you like. Iam going to my room to rest for an
hour.- Be sure that you don’t go off, for I wish you
to stay here until you are thoroughly rested. I have
plenty of wood for you to saw, Jim.”

I brought out a pan of cookies. I set them on the
table. ‘“ Here, Rose, see that Peyty and Kit have

all they want. When I come down, I’ll get you some
clinner.”

Come along,

The poor children in stories, and in real life, too,
for that matter, always get. only bread and butter —
lear me, poor dears ! When I undertake a romance
for these waifs in real life, or story, I always give them
cookies — cookies, sweet, golden, and crusty, with
sifted sugar,

I left them all, even to Jim, looking over into the
pan. My! rich, sugary jumbles, and plummy queen’s
cakes? When I saw their eyes dance —no sleep in
those eyes now —I was glad it wasn’t simply whole-
Some sandwiches and plain fried cakes, as somebody
at my elbow Says now it ought to have been. I

available.





would have set out a picnic table, with ice-cream and
candies, for those wretched little “ niggas,” if Icould!
I nodded to them, and went away. It is so nice, after
you have made a child happy, to add some unmistaka-
ble sign that it is quite welcome to the happiness !

I knew there was nothing which they could steal.
I expected they would explore the pantry. I judged
them by some of my little white friends. But the silver
was locked up. China and glass would hardly be
If, after they had stuffed themselves with
those cookies, they could want cold meat, and bread
and butter, I surely shouldn’t begrudge it. Then I
thought of my own especial lemon tart, which stood
cooling on the shelf before the window ; but I was

; not going back to insult that manly Jim Moncton by

removing it.

Just as I was slipping on my dressing-gown up in
my own cool, quiet chamber, I caught a faint sound
of the outside door of the kitchen, Something like a
shriek, or a scream, followed. ‘Then there was an
unmistakable and mighty overturning of chairs. I
rushed down. At the very least I expected to see my
romantic “Rose Moncton” with her hands clenched
in brother Jim’s kinky hair. With loosened tresses,
without belt or collar, I appeared on the scene.

What did I see? Why, I saw Phillis, Mrs. Jack
Graham’s black cook, with every one of my little
“niggas”? in her arms — heads of the family and all!
There they were, sobbing and laughing together, the
portly Phillis the loudest of the whole. One of Mrs.
Jack’s favorite china bowls lay in fragments on the
floor.

Phillis called out hysterically as she saw me. Jim
discovered me the same moment. He detached him-
self, went up to the window, and bowed his head down
upon the sash. I saw the tears roll down his cheek
and drop.

“Laws, Miss Carry! dese my ole mas’r’s niggers !
dey’s Mas’r Moncton’s little nigs, ebery one! dey’s
runned roun’ under my feet in Mas’r Moncton’s
kitchen many a day down in ole Carline —bress em
souls!” She hugged them again, and sobbed afresh,
The children clung to the old cook’s neck,and waist, and
arms like so many helpless, frightened black kittens.

Phillis at last recovered her dignity. She pointed
them to their chairs. She picked up the pieces of
china in her apron. ‘“ Done gone, anyhow — dese
pickaninnies gib ole Phillis sich a turn ! It mose like
WI!’ WEE WINKERS BLINKIN’.



seein’ Mas’r Moncton an’ Miss Nelly demselves.
Whar you git ’em, Miss Carry?”

I told her.

“Bress your heart, Miss Carry! Len’ me a cup,
and git me some yeast, and I'll bring Mistis Graham
ober, an’ I’ll be boun’, when she sees dat ar lubly
little Peyty, she’ll hire him to—to—to—lor! she’ll
hire him to look into his diamint eyes.”

I know she herself kissed tears out of more than
one pair of “diamint eyes” while I was getting the
yeast. I heard her.

“OQ, Maum Phillis!” I heard Jim say. “You think
we'll hire out roun’ hyar?” :

“Could we, Maum Phillis?” pleaded Rose, her
voice soft and warm now. “ We’s done tired out.
I’m clean ready to drop down in my tracks long this
yer blessed stove, and nebber stir anywhars |”

“ Bress you, chilluns ! You Aev tromped like sojers,
clar from ole Carline! Spec it seems like home,
findin’ one of de old place hands— Phillis knows.
Dar, dar! don’t take on so. Miss Carry, she’l] bunk



you down somewhar it’s warm, and thar you stay an”
rest dem feet. I’ll send my mistis ober, and dey
two’ll pervide fer ye on dis yer street ; dis yer one ob.

' de Lord’s own streets.”

Well, do you think Mistis Graham and Mistis Carry
dishonored Maum Phillis’s faith in them?

No, indeed! The family found homes on “de
Lord’s own street.” Jam is coachman at Squire
Lee’s. Peyty is at the same place, taken in at first.
for his sweet disposition, and “diamint eyes,” I sus-
pect. He is now a favorite table-waiter.

Kit is Maum Phillis’s right-hand woman. Rose is
our own hired girl. She is somewhat given to sleep-
iness, and to idling in sunny windows, and to scorch-~
ing her shoes and aprons against the stove of a
winter’s evening. But, on the whole, she is a good
servant; and we have built her a bedroom out of
the kitchen.

I have never regretted crossing the street to speak

| to the strangers from the south.

+

WI?

WEE WINKERS BLINKIN’.

BY J. E. RANKIN, D. D.

V’ wee winkers blinkin’,
Blinkin’ like the starn,

What’s wee tottie thinkin’?
Tell her mither, bairn.

On night’s downy dream-wings,
Where’s the bairnie been,

That she has sic seemings
In her blinkin’ een?

Let her mither brood her,
Like the mither-doe ;

When enough she’s woo’d her,
She maun prie her mou’:

Let her mither shake her,
Like an apple bough,

Frae her dreams to wake her:—
That’s our bairnie now!



There! I’ve got her crowin’
Like the cock at dawn ;
Mow’ wi’ fistie stowin’,
When she tries to yawn:
She’ll na play the stranger
Drappit frae the blue,
Lest there might be danger
Back she sud gae through!

She’s our little mousie,
In this housie born,
That I tumble tousie,
Ilka, ilka morn:
She’s her mither’s bairnie,
Only flesh an’ blood ;
Blinkin’ like the starnie
Through a neebor cloud.












































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































LuUCY’S PET.


THE CHILDRENS’ SHOES.



BY BLANCHE B. BAKER (wine years’ ol@).



OUR pairs of little shoes Four pairs of little shoes
All in a row; White at the toe.
Four pairs of little shoes
For to-morrow. Four pairs of little shoes
Travelling all day ;
Four pairs of little shoes Four pairs of little shoes
Worn every day ; Resting from play.
Four pairs of little shoes
Ready for play. : Four pairs of little shoes
Waiting for day ;
Four pairs of little shoes Four pairs of little shoes
By the fire’s glow ; Never go astray !

ETHEL’S EXPERIMENT.



BY B. E. E,



HITE flakes on the upland, white flakes on Green leaves on the upland, green leaves on the plain,

the plain, And bluebirds and robins and south winds again.

Frost bon-bons in meadow, in garden, in lane ; The brook in the meadow is wide awake now,
And wise little Ethel — the strangest of girls — And fragrant bloom drops from the old willows
Puts on her grave thinking-cap, shakes her brown bough,

curls, When Ethel remembers her treasure, her prize,
And talks to herself, in a curious way, That under the edge of the great boulder lies ;
Of “snow” anda “ball” aud a “hot summer’s day!” And stealthily creeping close down to the brink,
Then, down to the brook, where the gnarled willows Where the slender reeds quiver — now what do you

grow, think
And the ice-covered reeds stand like soldiers in row, Our little girl found? Why, never a trace
Our brave little girl trudges off all alone, Of the snow-ball— O no! but just in its place
And rolls a large snow-ball just under the stone A tiny white violet, sweetest of sweet,
That lies on the brink of the streamlet, and then Because of the coverlid over its feet
In this wise begins her soliloquy: “ When Through all the long winter! And Ethel’s mamma,
The Fourth of July comes, what fun it, will be When she heard the whole story said, “ Truly we are
To have all this snow tucked away, for you see No wiser than children. We bury our grief,

Nobody will guess how it came there, — but me!” And find in its hiding-place Hope’s tender leaf!”
CINDERS: THE FORTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.



CINDERS:
THE FORTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.



BY MADGE ELLIOT.



OW artful the wind was that cold March morn-

ing, hiding away every now and then, pretend-

ing to be quite gone, only to rush out with a fearful

howl at such unexpected moments that Carl was
nearly blown off his feet each time.

But he struggled bravely forward, bending his head
to the blast, and holding his brimless hat on with one
hand, while he carried his battered tin pail in the
other.

There was not a gleam of fire in the wretched room
he had just left; and Tony and Lena, his little sisters,
_wrapped in the old piece of carpet that served them
for a blanket, were a/most crying with hunger and
with cold.

They would have cried outright if Carl had not
kissed them, and said, “Never mind, young uns —
wait till I can give you each a reg’lar bang-up lace
hankercher to cry on, — zen you may cry as much as
you please.”

Father and mother had died within a week of each
other, when February’s snows were upon the ground,
leaving these three poor children without money and
without friends —a bad way for even grown-ups to be
left.

So Carl, poor boy, found himself, at ten years of
age, the head of a family.

Of course he became a newsboy.

Almost all heads of families ten years and under,

become newsboys.

Twenty-five cents given him by an old woman whe
sold apples and peanuts, and who, by the way, was
not much better off than he was himself, started him
in business.

But the business, I am sorry to say, scarcely paid
the rent, leaving nothing for clothing, food and fire,
three very necessary things,—be a home ever so
humble.

So every morning, almost as soon as the cay



dawned — and I can tell you day dawns very quickly
in a room where the window hasn’t a scrap of shade
or curtain— before he went down town for his stock —
of morning papers, Carl started out to bring hom¢
the family fuel.

This consisted of whatever sticks and bits of woo
he could find lying about the streets, and whateve
cinders and pieces of coal he could pick from th
ash-barrels and boxes.

If the weather was at all mild, Tony, the eldest
sister, and the housekeeper, went with him, and helped
him fill the old pail.

She carried a forlorn-looking basket, that seemed
ashamed of the old piece of rope that served for its
handle, and stopped on her way home at several
houses, where the servant girls had taken a fancy to
the gray-eyed, shy little thing, to get the family mar-
keting.

But alas! very very often the supply fell far short
of the demand, for the winter had been a very sever>
one, and everybody had such a number of calls from
all sorts of needy people, that they could afford ts
give but little to each one.

This particular March morning Carl wentout alonc,
wondering as he went when “ the fortune” was going
to “turn up.”

For these poor children, shut out from dolls,
fairy-books, and all things that make childhood merry
and bright, used to while away many an hour, talking

of “a fortune” which the brother had prophesied
would one day be found in the ashes.

At different times this dream took different shapes.

Sometimes it was a pocket-book, oh! so fat with
greenbacks, sometimes a purse of gold, sometimes ‘“‘a
diamint ring:” but, whatever it should prove to be,
Carl was convinced, “felt it in his bones,” he said,
it would be found, and found hidden among the

cinders.
CINDERS: THE FORTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.

Once he had brought home a silver fork, ‘‘ scooped,”
as he called it in newsboy’s slang, from an ash-heap
in an open lot. -

On this fork the family had lived for three days.

Once he rescued a doll, which would have been
Jovely if it had had a head ; and at various times there
were scraps of ribbon, lace and silk, all of which
served to strengthen the belief that something wonder-
ful must “turn up ” at last.

“ Cricky ! how that old wind does holler,” said Carl
to himself, as he toiled along, “an’ it cuts right
through me, my jacket’s so thin an’ torn —I’d mend
it myself if I only knew how, and somebody’d lend
me a needle and thread.

“ Don’t I wish I’d find the fortune this morning!

“T dreamt of it last night dreamt it was a bar of
gold, long as my arm, and precious thick, too.

“Guess I’ll go to that big bar’l afore them orful
high flat houses — that’s a//us full of cinders.

' “Tt’s lucky for us them big bugs don’t sift their
ashes! Wewouldn’t have no fire if they did, —that’s
what’s the matter.”

So he made his way to the “big bar’l,” hoping no
-one had been there before him, and, leaning over
without looking, put his cold, red hand into the ashes,
but he drew it out again in a hurry, for, cold as z¢ was,
it had touched something colder.

“Hello!” cried Carl, “what’s that? It don’t feel
’zactly like the bar of gold,” and, dropping on his
‘knees, he peeped in.

A dirty little, shaggy, once-white dog raised a pair
-of soft, dark, wistful eyes to his face.

“Why! I’m blessed,” said Carl, in great surprise,
“if it ain’ta dog. Poor little beggar! that was his
nose I felt, an’ wasn’t it cold?”

“T s’pose he’s got in among the ashes to keep
warm; wot pooty eyes he’s got, just like that
woman’s wot give meaten cent stamp for the 7rzbune
the other day, and wouldn’t take no change. Poor
-old feller! Are you lost?”

The dog had risen to its feet, and still looking
pleadingly at Carl, commenced wagging its tail ina
friendly manner.

“Oh! you want me to take you home,” continued
‘Carl. “I can’t cause I dunno where you live, and
my family eats all they can git theirselves — they’re
awful pigs, they are,” and he laughed softly, ‘an’
-couldn’t board a dog nohow.”

an





But the dog kept on wagging his tail, and as soon
as Carl ceased speaking, as though grateful for even
a few kind words, it licked the cold hand that rested
on the side of the barrel.

That dog-kiss won the poor boy’s heart completely.
“Vou shall go with me,” he cried impulsively. “ Jest
come out of that barrel till I fill this pail with cin-
ders, and then we'll be off. He kin have the bones
we can’t crack with our teeth ennyhow,” he said to
himself, — not a very cheerful prospect, it must be
confessed, for the boarder.

The dog, as though he understood every word,
jumped from the box, and seated himself on the icy
pavement to wait for his new landlord and master.

In a few moments the pail was full, and the boy
turned toward his home, running as fast as he could,
with the dog trotting along by his side.

“See wot I foun’ in the ashes,’ he cried, bounding
into the room. ‘ Here’s the fortune alive an’ kickin’.
Wot you think of it?”

“Oh, wot a funny fortune!” said Tony, and “ Wot
a funny fortune!” repeated little Lena.

“Te’s kinder queer, —the pocket-book an’ the di-
mint ring a-turnin’ into a dog!” Tony continued.
“ But no matter, if we can’t buy nothin’ with him, we
can love him, poor little feller !”

“Poor ’ittle feller!”? repeated Lina. “He nicer
than dollie ’ithout a head, ennyhow. Wecan lub him.”

“ An’ now, Carl,” said the housekeeper, ‘you make
the fire, an’ I’ll run to market, for it’s most time you
went after your papers.” ;

And away she sped, to return in a few minutes with
five or six cold potatoes, a few crusts of bread, and
one bone, with very little meat —and that gristle —
clinging to it.

And this bone — think if you can of a greater act
of self-denial and charity—the children decided with
one accord should be given to “ Cinders,” as they had
named the dog on the spot.

That night, after Carl had sold his papers, and
come home tired but hopeful, for he had made thirty
cents clear profit to save toward the rent, they all
huddled together, with doggie in the midst of them,
around the old iron furnace that held their tiny fire.

Presently the Head of the Family began whistling
a merry tune, which was a great favorite with the
newsboys.

Imagine. the astonishment of the children when
CINDERS: THE FORTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.



Cinders pricked up his ears, rose on his hind legs,
and, after gravely walking across the room once,
began to walk round and round, keeping perfect time
to the music!

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Carl, his eyes spark-
ling. “Look at that! look at that! Tony, it ’#s the
fortune after all! an’ I ad find it in the ash-box!”

“Why, wot do you mean, Bub?” cried Tony, al-
most as excited as her brother. ‘ Wot do you mean,
an’ ware’s ‘the fortune ?’”

“Why there, right afore your eyes. I mean Cin-
‘ders is one o’ them orful smart hundred-dollar dogs
‘wot does tricks. He’s bin lost by that circus wot
‘went away night afore last, an’ he’s bin lost a-purpose
to make my dreams come true! I’ll take him out the
fust fine day, an’ we’ll bring home lots of stamps.
You see if we don’t!”

“UM sell the papers,” said Tony, by this time guzte
as excited as her brother; “I kin do it, Carl. ‘’Ere’s
the mornin’ Herald, Sun, Times an’ Zribune!’”
imitating the shrill cry of the newsboy, and doing it
very well, too, “an’ the fellers’ll be good to me, ’cos
I’m your sister, an’ they like you.”

“You're a brick, Tony!” said Carl, “an, for sich a
small brick the brickiest brick I ever knowed ; but I
kin sell em myself in the mornin’, an’ you kin take
’em in the afternooon, for that’s the time Cinders an’
me must perform. ‘ Monseer Carlosky an’ his werry
talented dog Cinders, son of the well-known French
performing poodle Cinderella.’ How’s that, Tony? O
I've read all about ’em on the circus bills, and that’s
the way they do it. Yes, you'll have to take the
Papers in the afternoon, cos then’s when the swell
Doys an’ gals is home from school, —’cept Saturdays,
then we'll be out most all day.”

“ Dance more, Tinders, dance more!” here broke in
little Lena ; but Cinders stood looking at his master,
evidently waiting for the music.

So Carl commenced whistling —did I tell you he
whistled like a bird?—and Cinders once more
marched gravely across the room, and then began
waltzing again in the most comical manner.

He had evidently been trained to perform his tricks

Just twice ; for when the music ceased ¢sés time he

Proceeded to stand on his head, and then sitting up

‘on his hind legs, he nodded politely to the audience,

and held out one of his paws, as much as to say,
Now pay if you please.”



The poor children forgot hunger and cold in their
delight, and that miserable room resounded to more
innocent, merry laughter that night than it had heard
for many long years, perhaps ever before.

Cinders got another bone for his supper — the
others had nothing — and then they all went to bed,
if lying on the bare floor, with nothing for a pillow
can be called going to bed, and dreamed of “the
fortune ” found at last in the ashes.

The next afternoon, which fortunately was a fine
one, for March having “come in like a lion was pre-
paring to go out like a lamb,” Carl came racing up
the crazy stairs, taking two steps at a time, and, toss-
ing a bundle of evening papers to Tony, he whistled

‘to Cinders, and away they went.

Poor Carl looked shabby enough, with his toes
sticking out of a pair of old shoes—a part of the
treasures “scooped” from the ash-heap—and not
mates at that, one being as much too large as the
other was too small, his tattered jacket and his brim-
less hat.

But Cinders followed him as faithfully as though

-he had been clad in a costly suit of the very latest

style.

Turning into a handsome, quiet street, Carl stopped
at last before a house where three or four rosy-cheeked
children were flattening their noses against the panes
of the parlor windows, trying to see a doll which
another rosy-cheeked child was holding up at a win-
dow just opposite.

“ Now Cinders, ole feller!” said Carl, while his
heart beat fast, “do your best. Bones!” and he
began to whistle.

At the first note Cinders stood up on his hind legs,
at the second he took his first step forward.

At the beginning of the fourth bar the waltz began ;
and by this time the rosy-cheeked children had lost
all interest in the doll over the way, and were all
shouting and calling “Mamma!” and the cook and
chambermaid had made their appearance at the area
gate.

The march and waltz having been gone through
with twice, Cinders stood on his head — “shure,” said
the cook, “I couldn’t do it betther myself’ —tumbled
quickly to his feet again, nodded affably once to the
right, once to the left, and once to the front of him,
and held out his right paw.

“He’s the cliverest baste ever 7 seen,” said the
CINDERS: THE F( RTUNE CARL FOUND IN THE ASHES.

chambermaid, “so he is!”” and she threw a five cent
piece in Carl’s old hat ; and, at the same moment the
window was opened, and out flew a perfect shower of
pennies, while the little girl across the way kept shout-
ing, “Come here, ragged little boy! Come here,
funny doggie! Oh, why don’t you come here?”

And, making his best bow to his first audience,
Carl went over to the doll’s house, and was received
by the whole family, including grandpa and grandma,
with great delight and laughter, and was rewarded at
the end of his entertainment with much applause,
three oranges, and a new ten cent stamp.

That afternoon Cinders earned one dollar and
three cents for his little master ; and I can’t describe
to you the joy that reigned in that small bare room
when Carl, in honor of his debut as “ Monseer Carl-
osky” brought in, and spread out on a newspaper on
the floor, a wonderful feast! Real loaf of bread,
bought at the baker’s, bottle of sarsaparilla at the
grocer’s, and peanuts, apples, and a hunk of some
extraordinary candy from the old woman who kept a
stand at the corner, and who had started Carl asa
newsboy. She also received her twenty-five cents
again, with five cents added by way of interest.

“Why! didn’t they look when they see me a-order-
in’ things, and payin’ for ’em on the spot!” said
“ Monseer,” with honest pride, as he carved the loaf
with an old jackknife.

As for Cinders, no meatless bone, but half a pound
of delicious liver, did that remarkable dog receive,
and more kisses on his cold, black nose than he knew
what to do with.

After that, as the weather grew finer and finer, and
the days longer, Carl and his dog wandered farther
and farther, and earned more and more money every
day, until the little sisters rejoiced in new shoes, hats





and dresses, and the housekeeper had a splendid bas-
ket— not very large, of course —with a handle that
any basket could be proud of, and actually ad go to
ma Vet, fair and square, and no make believe about it.

And Carl presented himself with a brand-new suit
of clothes, from the second-hand shop next door, in-
cluding shoes that were made for each other, and.a
hat with a brim.

By-and-by the cheerless room was exchanged for a
pleasanter one ; and the story of the fair-haired Head
of the Family, and the fortune he found in the ashes,
took wings, and returned to him laden with blessings.

And five years from that bleak March morning,
when Cinder looked up so pleadingly in the boy’s
face, Carl found himself a clerk in the counting-room
of a generous, kind-hearted merchant.

“ A boy who worked so hard and so patiently to
take care of his litttle sisters,” this gentleman said to
his wife, “and who was ready to share his scanty
meals with a vagrant dog, must be a good boy, and
good boys make good men.”

And Tony and Lena, both grown to be bright,
healthy, merry girls, befriended by many good women,
were going to school, taking care of the house, earn-
ing a little in odd moments by helping the seamstress
who lived on the floor below, and still looking up with
love and respect to the Head of the Family.

Cinders, petted and beloved by all, performed in
public no more, but spent most of his time lying by
the fire in winter, and on the door-step in summer,
waiting and listening for the step of his master.

So you see Carl was right.

He did find his fortune among the ashes.

But would it have proved a fortune had he been a °
cruel, selfish, hard-hearted boy?

Ah! that’s the question.


TOM’S CENTENNIAL.



TOM’S CENTENNIAL.

A FOURTH OF FULY STORY.



BY MARGARET EYTINGE,







To-morrow’s the Fourth of July —

the glorious Fourth!” shouted Tom Wallace,
careering wildly around tne flower garden, as a Roman
candle he held in his hand, evidently unable to contain
\tself until the proper time, went off with a fizz and a
pop and flashed against the evening sky, “and it’s
going to be the greatest Fourth that ever was known,

URRAH!





Centennial!”

“A cenf-tennial!”
said his little sister
Caddy, “‘that won’t be
anything great.”

“Pooh! you don’t understand —
girls never do—Centennial don’t
mean anything about money. Centennial means ‘per-
taining to, or happening every hundred years’ —if
you don’t believe me ask Noah Webster — and just
a hundred years ago this magnificent Republic of
America, gentlemen of the jury,” he continued, mount-
ing a garden-chair, and making the most absurd gest-
ures, “was declared free and independent, and its
brave citizens determined not to drink tea unless they
chose to, and our cousins from the other side of the
Atlantic went marching home to the tune the old cow
died on.”

“ What tune was that?” asked Caddy.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said Tom, “I’m aston-
ished to find such ignorance in this great and enlight-
éned country. The name of that memorable tune was
and still is, as Your Honor well knows, Yankee Doo-
dle ;” and the orator, descending ‘from the chair,
commenced whistling that famous melody.

“Well, then,’ said Caddy, after a moment's,
thought, “if a Centinal is something about a hundred
years old, Aunt Patience is one, for she’s a hundrea
years old to-morrow — she told me so —and she feels


TOM’S CENTENNIAL.

Oh i A ee eee re eee SS SS SS Se ee

real bad ’cause she can’t go to the green to see the
fire-works, on count of the pain in her back, and Faith
ain’t got any shoes or hat, and the flour’s ’most gone,
and so’s the tea, and she says ‘the poor-house
looms.’ ”

“The poor-house looms,’ does it?” said Tom
laughing ; and then he stuck his hands inhis pockets,
and hummed “Hail Columbia ” in a thoughtful man-
ner.

“T say, Frank,” he called out at last, going up on
the porch, and poking his head in at a window, “ what
are you doing?”

«The king was in the parlor, counting out his money,’”

answered Frank.

“ How much, king?”

“Twenty — thirty — thirty-five,” said Frank, “one
dollar and thirty-five cents. How do you figure?”

“Two, fifteen. Come out here, I want to tell you
something.”

Frank, who was two years younger than Tom, ap
peared.

“What’s up?” he asked, throwing himself into the
hammock which hung from the roof of the porch, and
swinging lazily.

“Would it break your heart, and smash the fellows
generally, if we didn’t go to the meeting on the green
to-morrow evening, after all the fuss we’ve made about
it?”

“ What?” asked Frank, in a tone of surprise, as-
suming a sitting position so suddenly that the ham-
mock —hammocks are treacherous things— gave a
sudden lurch, and landed him on the floor.

Tom’s laughter woke all the echoes around.

“Forgive these tears,” he said, as he wiped his
eyes, “and now to business. You know not, perhaps,
my gentle brother, that we have a centenarian, ov as
Caddy says, a centinal among us?”

“A centinal?” said Frank, stretching himself out
on the floor where he had fallen.

“ A centenarian, or centinal, whichever you choose,
most noble kinsman, and she lives on the outskirts of
this town. Her name—a most admirable one —is
Patience. Her granddaughter’s — another admirable
one — Faith.

“Patience has the rheumatism. Faith has no shoes.
They want to see some fire-works, and hear some





Fourth of July — being centinals they naturally’
would.

“What say you? Shall we and our faithful clan,
instead of swelling the ranks of the militia on the
green, march to the humble cottage behind the hill,
and gladden the hearts of old Patience and young
Faith with a pyr-o-tech-nic display?”

“Good!” said Frank, who always followed the
lead of his elder brother.

And “Good!” echoed Caddy ; “ but don’t spend all
your money for fire-works. Give some to Aunt Pa-
tience, ‘cause she’s the only centinal we’ve got.”

“ And she’ll never be another,” said Tom,

«While the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.’”

So on the evening of the Fourth the people of
Tomstown were somewhat astonished to see the
young Centennial Guards march down the principal
street, pass the green, where extensive preparations
for festivities had been made, and keep on up the hill
until, beginning to descend on the other side, they
were lost to sight.

At the head marched Frank with his drum, Caddy
came directly behind him with a bunch of brilliant
flowers. The others carried flags, Chinese lanterns,
and boxes of fire-works, while Captain Tom flew here
and there and everywhere, trying to keep — an almost
hopeless task — the mischievous company in some-
thing like order.

“Where away?” shouted Uncle Al—an old sailor
home for the holiday—as the guards passed his
door.

“To Aunt Patience — our own special Centennial,”
Frank shouted back with a tremendous roll of the
drum.

Uncle Al, always ready for fun, pipe in mouth, fell
in line, waving his tarpaulin on the end of a stick, and
Ex, his yellow dog, and Ander, his black one, followed
after, grinning and wagging their tails.

Then the butcher’s boy, and his chum the baker’s
boy, who were going by, turned and joined the pro-
cession, and away they all went, hurrahing, laughing
and drumming, to the door of the very small cottage.

“Bless my heart!” said Aunt Patience, who was
sitting in a wooden arm-chair on the stoop, and who,
hearing faintly, poor, dear, deaf old soul, the noise of
TOM’S CENTENNIAL.

the approaching “ guards,” had been thinking the frogs
croaked much louder than usual, “what’s this?”

And bare-footed, brown-eyed Faith came out with
wonder written all over her pretty face.

“ Three cheers for our special Centennial !” shouted
the boys ; and they gave three with a will, as Caddy
placed her flowers in the old woman’s hand.

“Now for the pyr-o-tech-nic display !”” commanded

“Captain Tom ; and for nearly an hour Roman candles
fizzed, blue-lights popped, torpedoes cracked, pin-
wheels whizzed, and fire-crackers banged.

Old Patience said it was worth living a hundred
years to see,





And as the last fire-~vork went up a rocket and came
down a stick, the gallant company formed in single
file, and, marching past Aunt Patience, each member
bade her “good-night,” and dropped some money in
her lap.

As for Uncle Al—that generous, jolly, warm-
hearted old sailor, his gift was three old-fashioned
silver dollars ; one for himself, one for Ex, and one
for Ander.

“No one should think,” he said, “that Ads dogs
were mean dogs.”

Then away they all went again, hurrahing, shouting,
and drumming like mad!
LITTLE CHUB AND THE SKY WINDOW.



LITTLE CHUB AND THE SKY WINDOW.



BY MARY D. BRINE.



ITTLE CHUB sat on the curb-stone, dipping
small brown toes into the not very pure water
which flowed along the gutter, and watching with his
large, blue eyes the fleecy clouds which far up above
the narrow court in which he dwelt with granny sailed
lazily across the patch of blue sky just visible between
two tall buildings opposite.

Chub’s real name was Tommy Brown, but, on ac-
count of his roly-poly figure and little round face, he
was nicknamed “Chub,” and even granny called him
so, till the boy forgot he had another name.

There had been a funeral that morning near Chub’s
house, and all the boys gathered. about the spot, list-
ening open-eared and open-eyed to the service which
told the mourners of that “happy land, far, far away,”
and was intended to comfort them,

But Chub was too little to understand much of all
fe heard, and could only feel very sorry for the poor
little girl -who cried for her dear mamma, and clung to
her father’s hand terrified because that mamma would
not even open her eyes nor look at her. Then the
carriages moved slowly down the street, and Chub
went home to granny and teased her with questions.

“Granny, what’s up there?”

Mrs. Brown, at her wash-tub, half-enveloped in
steam, scrubbed away and answered :

“he other wurrld, honey dear,” reverentially rais-
ing her eyes to the blue patch of sky to which Chub’s
fat finger pointed.

“ What other world, granny?”

“The good place where yer mammy and daddy have
gone, to be sure.”

“How did they get there?” from Chub, his little
brow full of puzzled knots.

“Arrah thin, ye ax too many questions, honey.
Some good angel flew down and lifted them up, of
course, and — and —flew away wid’em agin. Run
now to the corner and fetch mea bar of soap, there’s
a dear.”

Chub went for the soap, and, returning, seated him-



self on the curb-stone as we first found him, and cal-
culating the length of time it might possibly take an

angel to fly heavenward with little Jennie’s mother,

watched the blue patch and fleecy clouds to see the
fi..al entrance of the two into that other world granny
talked about. Presently two bootblacks strolled
along, jingling pennies in their pockets, and swinging
their blacking-boxes independently.

“Hi, Chub,” they shouted, “ want a penny?”

Chub held out his hand nothing loth.

“Who giv it ter yer?” he asked, delightedly, for so
much wealth had not been his since he could re-
member,

“Earned it shinin’ boots, ov course. We're rich
men, Chub, don’t ye know that?” passing on with a
chuckle.

An idea seized our small boy. He withdrew his
toes from the gutter, forgot all about the flying angel
and patch of sky, and startled granny, who was bend-
ing over her wash-tub, with:

“Granny, I’m goin’ inter business, like other men.”

“Bless the boy! what does he mean?”

“Two fellers giv me a cent just now, and they
earned it a-shinin’ boots, and I’m goin’ to ’sist you
and grow rich, granny.”

Granny stopped punching her clothes, came out of
the steam, and sat down to laugh at the new man of
business.

Chub’s round face glowed with honest determina-
tion, and his roly-poly figure straighted as well as it
could.

“Ves maam/ I'm a-goin fur a bootblack, and
I’m goin’ to buy an orange as soon as I earn a cent.”

“Where you goin’ ter git yer box and brushes, hey,
Chub?” asked Granny, renewing her attack upon the
wash-boiler and its contents.

The boy’s countenance fell, and visions of oranges
faded slowly and reluctantly from his eyes. Suddenly,
however, he remembered his friend Sim Hardy, who
frequently gave him the uneaten end of a banana, and

x

So3
LITTLE CHUB AND

THE SKY WINDOW.



now and then part of a stick of licorice, for which fa-
vors Chub had yielded in return a large share of his
warm little heart.
“Sim’ll get me a box, ’thout it’s costin’ anythin’,
Maybe he’ll hook one fur a little chap like me.”
Granny rested from her labors and turned a stern
face upon the boy.

“Thomas Brown, never dare you lift a finger of
yourn to touch what’s been stole. Remember who’s
watchin’ ye all the time, and don’t go fur to sile the
family name of Brown. If yer do, I’ll trounce yer
well for it, there, now!”

It was probably the last awful threat that awed
Chub into obedience, for he gave no more thought to



Ss

“Granny, IAM GOIN’ INTER BUSINESS, LIKE OTHER MEN.”

Sim’s way of getting a machine for him, but tried to
think of another plan.

It wasn’t long, however, before his friends among
the bootblacks raised a sum between them and pre-
sented Chub with the necessary capital with which to
begin business in earnest.
her boy started off one fine morning regularly equipped
for his first battle for daily bread — and an orange.

For a long time the little, six-years-old bootblack

And to granny’s delight

sat on the Astor House steps awaiting custom. But
big boys somehow grabbed all the jobs, and nobody
noticed little Chub, nor heard his weak cry, “ Shine
yer up fur ten cents ! Want a shine, sir?”

So when night came, the little fellow shouldered his
box and went home, minus his orange, and with pock-
ets as empty as when he started from home. He
cried a little, to be sure, and granny comforted him

| with kisses, and put him to bed tenderly. For nearly
LITTLE CHUB AND

THE SKY WINDOW,



a week things worked very badly for Chub. Business
didn’t prosper, and sitting all day in the hot sun made
the little fellow sick of trying to be a man and do
business. He couldn’t somehow make the thing
work, and Sim Hardy, the friend who would have
taught him, was busy on another route, and so Chub
sat swinging his little bare feet all day, with nothing
to do but watch the sky and wish he could fly up to
“that other world” where he didn’t believe the “ an-
gels would let- him go so long without a job.”

One night he went home with
two ten cent stamps in his pock-
et, and a prouder boy never lived.
But granny’s anxious eyes saw
an unusual flush on the boy’s
cheeks, and the little hands felt
dry and hot. And that night the
boy was restless and talked in
his sleep.

It had been a fearfully hot day,
and granny feared the child was
suffering from sunstroke. So she
kept ice on his head, and with
part of the newly-earned money
bought some medicine which
quieted Chub and gave him an
hour’s sweet sleep just before
sunrise.

Then he opened his blue eyes
and told granny about a dream
in which he had seen a beautiful
angel peep out of a little window
in the sky and look all about as
if searching for something. And
presently Chub heard a voice
say, “Oh, there’s little Chub!
I’ve found him.” Then, as he
looked up to see who had called
his name from the clouds, the window opened wide,
and the angel spread beautiful white wings, as white
as snow, and fluttered gently down with arms opened
lovingly towards Chub, who dreamed he was sitting
with his box all that time on the Astor House steps.
But just before she reached him he woke up, and, lo
and behold, all the angel his waking eyes saw was
dear old granny, who stood with a cooling drink be-
side the bed, and fanned away the tormenting flies.

So Chub told his dream. Granny wiped her eyes



with the corner of her apron, and hugged her boy
closer.

“The angels can’t have ye yet, Tommy,” she said.
“Yer granny’s boy, and this wurrld is good enuff fur
ye this long while yet.” .

Chub felt better the next day, and went out to his.
day’s business with a stout little heart, and eyes full
of sunbeams. Some of the sunshine of the day crept
out of the little room with him when he left granny
alone over her wash-tubs, but she knew when he re-



“WANT A SHINE, SIR???

turned at night he would bring it all back again. So
she scrubbed and rubbed and boiled and punched her
clothes, until the room resembled cloud-land, and the
white clothes hanging on lines shone out of the mist
like the white wings Chub had talked about.

“Oh, dear! Them big fellers don’t give a little
chap a chance at all, at all.”

A big sigh shook Chub’s breast as he muttered this,
wiping the perspiration from his face, and settling the
LITTLE CHUB AND THE SKY WINDOW.



torn hat more comfortably on his curly head. He
slid down from his seat, and stood on the edge of the
sidewalk a minute, waiting a chance to cross.

Hark! what a swift galloping of hoofs on the cobble-
stones! Down the street, the closely-crowded street,
dashed a runaway horse, dragging the light buggy,
whose owner had just vacated it. Everybody scam-
pered right and left in the first moment of terror, but
a wee child, frightened from its nurse’s hand, stands
directly in the path of the swift-coming animal.

Impulsively Chub, the boy of six years, the brave
little business man, flings his blacking-box directly at
the head of the runaway horse, and as fast as his short

legs can carry him he rushes for the child whose-

life is in peril. In one instant the horse, startled by
the well-aimed blow, turns aside, and then plunges on
despite the efforts of strong arms to stop him.

That instant spared the little girl, but Chub’s box
had opened the sky-window for him — poor little fel-
low —for over his brave little figure, crushing the life





from his braver heart, passed the animal which had
jumped on one side when the box struck him, and
directly in Chub’s line.

They lifted him tenderly, and laid him on the broad
step which had been the only business office Chub had
owned. But only once the blue eyes opened, and then
they sought the blue sky above, and even strong men
felt tears in their eyes when faintly and gaspingly the
dying boy cried, “Oh, angel! angel! here’s little
Chub a-waitin’ fur yer; don’t ye see him?”

Then upward reached the small, brown arms, and
downward fluttered the white lids, which were raised
never on earth again, not even when granny’s tears
covered the round, white face, and her arms clasped
close the little roly-poly figure which had suddenly
grown so stiff and helpless.

Up to “that other world,” through the ‘“sky-win-
dow,” the white-winged angel had borne little Chub ;
and all that had puzzled him on earth was, maybe, in
his angel-mother’s arms, made clear to him at last.

Se
A 43 WS
LITTLE BOY BLUE.



LITTLE BOY BLUE.



BY C, A. GOODENOW.



OT the identical one that slept under the hay-

stack, while the cows trampled the corn; no,
indeed, he was quite too wide awake for that! Our
little Boy Blue had another name ; but he was seldom
called by it, and did not much like it when he was.
For when he heard people say “John Allison Ware!”
he knew that he was in mischief, and justice was
about to be meted unto him.

Why was he called little Boy Blue? Because,
when he was a tiny baby, his eyes were so very blue
— “real ultramarine,” Aunt Sue said ; but baby only
wrinkled his nose at the long word, and mamima
smiled.

However, the eyes kept their wonderful color as
the baby grew up, so the name was kept, too.

Boy Blue had four sisters : three older, one younger,
than himself. He used, sometimes, to wish for a
brother, but mostly he was too busy to worry over
trifles. He had so much to do the days were not long
enough,

He had to work in his garden; it was about as
large as a pocket-handkerchief, but it required a great
deal of care. He had to feed the kitty, help shell
the peas for dinner, ride on the saw-horse, and be an
ice-man, a strawberry-seller, a coal-heaver and a fish-
monger, all with only the aid of his wheelbarrow.

Above all, he had to help Jotham.

What Jotham would have done without his help I
cannot tell, With it, he kept the garden in order,
mended the broken tools, made sleds, swings, skipping-
ropes, carts and baby-houses for the five little Wares.

If Jotham could not have got along without Boy
Blue, I am sure the little Wares would have sadly
missed Jotham.

One day Jotham was making a sled for Elsie. It
was June, and people do not usually wish to slide on
the daisies and clover ; but Jotham liked to get things
finished early. I suppose he knew, too, that when
Elsie’s sled was done he would have to make one
a-piece for Lill, for Dora, for Boy Blue, and for little



Tot; so, perhaps, he thought from June to Decem-
ber was not too long time for so much work.

The sled was ready to be painted; and blue paint,
in a nice little bucket, with a small brush in it, was
waiting for the sled. Boy Blue stood by helping.

Just then somebody called Jotham into the house.

“JT might paint a little until he comes back,”
thought Boy Blue. “Don’t fink I’d better, maybe.
Elsie said blue stripes ; ’haps I shouldn’t get them _
even. H’m!”

The blué eyes twinkled, and the funny little mouth
was puckered in a round, rosy button as their owner
considered the matter.

“T might practice, first,’’ said Boy Blue.

So he tugged the paint-bucket down from the
bench ; he slopped a little over, too. It did not fall
on his trowsers ; they were short, and fastened at the
knee with three buttons; the blue splashes were on
the white stockings below the trowsers, and Boy Blue
saw them.

“ But ¢Aey will wash,” said he to himself.

Then Boy Blue and the paint-bucket walked off be-
hind the tool-house ; that was a good place to prac-

- tice, because the clapboards were so smooth, and of a

nice gray color, on which the blue paint showed
beautifully.

“Vl make five stripes, cause I’m most five years
old,” thought Boy Blue. “

_ The first were crooked, and he had to make fiv
more ; they were too long, so he made some shorter
ones. Soon all the side of the tool-house, as high as
his short arm could reach, was painted in blue
stripes.

“Tf I only had a ladder!” mused Boy Blue.
“Fink I'd better get one.”

He trudged into the shed, still carrying the paint-
bucket ; it was not so full now as when Jotham left it,
and did not slop much.

There was no ladder in the shed, so he went on
into the barn.

























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































LITTLE BOY BLUE.







“Ouf! ouf!” grunted Piggy White, hearing steps,
and expecting dinner.

“Tm busy now, Piggy White,” said Boy Blue, look-
ing over the side of the pen. “I’m painting. Oh
my! Piggy White, you’d look just beautiful if you
only had some blue stripes!”

Piggy White was a young pig, quite clean and
pretty ; the little Wares made a pet of him. He had
a fresh straw bed every night, and Jotham took a deal
of care to keep his house tidy. He was so accus-
tomed to visits from the children he only gently
grunted in reply to Boy Blue’s remark. —

The next thing seen of that small lad he had
«limbed over and was as busy over Piggy White as
ne had been on the tool-house. Piggy liked to have
his back rubbed, and was very quiet while Boy Blue
painted a long stripe down his spine and shorter ones
across his sides.

“Piggy White, zf you wig your tail so I fink TU
scold. I want to paint the end of it.”

By this time there was not much paint in the
bucket, but there was a great deal on Boy Blue’s
hands, on his stockings, on the short trowsers, and on
the front of his little blouse.

“H’m!” said Boy Blue, suddenly looking up. “I
fink — Jotham —I fink P’ve got frough.”

“ The land of liberty!” said Jotham, looking down.
“You're dfue, sure enough.”

Then he picked up the little workman and carried
him into the house.

When mamma had been out and looked at the tool-
house and Piggy White, and had come in and looked
at Boy Blue, she said what she had said about five
hundred times:

“TY don’t know what I skaZ/ do with you

But she did. For she told Nurse Norah to give
him a bath.

When he had been scrubbed and rubbed and dried,
and stood very red and warm to have his hair brushed,
he sobbed:

“Somebody didn’t ought to look after me better!”

“Sure, ’twould take a paycock’s eyes, and more, to
Jook after sich a stirabout! Now run, see the organ-

fo?



man with your sisters, and be good,” said Norah.

The organ-man carried a monkey, and the monkey
carried a tambourine, with which he played such
pranks the little Wares fell off the steps one after
another in fits of laughter, and Boy Blue decided at.
once to buy that monkey if he could. So when the
organ-man went away Boy Blue followed. Only Tot
saw him go, for the others were running back to the
nursery to see if the dolls were awake. And Tot
could not make people understand what her little,
lisping tongue meant to say.

It grew late and later; it was almost dark.
Blue did not come home.

Boy
They began to wonder ;

‘they began to be anxious; they began to look for

him. They called his name everywhere. They
shouted, “ Little Boy Blue ! Boy Blu-u-u-e! Blu-u-u-ue!””

He did not come. They thought what if he should
never come back !

Mamma cried.

“Somebody has stolen him!” said Norah,

“ Fe is drowned!”

“He is run over!”

“He is—”
“ Here he is!”
So he was! They had looked everywhere and in-

quired of everybody, and given up in despair. Papa
and Jotham had gone to get help in searching for
him. Mamma was in distress. And there little Boy
Blue came walking into the house himself!

“Where have you been?” cried the sisters.

He had followed the monkey until he was tired,
had come back unseen, had climbed into the ham-
mock in the orchard, and had been asleep there ever
since.

“And we just crazed about ye, ye bad boy!” said
Norah, while mamma hugged him.

“You needn’t fink Z’¢ get lost,” said Boy Blue,
proudly. ‘“ Z don’t do such fings.
per!”

He had it.
this question :

I want my sup-

But at our house we still keep asking

“ What shall we do
With little Boy Blue?”

Se
GHOSTS AND WATER-MELONS.



GHOSTS AND WATER-MELONS.

BY J. H. WOODBURY.

Bo TATMAN was alittle Yankee fellow, but
he looked like an Italian boy, with his tangly
brown hair, and his soft, simple dark eyes. He was very
fond of water-melons ; but he was very much afraid of
ghosts; and in his simple heart he believed every-
thing that was told him, and thereby hangs a tale.

There was a man, whom all the neighbors knew as
Uncle Ben, who had some very fine watermelons —
which Bobby knew all about—for they were only
about a mile from Bobby’s father’s house.

These were the nearest water-melons that Bobby
knew of, and he used to go over occasionally, with his
friend James Scott, to look at them, and see how they
were coming on. Both Bobby and his friend grew
much interested in the melons, as they were ripening,
and Bobby wondered why his father did not raise
water-melons, too. This was not a large patch, and it
was in a sunny nook of Uncle Ben’s farm, out of sight
from his house.

“Tf wouldn’t be stealing to take water-melons,” re-
marked. Bobby’s friend one day, as the two were sitting
on the fence alongside the little patch. “It wouldn’t
be any more stealing than picking off corn to roast,
when we go a-fishing, would be stealing, as I can
see,”

“I don’t know as it would be,” Bobby admitted,
musingly. “I should like that old big fellow! Uncle
Ben says that’s a mountain-sweet. Butit would almost
be stealing to take that one, sure! and Uncle Ben
would miss it the first thing, too.”

“T s’pose he would,” said James, “and then there’d
be a row. It won’t do to take that one. I tell you
what, Bobby, we won’t take any of ’em now, but we'll
come to-night, after dark, and then there won't be any
danger of anybody’s seeing us. Of course it won’t be
stealing ; but Uncle Ben’s just mean enough to make
a row about it, I s’pose, if he should happen to find
it out.”

“T guess he would,” said Bobby.
want to have him see us, anyhow.”

*T shouldn’t



And so, not to run any risk, they concluded to
wait.

When it was night they came again, and sat to-
gether upon the same fence, listening for a time for
sounds of any. others who might be approaching,
before they got down to select their melons. All was.
still, and, feeling secure from detection, they got down
and began to search among the vines. They could
tell by rapping upon the melons which the ripe ones
were, and it was not long till they had made their
selection, and were scudding away, each with a melon
almost as large as he could carry, along the fence
towards Uncle Ben’s corn-field, which was still farther
from his house.

When they got to the corn-field they felt safe, and,
as the melons were heavy, they concluded to eat one
before going further. So they sat down in a nook of
the fence —a Virginia rail-fence, as we used to call
that kind—and Bobby took out a knife that he
thought a great deal of —because his Aunt Hannah
had given it him, and it had his initials on a little sil-
ver plate set in the handle —and in a moment more
they were eating and praising the delicious melon.

“Of course ’tain’t stealing,” said James Scott, as.
Bobby again brought up that question. “ Uncle Ben
always does have better water-melons than anybody
else, and he can’t expect to have ’em a// to himself.
What's the use of living in a free country, if you can’t
have a water-melon once in a while? Help yourself.
Bobby — but don’t eat too near the rind.”

Bobby helped himself, — though he could not help
thinking all the time that it was to Uncle Ben’s water-
melon, —and the hoys filled up, gradually, till they
could hold no more. Then each had a great shell
that would have almost floated him, had he felt like
going to sea in it, and the question was, what to do
with them.

“Let’s tuck ’em under the bottom rail,” said James ;,
“they won’t be noticed there.”

So they tucked them under the lower rail —a
GHOSTS AND WATER-MELONS.



road, flat rail that seemed to have been made on
purpose to cover them—and then they both got
straight up on their feet to stretch themselves. In
the same instant they both started suddenly, and took
‘to their heels.

They ran till they were out of breath ; and James
Scott got a long way ahead of his friend Bobby. But
Bobby came up with James before he started again,
and asked, as soon as he could get breath enough,
“ Was it Uncle Ben?”

“Tt must have been him, or his ghost,” was the
teply. “‘ Did you see his legs, Bobby ?”’

“No. Did you?”

“Tt didn’t look as if he had any. He was a queer-
dooking chap, anyhow.”

“T wonder if he’s coming?” And Bobby seemed
almost ready to start again. ‘Do yous’pose he knew
us?”

“ Shouldn’t wonder if he did. But, if ’twas Uncle
Ben, he’d know he couldn’t catch us. He must have
been there all the time. I say, Bobby, I’m afraid
we'll hear about this.”

“T don't see how he happened to be right there!
‘Oh, dear! I left my knife, too!”

“Tl guess if t’was Uncle Ben he’ll take care of that.
Of course he’ll know who it belongs to. If he gets
that knife, he hadn’t oughter say anything about the
water-melon. It’s worth more’n both on ’em.”

“T know it. Don’t you suppose it was Uncle Ben’s
whost, after all? I wish it was!”

“Tt couldn’t have been, unless he’s died since
noon, you know. He looked well enough then. Do
you s’pose it would be of any use to go back,
Bobby?”

“No, indeed! I’d rather go home. I wish I had
my knife, though. I wonder why he didn’t speak?”

“That’s what 7don’t understand. I should have
shought he would just said something, before we got
yut of hearing.”

“Like as not it wasn’t him, after all.”

“Like as not it wasn’t, Bobby. S’posing we go
oack.”

“I’m going home,” was Bobby’s reply. “I don’t
believe it pays to steal water-melons, anyway.”

“*"Twasn’t stealing, Bobby!—no such thing! Of
course anybody’s a right to take a water-melon. Uncle
Ben had no business to raise ’em, if folks had got to
steal ’em before they could eat ’em!”

at all events.



“That’s so,” groaned Bobby. “I shouldn’t have
thought he’d have planted them.”

And so, groaning in spirit, Bobby went home. He
had lost his knife, and everybody would know next
day that he had been stealing water-melons. He
couldn’t help thinking that the folks would call it
stealing, after all.

What to do he didn’t know ; but he must go home
He was never out very late, and when
he went in his mother asked him where he had been.
He said he had been over to James Scott’s.

“T don’t like to have you over there so much,
Bobby,” said his mother. “I am afraid James Scott
is not a very good boy.”

Bobby’s face was flushed, and he seemed very tired,
so his mother told him he had better go to bed. He
was glad enough to go, but he lay a long time think-
ing of his knife and the water-melons, and of Uncle Ben
standing there by the fence, before he went to sleep.

Bobby slept in the attic, up under the roof. There
was another bed in the same attic for the hired man.
There were also a great many things for which there
was no room anywhere else, —large chests, piles of
bedding, and things that had got past use.

Bobby got to sleep at last; but he awoke in the
night — something unusual for him — after the moon
had risen, and was giving just light enough to show
things in the room very dimly. He opened his eyes,
and almost the first object he saw caused his heart to
beat very quickly. Somebody was sitting upon one
of those large chests. It was a dim and indistinct
form, but it looked ghostly white in the moonlight,
and Bobby could not help feeling afraid. He had
never seen a ghost, fairly, but he began to think now
that he had one in his room.

Bobby lay and watched that ghost, feeling warm
and cold by turns, till at last he was sure it was be-
ginning to look like Uncle Ben. The wind had begun
to blow, and to move the branches of the old elm
outside, thus causing the’ moonlight to flicker fitfully
in the room. It seemed as if it must be Uncle Ben!
Bobby could see him laugh, though he could not hear
a sound except the sighing wind and the swaying
branches of the old elm, mingling dolefully with the
snoring of the hired man.

The ghost laughed and shook his head by turns,
and pointed his finger at Bobby, as if to say, “ve
marked you /” ;
GHOSTS AND WATER-MELONS.



Bobby began to imagine that Uncle Ben had been
run over by a cart, or killed in some way that very
afternoon, and that his ghost was really there. He
was almost glad it was so, for he could endure the
ghost, disagreeable as he felt his presence to be, much
better than meet Uncle Ben alive, with that knife in
his possession. 4

So he shivered, and sweat, and reasoned himself
more firmly into the belief that it was Uncle Ben’s
ghost that was sitting on the chest. He was glad of
it, for now he could go in the morning and find his
knife, and hide that other water-melon before anyone
else should pass that way. Still the presence of the
ghost was very disagreeable to him ; and at last he
ventured to go and get into the other bed with the
hired man, rather than lie longer alone. ,

The hired man stopped snoring, turned over, woke
up, and asked Bobby what was the matter.

“ There’s somebody up here,” said Bobby, ashamed
to own that it was a ghost.

“Who? where?” and the hired man sat up and
looked around.

“On that chest,” said Bobby.
him?”

“VYe—yes; I see him.” And, as if afraid to
speak again, the hired man watched the blinking
countenance of the stranger closely.

After a moment he got out of bed carefully, saying
in a whisper as he did so:

“ How long has he been there, Bobby ?”

“Ever so long,” was Bobby’s reply. “ Ain’t ita
ghost?”

“T guess so. I'll find out, at all events,” and the
bold fellow moved carefully towards it.

He approached on tiptoe till he could almost touch
it, and then he stopped.

“It's a ghost, Bobby,” said he, “sure enough ; but
Vl fix him!”

He just drew back one arm, and planted a prodig-
ious blow right in the ghost’s stomach ; and you
ought to have seen that ghost jump !

It went almost out of the window at one leap ; but
fell short, on the floor, and lay as if dead. The hired
man went boldly back and got into bed, remarking :

“That’s one of the ghosts we read about, Bobby ;
I guess he won’t trouble ws any more ey

Bobby did not quite understand it. He began to
think that Uncle Ben might be still living ; but he

“Don’t you see



went to sleep again, at last, and the next time he
awoke it was morning. It was daylight, and the hired
man had gone down-stairs. He looked for the ghost.
There he lay, sure enough, very quiet on the floor ,
but, after all, it was only a bag of feathers !

So Bobby felt sure he would have to meet Uncle.
Ben, and that everybody would know all about-it ; and
he felt very miserable all day, waiting for him to come.
He did not go near James Scott, for he felt that it
was largely owing to him that he had got into trouble.
It wasn’t at all likely that he could or would help him
out of it.. He wanted dreadfully to go and look for
his knife, but would no more have done that than he
would have gone and drowned himself. Indeed, he
did think rather seriously of doing the last; but,
being a good swimmer, he supposed the probabilities
would be against his sinking ; and besides, he still
had a regard for the feelings of his mother.

It was a miserably long day, but after all Uncle Ben

did not come. What could it mean? Bobby did not.
know, but he went to bed and slept better the next
night. And the next day his fears began to weat
away. It was night again, and still Uncle Ben had
not come.
_ The third morning Bobby was almost himself again.
He was resolved, now, to go and look for his knife.
Tt must be that Uncle Ben had not found it. If he
had, he would certainly have made it known before
this. He was quite sure, too, that Uncle Ben could
not have known who those two boys were. So he
went, with a lightened heart, early in the day, to look
for his knife.

Of course he took a roundabout way, that he might
keep as far from Uncle Ben’s house as possible.
Judge of his surprise and relief when he saw, on
spot, not Uncle Ben, but a
dilapidated scarecrow. It stood leaning against the
fence, where, having served its time, Uncle Ben had
probably left it, neglected and forgotten. Being ar-
rayed in one of Uncle Ben’s old coats, it did have a
strange resemblance to the old man himself.

“Ts all right, after all,” thought Bobby, and he
hurried confidently forward to pick up his knife. But
imagine now the surprise and fright that came into
Bobby’s soft eyes when he found that his knife was
not there! Neither the knife, the water-melon, vor the
water-meton rinds | All were gone.

Without stopping long, Bobby turned to retrace his

coming in sight of the
FUNNY LITTLE ALICE.



steps. But as he did so some one called to him. It
was Uncle Ben; and he stopped again and stood
mute.

“T’ve been waiting to see ye, Bobby,” said the old
man, coming up. ‘I reckoned you’d come for your
knife, and I thought you’d rather see me here than
have me bring it home to ye. Of course I knew you'd
been here, when I found this, but it wasn’t likely
you’d come alone. I’m sorry you’ve been in bad
company, Bobby. Your father and mother think
youre a good boy, and I don’t want them to think
any other way. Of course you don’t want them to
think any other way, either, do you, Bobby?” And
the old man looked kindly down into the soft eyes.

Bobby made out to say that he did not.

“ That’s the reason, Bobby, why I didn’t bring the
knife home. I thought I’d better give it to ye here.
Now take it, and don’t for the world ever say a word
to anybody how you lost it. And I want ye to come





down to the melon-patch with me, for I’m going to
send a nice mountain-sweet over to your mother.”

Bobby took his knife, and followed Uncle Ben,
unable to utter a word. As they went along, the old
man talked to him of his corn and his pumpkins, just
as if there was no reason in the world why he and
Bobby should not be on the best of terms. He
seemed to have quite forgotten that Bobby had ever
stolen anything from him. Arrived at the patch he
picked off one of the finest melons, as large as the
boy could carry, and,- after a little more talk, sent him
with it to his mother.

And so, after all, Bobby’s heart never felt lighter
than it did that morning, after he had left Uncle Ben.
He had at last found words to thank him, and to say
that he was very.sorry for what he had done, but
scarce more. But that was all Uncle Ben wanted ;
and, so long as he lived, after-that, he had no truer
friend among the neighbor’s boys than Bobby Tatman.

FUNNY LITTLE ALICE.

BY MRS. FANNY BARROW (“AUNT FANNY”).

NCE ona time, not long ago, four little girls
O lived together in a large farm-house. It was
quite by itself —on the top of a hill with thick woods
all around it — but as it was full of people from the
city, thirty miles away, and as these people were al-
ways polite to each other, and it was warm, sweet
summer-time, they were very happy together.

Daisy and May were sisters ; Katie had another fa-
ther and mother, and funny little Alice was the only
child of a lady whose husband was dead, so Alice had
no father. Poor little thing!

But as she was only two and a half years old, she
was too young to feel very sorry for herself, especially
as all the ladies in the house loved and petted her ;
every gentleman rode her to “ Banbury Cross” on his
foot, and “jumped her” almost as high as the ceil-
ing; and Daisy, May and Kate, who were each seven
years old, let her come in to all their plays — which
I hope you also do, my little reader, with your baby
sisters and brothers,



One day Alice was walking in the road with her
nurse. She had seen one of the ladies pick a checker-
berry leaf out of the grass and eat it, so she pulled-up
a handful of leaves and crammed them into her
mouth.

“Oh, take them out, take them out!
cried the nurse.

Do, Alice !”
“They may be poison! If you
swallow them you wili die, and have to lie in the cold
grave, and the worms will eat you up!”

But the nurse had to pull her mouth open, and dig
out the leaves, for Alice had never before heard of
the cold grave, and she did not care a button about it.

That night her mamma, with whom the little girl
slept, was awakened by a feeling as if some one were
choking her, and found Alice sleeping with her curly
head buried in her mother’s neck, and the rest of her
little fat body spread across her breast. She lifted
the child gently, and put her back on her own pillow.
But the next instant Alice flung herself again on her
mother.
FUNNY LITTLE ALICE.





“Don’t, dear,” she said; “you must lie on your
own side. It hurts me to have your head on my
throat.”

“Well,” said the sleepy little thing, “if you don’t

et me I shall die, and have to lie in the old drave,
and the wudiims will eat me up.”

Her mother was perfectly astonished at this speech.
She could not imagine where Alice had heard it ; but
‘we know, don’t we?

The farmer had a poor old fiddle-headed white
horse, whose stiff old legs couldn’t run away if the rest
‘of him wanted to, and the young ladies used to drive
him by themselves in a buggy. The morning after
Alice’s speech two young ladies took her driving with
‘them. She sat on a little bench at their feet, and
went off in high glee.

It was cloudy, and, for fear it might rain, they took
-a big waterproof cloak. Before they got back it was
pouring down, so all were buttoned up in the cloak,
with Alice’s little round rosy face just peeping out in
front. The old white horse jogged on not a bit faster
than usual, though Miss Lizzie, who was driving,
‘slapped his back with the reins the whole time. At
last he whisked up his tail, and twisted it in the
reins.

‘Oh, now, just look at that horrid old tail!” said
Miss Lizzie. “How am I ever to get rid of it?”

“Tt is not a horwid old tail!” cried Alice, her
‘sweet hazel eyes flashing. “It’s a nice white tail!
He’s a booful horse, with a nice white tail.”

“Well, so he is,” said Miss Lizzie, laughing. “So
‘hurra for the booful horse!”

This. reminded the funny little thing of one of her
-songs, which she immediately set up at the top of her
voice, and as they reached the house in the pouring
rain, the ladies inside heard Alice singing with all her
Jittle might :

“ Wear, boys, fevver !
Woar, boys, woar!
Down with the tritty !
Up with the ’tar !
We'll rally round the f’ag, boys,

Rally round ’gain,
Shoutin’ the batter crider /ze-dom !” *



* These are the words little Alice meant, as I suppose you all know:

“Wurra, boys, forever!
Hurra, boys, hurra!
Down with the traitor !
Up with the star!
We'll rally round the flag, boys,
Rally round again,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!”





That afternoon, when it had cleared up, Daisy
said :

“Come, May, come, Katie, let’s take our dolls and
have a picnic.”

‘“‘T want to picnic, too,” cried Alice.

“ So you shall, you little darling,” said all the girls,
running to her and kissing her, “‘and you can bring
Nancy with you.”

Nancy was a knit worsted doll, with two jet beads
for eyes. She slept with Alice, who loved her dearly,
and who now ran off to get her, in a great state of
delight.

The children took a lunch, of course ; for who ever
heard of a picnic without it? A stick of peppermint
candy was broken in four pieces, which, with four
ginger-cakes and four huge apples, begged from the
farmer’s wife, were packed in a little basket, and then
they set off, all running, for no girl or boy can walk
when they are so happy; at least, I never knew of
any —have you?

The warm, bright sun had dried up all the drops on
the grass long before. They ran merrily through the
meadow at the back of the house, and soon got to the
entrance to the wood. There they found a nice,
mossy place, and, sitting down on the old roots of the
trees, they spread their lunch on a large, flat stone
that was near, and commenced to “ tell stories.”

“Last night,” began Daisy, “I woke up, and I
thought I would get out of bed, and look out of the
window ; and what do you think I saw?”

“Oh! what?” cried the rest, with their mouths
wide open.

“Why, I saw ten thousand diamonds dancing and
sparkling in the dark.”

“Oh, oh! I wish I had seen them!” cried May
and Katie.

This was the first time that Daisy had seen the
fireflies flashing their soft, bright lights. She did not
mean to tell a falsehood ; she really thought that they
were diamonds..

“My mamma went to a party last winter, and what
do you think she ate?” asked Katie.

“ What?” inquired May and Daisy.

“Frogs!” said Katie.

“Oh! oh! how awful!” cried May and Daisy —
but all this time little Alice had said nothing.

“Once I saw an elephant,” said May in her turn.
“Tt was in the menagerie. A little boy stuck a pin in
FUNNY LITTLE ALICE.





As trunk, and he caught the boy up by his jacket, and
ghook him right out of it, and hurt him so! and he
screamed like everything!”

“Oh, oh! how dreadful!” exclaimed Katie and
Daisy, but little Alice said nothing — because she was
not there! While the others had been lost in wonder
over the stories, she had trotted off farther into the
woods, clasping her dear Nancy in her arms, and
softly singing this queer little song:

“By-lo-by, my darlin’ baby,
Baby,
Taby,
Faby,

Maby,
Darlin’ baby.”

“There, now, she’s fas’ as’eep,” said Alice. “Sh!
sh!” She laid Nancy softly down among the mossy
roots of .a hollow tree, and, sitting close beside her,
she heaved a funny little sigh, and said: “Oh, my!
that child will wear me out!” which was a speech her
nurse had very often made to her.

Soon there was arustling sound. The hollow tree
was full of dry, dead leaves, and out of these a huge
black snake came crawling. It slowly curled itself
round Nancy, and then lay quite still.

Alice looked curiously at a creature she had never
before seen, or even heard of. Then she put out one
little fat hand, and gently patted the snake on its
head.

“Did you want to see my Nancy?” she asked.
“Well, so you s’all, poor sing!” Then she smoothed
the snake’s head, who appeared to like it very much,
for it shut its eyes and seemed to sleep.

And the sweet little tender-hearted child, never



dreaming of any danger from the loathsome reptile,,
looked up and smiled at the birds piping over her-
head, and kept on softly smoothing the head of her-
plaything.

And this was how “ Mitter ’Trong,” as she callec
the gentleman who rode her oftenest to “ Banbury:
Cross,” found Alice, as he was walking through the.
wood that summer afternoon. No wonder that he
screamed, and rushed to her, and caught her up and
kissed her, and almost cried, and then went at the
snake with his stick.

But it was as frightened as he was, and May, Daisy
and Kate came running up, just as it was squirming-
back into the hollow tree. Then there were three.
more screams, and their six bright eyes grew perfectly
wild with terror — while little Alice looked on very
much surprised, but not a bit frightened.

The children had missed their dear little playmate
at last, and, very much alarmed and ashamed of their
carelessness, were searching for her.

Mr. Strong carried little Alice home in triumph on
his shoulder, where she was kissed and cried over-
again, and Mr. Strong was thanked for saving her.

The black snake might not have bitten her, but it
might have squeezed such a little thing to death, so.
Mr. Strong and another gentleman went back, and
poked the snake out of the hollow tree, and killed it},
and, finding Nancy patiently waiting for some one to.
come for her, they brought her back to the arms of
her cunning little mother. And after this, funny lit-

tle Alice never went out without her nurse.

We must bid her good-bye now, because this story
is long enough; but some day I will tell you more:
about her.


“PRETTY,” AND HER VIOLIN.



“PRETTY,” AND HER VIOLIN.



BY HOLME MAXWELL.



ELICE was a servant. She was just twenty

years old, but she was like a child in our land,
She talked a little, soft, broken English ; our words
were very, very hard for her fine, pretty Italian lips
to manage. She was tall, and extremely refined and
delicate ; every one admits this now, but her little
girl-mistress saw it at a glance, as Felice came in
behind papa, pausing, tall and slender, with her
exquisite brown hair and brown eyes, to be ad-
dressed.

“Here is your mistress,” said the papa to Felice,
indicating the young girl dressed in white. “She is
the little woman of the house, and will tell you about
your duties.”

Felice bowed like a tall lily, as the “mistress,” so
much younger and so much smaller than herself,
came forward, slowly and with irregular steps, lean-
ing upon a fairy sort of cane. “You are pretty,
pretty, pretty — pretty as I could ask for,” said the

young girl,

Felice was not accustomed to be taken by her

mistresses with two tender, white hands, and called
“ Pretty, pretty, pretty.” A soft color came into her
pale, clear cheeks, and her eyes grew liquid as she
bent over the little girl without speaking. But when
the little girl turned away, looking so quaint in her
stylish white dress, as she leaned upon her little cane,
Felice instinctively followed her. She placed the
velvet hassock under her feet as she sat down, and
slipped the cane into the “rest” attached to the
small lounging-chair.

“Can you make a bed nicely, Pretty?” said the
little girl.

“Yes, mees,” answered Felice,

“Can you put the room nicely, Pretty?”

“Yes, mees.”

“And do birds and flowers and gold-fish prosper
with you, Pretty?”

“IT cannot tell you, mees.”

“Can you sew nicely?”



“Mees say zzcely —no, alas! I work not with the
needle, none, in four year.”

“Well, then, can you read,—our English books?
you know, — and a long while at a time? Pray;,
don’t say no.”

“ Alas, mees, I know not to read the Ingleese,,
Ah, mees, I think now to my heart this is one:

none.
meestake. You wish not me.
chambermaid.”

“You cannot know what I wish, my Pretty.” But
the little mistress’s face was downcast and clouded.
From under her sunny eyelashes she studied the long,
slender, folded hands of poor “Pretty.” They were
browned and hardened with rougher labors than hair-
dressing, and embroidering, the mending of laces, or
the tending of flowers.

She pointed at last to a door across the hall.
“Your room, Pretty. Have your things brought up.”

“ Felice,” corrected the soft Italian lips.

“No, Pretty,” persisted the little mistress, with a
lovely smile.

This little girl of fourteen — Lulu Redfern — was
mistress of many things: of a brown-stone mansion,
of her papa, and of his immense wealth. She was
almost like a fairy in her willfulness and in her power.
Why might she not change her servant’s name if she
chose? &

While “ Pretty” was gone, Mr. Redfern came back.
“Papa,” said the mistress, ‘of what were you think-
ing? Pretty does not sew, does not understand flow-
ers and pets, does not read, does not even dress
hair!”

“Don’t she?” said papa, crestfallen.
looks as if she did.”

“Papa, did you ask at all?”

“No,” confessed papa, “I did not. I supposed,
of course, she could ; else why did she apply. Can’t
she be of any use, my birdie ?”

““T don’t see how, papa.”

“Well, then, we shall have to send her away, I

You wish not one:

“Why, she
“PRETTY,” AND HER VIOLIN.



suppose.
you would like to have about you — she is so differ-
ent from that fluttering, nervous French Adele. But
you certainly do not need another mere chamber-
maid.”

“Vet, papa, I cannot have her go, now that she
has come. Can’t I keep her, papa, to look at? She
won’t cost so much as a Sevres vase.” :

Felice, with her droopy face and soft steps, was
passing. She had a small satchel in one hand, and
in the other — what do you suppose?

A violin-case, little, black, ‘old.

“Whew!” said papa to himself. ‘“ That’s queer
luggage.” But Miss Redfern did not see the queer
luggage.

So “ Pretty’ staid, on the footing of a Sevres vase ;
and drooped over and about her little mistress like a
beautiful lily wherever she went, and that was nearly
all she could do for many days.

Now, this little girl, who could have everything
almost, could not have everything quite. She loved
music beyond all things else; but on account of her
little lame feet she could not play.
was for the guests. Rare players used to come and
play for her ; and none of the music ever seemed to

The grand piano

depart from the house, so that all the rooms were
haunted by divine harmonies. When Lulu lay awake
at night, kept awake by pain, the wondrous strains
played themselves again at her ear, and the sweet,
pure young soul took wings to itself, and swept away
and away among lovely scenes, until lameness and
pain and a thwarted life were quite forgotten.

It was one night, about a week after Felice came.
She had lifted her mistress into bed, and had said,
“T wish you a most lofely good night, Mees Looloo,”
and had gone. It was not a “most lofely” night,
“Mees Looloo’s”’ little feet were throbbing with pain
worse than ever before ; but about midnight she was
growing hushed and serene. There were wafts and
breathings of Mendelssohn, and Wagner, and Mozart,

and Beethoven all about her; and she was falling |

asleep, when, suddenly, a fine, sweet, joyous, living
strain pierced through the dreamy songs and_har-
monies.

Lulu lifted her head. She knew in a moment that
this was real music. Enchanting as were her dreams
by both night and day, no one so clear-headed as the
little mistress.

I fancied she would be quite the person ;



She had sat and listened too often |

for coming and going feet, for closing doors, to be
mistaken as to the source of any sound. This mid-
night music came from “ Pretty’s” room; and she
who loved reed, and pipe, and horn, and string so
well, knew that it was the rarest violin-music.

It was entrancingly sweet. Air after air entirely
unknown to the little music lover floated out on the

' still midnight. Poor little Miss Redfern! She buried

her face in her pillows and sobbed in an ecstasy of
happiness. “ Now I know what it is so pure, so high,
that I see in my Pretty’s face. It is that which is in
the faces of all the artists that come here. - My Pretty
is no servant. Papa said that she looked as if she
could do all these things — papa felt she was an

| artist. Papa could not help bring her, I could not

help keep her, — O, my own Pretty!”

By and by the music ceased ; and, listening, Lulu
heard the violin deposited in the box.

She looked bright asa bird when her maid came
to lift her to the bath, next morning. ‘“ Ah, Mees
Looloo, I wish you a lofely good morning.”

“Tt is both lovely and good, dear Pretty,” said the
child-mistress, stooping to kiss the long artist fingers
busy with her sleeve-buttons. “I understand these
fingers now.”

“Ffaf you not always understood their mooch slow
ways, Mees Looloo?”

“Mees Looloo” clasped the two strong, nervous
hands close to her breast. “ Pretty! I know what
they were made for; they are the musician’s hands.
[ heard you last night. I heard a violin in your room.
How could you have it here, Pretty, and not bring
it out when I am often so tired and need to be
soothed ?”’

““O, Mees Looloo, I haf not thought. I haf played
when I could not haf sleep to mine eyes, and haf
thought of Etalee.”

‘Then Lulu heard the simple story. It was the violin
belonging to Felice’s father, and Felice had handled
it from her babyhood. She had brought it to Amer-
ica and had carried it from place to place with her.
Nobody had cared ; nobody had questioned the poor
young chambermaid.

But ‘Mees Looloo” cared. “ Pretty”? brought the
violin as simply as if bidden to bring a flower or a
book. It was old, dark, rich — mellow in its hues as
in its tones.

‘““May papa come up?”


2
















“PRETTY” AND HER VIOLIN.





“T haf always lofed to please you, mees,” said
“Pretty.” “ But I haf nevaire learn moosic. I haf
none other but vary old moosic.”

There were, indeed, some old, yellow sheets of
foreign music lying in the bottom of the case ; but
Felice did not take them out. “I know in my heart
this moosic — father’s lofely moosic.”

She lifted the instrument to her bosom. She laid
her clear, dark cheek against it lovingly, in the uncon-
scious fashion of the true lovers of the violin ; her
fingers, long, supple, dark, sounded the chords ; the
bow gleamed and glanced as it sought the strings ;
and, bending over it, “ Pretty’s” young face paled and
flushed gloriously, as the father’s “lofely moosic”
stirred her two listeners to tears.

The child mistress talked to papa in a very excited
manner as he bore her away on his shoulder to the
breakfast-room. Papa listened, papa thought, and,
finally, papa assented.

“T think so, dear. She is worth it! There are
only you and I to spend the money, and why shall we
not do as we like, birdie?”

So little lame Miss Redfern was to be a Patron of
Music. That was almost as good as to be a musician.

“ Pretty” could refuse nothing to her dear little mis-
tress. In her loving simplicity she did as she was
bidden, even to the trying on of one handsome dress
after another when she was taken to the fine shops.
And at night, after the hair-dresser was done with the
soft curls of her brown hair, and she stood before the
mirror in her lace frills and silk dress, she simply
said in her soft, limited English, “‘ You have made me
mose lofely, Mees Looloo.”

In the evening, when the invited guests — bearded



and spectacled men, and fine and gracious women —
were gathered down in the gardens below, among the
lighted trees and the fountains and the arbors, the
tall, simple “ Pretty ” obeyed her mistress again with-
out a question. Lifting her violin to her bosom, she
came out upon the balcony, and played once more
the old Italian music. With bared heads and silent
lips the company of musicians stood to listen.

Soft bravos, fluttering handkerchiefs, showers of
fresh flowers, greeted simple “ Pretty.” They thought
her some new star, and this her private début.

What was their surprise to hear it was the little
Miss Redfern’s maid whom they had thus quietly
been brought to see and pass judgment upon! But,
gracefully, nay generously, they acknowledged her as
thoroughly worth the musical education Mr. Redfern
and his daughter were planning to bestow.

To simple “Pretty” herself, simple with all the
honesty and unconsciousness of true genius, the great
plan was not at all too strange, nor too great. If one
had offered her beauty or pleasure in another shape,
she might have drawn back from the gift — but not
It. did not seem to surprise her that she
was going back to the Old World, and not as a steer-
age passenger, but dressed in costly robes, and under
the care of friends, to study with the great masters
of music.

“‘T will come back, dear Mees Looloo, and sing to
you and the kind papa lofelier than you can think,
when I sall haf staid long. Some other day you sall
haf to be proud of your ‘ Pretty.’ ”

Yes, some day “ Pretty” will come back to her
little mistress, and to us, with the sweet old Italian
violin.

from music.










DOM YS ACS hk ONGHE,



BY EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.



HE clock in the warm, bright kitchen was strik-

ing nine ; not nine in the morning, but nine in

the evening, which is a very different thing, as the old

clock seemed to know, for it counted off the chime

with a soft, sleepy roll, as if bent upon making the
least possible disturbance.

Dolly put the cookies into the deep tin box that
had held thousands of such dainties in its day, set
the lid a-tilt upon the edge, gave a glance of satisfac-
tion at the great loaves peeping out from the white
cloth that covered them, the row of pies on the shelf
below, and the plump chickens trussed up sociably on
the platter, and then came out from the pantry, and
shut the door upon the savory smells. Dolly was not
a beauty, but she had a clear, fresh face, and was full
‘of health and vigor and content. She was a model
housekeeper, too, as the old clock could have testified,
and this was the first time it had been called upon to
countenance such irregular doings as the turning of
night into day. But this was the night before Thanks-
giving, and when one is cook, chambermaid, house-
keeper, and mistress of the manse, she certainly has
a right to regulate her own days in spite of the
almanac-man.

Yes, and nurse besides; for on the lounge lay
Dolly’s mother, not exactly sick, but weak from a long



fever that had left her ankles so swollen and painful
that she could not walk a step without assistance.
Bess and Johnny had been away through it all, but
now their father had gone for them, and early in the
morning they would reach home,—the pleasant
prairie home, with its broad, boundless fields, from
which they expected some day to reap a fortune.

The lounge was in the kitchen, for the Marshalls
cared a great deal more for comfort than ceremony,
and Dolly’s kitchen, with its clean yellow floor, bright
rugs, white table, and window full of growing plants,
was afamous place for comfort.

“T hope you are through at last,” said Mrs. Mar-
shall, looking up sleepily at Dolly.

“ All but the candy, and that'll not take long,” said
Dolly cheerily. \

“For pity’s sake, do let the candy go ; the children
are just as well off without it.”

“Oh, but I promised Johnny P’d have some for
him, and it wouldn’t seem like Thanksgiving without
it. The nuts are all cracked, and I'll sit here and
pick out the goodies while the molasses boils,” and
Dolly whisked out the clean iron skillet, and poured
the molasses in so quickly her mother could only say:
“You'll kill yourself working so hard, and what
good do you think that will do the children?”
DOLLY’S LAST NIGHT.



“Choogi choog!” said the molasses in its hurry
to get out of the jug, and Dolly smiled as she coaxed
it to make less haste and more speed.

“Y’m tough as a pine knot,” she said, merrily ;
“but if I were really going to die I shouid like to
have the children say, ‘She always tried to help us
have good times, and the very last night she was
here she made us sorne candy.’”

There was a foolish little moisture in Dolly’s eyes
as she dropped into the low-cushioned chair, the same
old creaky chair in which her mother had rocked her
when she was a baby, and in which she herself had
rocked Bess and Johnny scores of times, She was
very tired, now that she came to sit down and think
about it, and her little speech wakened a sort of
pathetic pity for herself. She even began to fancy
what they would all do without her, but just at that
point the molasses made a sudden rush for the top of
the skillet, and put an end to her musing.

Mrs. Marshall roused up a little also.

“Tt seems so strange to have Thanksgiving come
without a flake of snow! Joel says it is as dry as
midsummer, too. I never feel easy about the stacks
until there’s a good fall of snow.”

“Joel is very careful,” suggested Dolly, “ and father
plowed a good strip around the stacks before he
went away.”

“Yes, I know. But what good would a few furrows
do against a prairie fire such a time as this?”

“ Then we'll hope the Lord ’l] not let.a fire start in
such a time as this,” and Dolly seized her boiling
syrup at the precise moment of crispiness, poured it
over the plump white kernels spread thickly in the
shallow pans, and set the whole to cool in the back
kitchen.

When everything was tidy, and Dolly was ready to
help her mother to bed, the old clock ventured to
remark, in the same soft purr as before, that it only
lacked two hours to midnight; to which Dolly smil-
ingly answered that Thanksgiving only came once a
year.

“ How the colts stamp,” said Dolly. “ I wonder if
Joel could have forgotten to water them before he
went home.”

“Joel ought not to have gone home,” said her
mother. ‘It isn’t right for two lone women to be
left with no neighbors within a mile. Are you sure
the fire is all right, Dolly? seems to me there’s a
smoky smell in here.”



“Tt’s the molasses, I dropped a little on the stove ;
but Pl go out and see that all is right after you are in
bed, and then we shall both feel better.”

Dolly went without her lamp, and as she passed the
hall window she caught sight of a dull red glow, down.
against the dark horizon. In another instant she
stood outside, her rosy color all blanched at sight of
the fire sweeping down the prairie on those swift, ter-
rible wings of the west wind. For an instant she was
dizzy and confused with terror at the thought of her
utter helplessness, then, as if a voice had repeated it
to her, she recalled the verse she had read that morn-
ing, “ What time Lam afraid, Lwill trust in Thee,”
and, with asilent prayer for help, she went back to her
mother.

“The prairie is on fire,” she said, trying to speak
quietly.

Her mother sprang from the bed, and sank down,
almost fainting, from pain. °

“Q Dolly!” she gasped, “we shall die here all
alone.”

“Pll make a good fight, first,” said Dolly, bravely.
“T must go and do what I can, and you must wait
here and gray. Only perhaps you had better get
your clothes on again, in case of the worst.” :

Dolly threw some heavy shawls upon the bed,
placed her mother’s clothes within reach, hugged her-
once, and rushed away. In two minutes more she
had put on Joel’s boots, tied up her curly head in an
old comforter, and buttoned herself into her father’s.
coat, She was ready to fight fire, and she knew just
how to do it. But first the colts must be taken from
the low thatched stable that would be sure to blaze
at the first spark. Already they were growing restless.
with the strong smell of smoke, and that strange intu-
ition of danger which horses seem to possess. Dolly
had some difficulty in leading them out, and then she:
hardly knew what to do with them, for she knew well
enough they would go scouring off when the fire came
near. She was a quick-witted little woman, however,
and she soon had the colts in the back kitchen, tied
fast to the old carpet loom. Then she filled the tubs
and pails with water, and set them along the line of
the buildings, cut some heavy branches of hemlock,
and brought out the horse-blankets and dipped them
in water, :

The house, behind its clump of evergreens, might.
possibly escape, but there seemed little chance for the
low barn, the granary, and the immense stacks of
DOLLY’S LAST NIGHT.

Tre



hay, yet in them lay their hopes for a year, and Dolly
determined not to give them up without a desperate
struggle. She scarcely dared look at the fire, but she
saw once how a brighter light leaped up as the flames
caught a barn or a stack of hay in the distance. As
rapidly as possible she broadened the circle about the
line of buildings, lighting the thick grass with one
hand, and dashing out the flame with the other, when
it threatened to go beyond her control. She felt al-
most guilty as she saw the blaze she had kindled go
sweeping away towards the cast, carrying the same
terror to others which was rapidly coming down upon
her, but it was her only chance of escape, and there
was not another house between them and the river.
She worked on in desperation as the air grew thick
with smoke, and at last she could hear the roar and
crackle when the flames swept the great corn-field,
fairly leaping along the rows of dry stalks. It was
almost upon her, and she ran back within her burned
circle, and waited for doom.

Her hands were blistered, her eye-lashes were
burned off, but she did not know it. She only watched,
with every nerve tense and throbbing, to see if the
fire would leap the line. It died down a little in
spots, crept sullenly along the edge, as if loth to go
by, flamed up here and there at a bunch of tall weeds,
then, with a sudden puff, the wind lodged a whirling
handful of cinders at the foot of the great straw
stack |

Dolly sprang at it like a tiger, tearing away the
burning straw, and striking right and left with the
wet blanket. Then a little blaze crept under the
fence, and she beat the life out of it in a breath.
Another whirl of cinders upon the roof of the stable,
but they fell black and harmless.
running along the ‘edge of the shed, but the water was
ready for it; and Dolly, with eyes everywhere, ran,
and beat, and trampled, until at last the fire veered
away to the south, and left the little homestead safe
in the midst of a blackened waste.

Dolly walked back and forth, around the stacks and
the buildings, whipping out the smallest sparks, and
then turned towards the house in a stupor of exhaust-
ion. She wanted to lie right down on the warm
ground by the side of the straw pile, and go to sleep,
but she had enough sense left to reach the house, and
make her way to her mother’s room.

“We're all right, mother,” she said in a husky
voice, “the fire has gone by;”

Then another blaze

and dropping upon



the bed, smoke, dirt, boots, and all, she sank into a
heavy sleep. Her mother tried in vain to rouse her,
so she dragged the shawls over her, and watched
anxiously for morning. But as the gray light began
to reveal Dolly’s face, she was terrified at its ghastly
whiteness, intensified by the soot and smoke which
begrimed it. She tried again to rouse her, but Dolly
lay in a stupor, and she could only clasp her hands
and pray for help. She crept painfully from the bed,
and was trying to drag herself to the door, when Joel
rode up on horseback, with his wife behind him.
She was a stout, red-cheeked young woman, and,
springing off without waiting for help, ran to the back
kitchen, where there were sounds of some one stir-
ring.

“Miss Dolly splittin’ kindlin’s, I'll be bound !
Joel’s jest that shiftless not to think on’t. My gra-
cious Peter!” she exclaimed, as she suddenly opened
the door, and found herself confronted by one of the
colts. ,

She left Joel to settle matters with the colts, and
made her way to Mrs. Marshall and Dolly, carrying
the poor lady back to bed in her strong arms, as if she
had been a baby.

“Don’t you worry about Dolly, ma’am,” she said,
confidently, “ she’ll sleep it off, and come out all right,
and ll just take off my things and do for you. I
can stop as well as not; our house was burned up,
and we just managed to save ourselves, so you see i
ain’t got a smitch 0’ work to do for myself.”

“Your house burned! Oh, Sarah, how hard that
is for you and Joel,” said Mrs. Marshall.

“VYes'm, it’s a kind of a pity, and I’d got the nicest
kind of a chicken pie ready for Thanksgivin’. We
never sze the fire till it was jest ketchin’ holt of us,
and then we got on the colt and raced it down the
gully to Dickerman’s pond ahead of the fire. We
just made a go of it, and set there till mornin’. Says
I, ‘Joel, it’s Thanksgivin’ day ; be ye right down
thankful?’ And Joel he looked at me and says, kind
o’ solemn like, ‘ Yes, £de/’ And so be I, ’cause we
might ’a been burned in our bed, leastways I might,
if Dolly hadn’t been so considerin’ as to let Joel
come home.”

Sarah had been all the time tugging at Dolly, pull-
ing off boots and coat, and undoing her scorched
hair. She bathed her face and hands, and lifted her
upon the pillow, but Mrs. Marshall’s terror only in-
creased at seeing Dolly remain perfectly passive, never
DOLLY'S’ LAST NIGHT.



opening her eyes, and allowing Sarah to lift her as if
she were dead. Hour after hour she slept on, only
when Sarah raised her on her vigorous arm, and fed
her with chicken broth, forcing it patiently into the
closed mouth, until at last a little color crept into the
pallid face, and the sleep was not so death-like. But
even at nine o’clock, when the travelers arrived, Dolly
gave them a doubtful recognition, She smiled faintly
at the children’s kisses, stared for an instant at her
father’s anxious face, and then went on dozing and
muttering. Bess stole in and out on tiptoe, the tears
dropping down on her pet kitten, and Johnny blun-
dered about with his mouth full of delicious candy
his very heart dissolving with grief and gratitude.
Dolly talked about the candy, and Johnny was im-
pressed with the idea that she wanted some, and
actually made an attempt to administer a small
chunk, but he was not very successful, and Dolly
kept on muttering: “The very last night she was
here she made them some candy ; the very last night;
the very last night; but they couldn’t find it; they
never could find it; the fire came and burnt them all
up; the very last night ; the — very — last-—night.”
If there had been a doctor at hand, Sarah wouid
have given up her patient to a cours. of brain fever,

an (GD
i rT) Fo N
ng aN :





with proper deference ; but as there was none within
twenty miles she was compelled to persevere with
her sensible applications of water, friction, and chicken
broth, and in a couple of days she had the satisfacn
tion of seeing Dolly laugh in quite a natural fashion
at Joel’s story of the gray colt, which was taken from
the kitchen with one foot firmly bedded in a pan of
molasses candy. :

“?Twasr’t all stepped on,” said Johnny, “and I
saved you a chunk. I’m awful glad you made it,
*cause nobody ’tended to Thanksgiving very much.”

“’m glad I made it,” said Dolly, “for I should no,
have seen the fire in time if I had gone to bed earlier.
I remember something foolish about its being my last
night,” and Dolly smiled doubtfully at her mother,
not feeling quite sure what she had said, and what she
had only thought.

“Tt was not foolish at all, dear,” said her mother,
kissing the scorched fingers. “Nothing better could
be said of any life, than that it was a sacrifice for
others.”

“Shet yer eyes, Dolly, and never mind about yer
last days,” said Sarah, decidedly ; “you won’t see ’em
this fifty year, if things is manoged anyway reason-
< ble.”

| a LAG, tol
WW) 2 bx, EL02 Y
PAE
WIS WF A Ga”




NIB AND MEG.



BY ELLA FARMAN.



ND who do you suppose rang at
the Doll Doctor’s door one Sat-
urday.

Two noticeable personages, I
assure you.

Three or four lovely phaetons
were drawn up before the house ;
the drawing-room was open ; and
pretty faces, set in brown, and
black, and yellow hair, and

: crowned with flowery hats, were

looking out until every one of Miss Chatty’s windows

seemed like a painting thronged with cherubs ; small
ladies, gloved and parasolled, and draped & Za mode,
were coming and going up and down the front steps ;
and Miss Teresa Drew was just stepping from the
beautiful family carriage, that had its coachman, and
its footmen, and its crested panels, and her tall French
maid was behind her with a doll and a doll’s maid in
her arms — but all the gay show didn’t begin to attract
the attention that was universally bestowed, the mo-
ment they appeared in sight, upon the two queer little



rie
beings who came across the street, unattended and on |

foot, right up to Miss Chatty’s gate.
: But, you see, zhey were gotten up in their very, very
est. I am not a fashion writer, my dears, and I



| couldn’t begin to tell you, so that you would have a

clear idea, how Miss Teresa Drew was dressed ; but I
must try to give you the /out ensemble of these two
new children. ‘“Zout ensemble,” my Wide Awakes, is
one of those French phrases that mean so much, and
are so handy, but which take so many of our English
words in the translation ; a little miss of my acquaint-
ance renders it as “the a/-over-ness of a person.”
The costume of these children had a peculiar a//over~
ness. Their shawls, a pair of ragged and worn broches,
enveloped them to the throat and dragged after them ;
and the effect over short dresses and bare legs was
striking ; and the shawls, in both cases, were sur-
mounted by old straw hats which looked, for all the
world, like two much-battered toadstools.

Miss Chatty happened to see them coming up to
the door, all her richly-dressed little people drawing
aside to let them pass; and she dropped her order-
book and made her way through her &-a-mode cher-
ubs, and answered the door-beil herself.

“Be you the Doll Doctor, mem?” asked the elder
of the children. ,

Miss Chatty intimated that she was.

“They told us as wot you lived here, mem, and as
how you could put the wust cases together.” Open-
ing her shawl, she drew forth a bundle, and, dropping
NIB AND MEG.



upon one knee, undid it deftly. She was self-pos-
sessed in spite of her bare feet ; but Miss Chatty was
much embarrassed. The children, evidently, were
street Arabs, and she hesitated, from various reasons,
to ask them in among her little girls ; but neither had
she the heart to dismiss them ; besides, she was, with-
al, considerably curious and amused. The hands busy
with the bundle were very hard, and very tanned ;
the face, all intent upon the knot of the string, was
strangely quaint and mature, — indeed, the utter ab-
sence of childish timidity and embarrassment was per-
haps the chief reason why Miss Chatty hesitated, with
such a dear, funny, soft-hearted manner, in her treat-
ment of these new patrons.
Finally the knot was untied.
heads were displayed, very much curtailed as to nose,
badly rubbed as to their black china curls, and sadly
crackled as to their cheeks, as cheeks will after long

A couple of dolls’

painting.

“There, mem, Nib and me, us found these in an
ash bar’l one day,” said the girl. ‘But jest heads
hain’t much to hug; and Nib and me’s got nither
time nor patterns for bodies ;
wot there was a Doll Doctor, us done ’thout a breck-
fus mornin’s, and saved up fer ter buy ther cloth an’
ther waddink. Ther cloth is ter cut out ther bodies,
and ther waddink is ter stuff ’°em — Nib an’ me don't
like sawdust -— waddink won’t go ter run out ’f ther’s
arip. An’, mem, Nib an’ me, us hopes as they'll be
done a-Saturdy. An’ here, mem, is wot us hopes ’ll
make a dress for’em both. An’ here, mem, is ther
thread ter sew it. An’ this here, mem, in this little
paper, is some adgink for ter trim ther things. An’
us is werry pertic’ler bout its bein’ a-Saturdy, mem,
as Sundy gits ter be a-lonesum with nothink ter do.
Hain’t Sundy a-lonesum, Nib?”

“Vou bet!” affirmed Nib.

All the cherubs, haloed with the pretty hair and
crowned with the flowery hats, and Miss Chatty, too,
would, doubtless, have been very much shocked had
Nib’s voice not been like a little flute, and the eyes
she lifted, like two great big violets, and the teeth she
But when lips and lids

and wen us heard as

showed, beautifully white.
closed again, she was as homely as the other; and
then everybody zas shocked at what they had heard,
the cherubs looking at each other, and the Doll Doc-
tor’s face becoming much suffused as she received |

the young rag-pickers’ spoils. But she could not send |



Still

them away. She shuddered at the old calico.
she respectfully took it.
“Us want’s ’em as tall as this, jest about,” con-

tinued Meg, showing Miss Chatty a strip of paper.
“Us thinks that’s the purtiest size for a doll.”

Miss Chatty was scarce able to speak even now ;.
for the audacity, the simplicity, and the perfect good
faith of the rag-baby “order” was as paralyzing as it.
was funny. She was a dear, honest Christian, but.
she couldn’t think quite what to do with her new cus-
tomers much more readily than would Sexton Brown:
had Nib and Meg gone into Grace Church on Sun-

day. It was well for Sexton Brown that Nib and Meg:
had never heard that God the Father was preached at
Grace Church, or they might have gone in.

Meg, at last, seemed struck by the silence of the
Doll Doctor. ‘‘ Mem,” said she, hastily, “don’t you
go fer ter be afeard us won’t pay. Us has got ther
money saved up — hain’t us, Nib?”

“Pm not afraid, not at all,’ said Miss Chatty.
“And they will be done on Friday. Come for them
on that day. I am always extremely busy on Satur-
day.”

At that Meg looked much pleased. ‘Mem, ’f you
do do us a nice job, an’ so prompt-like, ther’s lots 0”
girls us knows as’ll get you ter fix ther dolls. Us
girls thet sells things hain’t got no time fer nothink,
and us couldn’t go fer ter sew and cut out if us.
had!”

Evidently not. Nib and Meg, under the shawls,
were picturesque with tatters.

“Us wants our dolls tidy and lovesome, mem,” she
added, caressingly touching the white cotton in Miss.
Chatty’s hand, and feasting her eyes upon its white-
ness perceptibly. Miss Chatty saw it; and she saw
something else at the same moment, — direful gaps.
and rents about the childish waist betraying that there:

was sad lack of “whiteness” for little Meg’s own

wear, —poor Meg! that wanted her dolly “tidy and
lovesome,” feasting upon the one shred of wholesome
white cloth, — Miss Chatty knew the little girl’s soul
to be clean by that token; and if she had halted in
her treatment before, she took the little ones right.
into her heart now, which was a much lovelier place
than her parlor.

“Don’t you think, mem, as ther’s likely to be
adgink for all ther underclothes, cos us’d get more
ef ther wasn’t.”














































































































































































































































Me
My

iy
eat

YY LE
Yy Ye 7
YYyyy, Y Li






























































NIB AND MEG.



Miss Chatty was sure there would be plenty; and
Nib and Meg went down the steps and away, at their
leisure. ‘My! wasn’t them thar swell girls!” said
little Nib, all aloud. “But I didn’t car; did you,
Meg? An’ I seed derlicious dolls in ther, — Vl bet
ourn’ll have flouncers, or sumthink.”

Miss Chatty, hearing, resolved there should, at least,
be “sumthink.”

Her little ladies all were looking at her as she re-
entered the drawing-room. ‘They were ready to burst
forth into a breeze of fun and ridicule, or to be very
sorry, —— just which way their dear Doll Doctor gave
the cue. She laid the bundle on the shelf, the pink
calico by itself in a bit of paper, and wrote down the
order. “Poor little waifs,” she sighed. “Think of
it, children, how hard they try to be like other folks,
and how much they seem to wish for something to
love!”

There was a little hush, until Teresa Drew spoke.
“T never thought of it, but I wonder what street-chil-
dren do do for dolls!”

“Madame ought not to have to touch objects from
the barrel of the ashes; it is very mooch disgoosted,”
said Teresa’s French maid. She stooped and whis-
pered to her little mistress. The child directly took
out her purse, and laid a shining half eagle on the
table by Miss Chatty’s hand.

“Please buy them both a nice, well-dressed doll,
with plenty of ‘adgink’ on the clothes. Who would
think they could care forlace! We must tell mamma
that, Hortense.”

Miss Chatty kissed her kind little customer. All
her little ladies were pleased if she shook hands when
they came, and very happy indeed if she twined a curl
over her finger, or re-tied a sash, —for she had the
dearest and daintiest of mother-ways. “My dear,”
she said, “I think the little girls would feel tenderest
toward the very dollies they have worked so hard to
get. But I should like to buy clothing for the chil-
dren themselves with your gold piece.”

The idea roused a creditable little fwrore of benev-
olence among the children. Every tiny pocket-book
came open, and although there was no more gold,
Miss Chatty soon became the treasurer of a respecta-
ble fund for the benefit of Meg and Nib, whom sev-
eral now remembered to have seen as rag-pickers
and match-girls.

Indeed, there was so much generous talk about

Meg and Nib that when Miss Chatty went to bed she
dreamed a very long and very nice dream.

In this dream all the pavements in the city were
fringed with toadstools, and the stems were little girls,
each with a doll in her arms, and they were all on
their way to her house to be mended. When all had
arrived, a tall, white angel came, and stood in the
door and looked in. And she said, “ Behold, I am
I sit
To-night, on the evening
air, I listened for the noise of crying and quarreling,
and, instead, I heard laughter, and playing, and lulla-
bies. The thanks of one that weeps are sweeter than
all others. Take my blessing, O giver of dolls, be-
cause you have learned that a little girl, to be good,
must have something to love.”

Then the children sang ‘“ bye-low-baby-bye” in soft
tones ; and after they were through singing, they sat
and nodded -deliciously, — children, dolls, and she,
too; and all this while the Angel of the Children’s
Woes sat in their midst on a canopied coach that had
a coachman, and a footman, and a French maid, and
rested from her tearful labors ~ indeed her eyes grew
every moment of a most bright and smiling azure ;
and while she was resting, on a loom of silver she
wove edging until there was a great plenty to have
trimmed all the dolls in the world.

It was quite a pleasant dream, in fact; and Miss
Chatty woke with her heart all soft, and young, and
warm, and it staid so all day Sunday.

After breakfast, Monday morning, she put on her
holland gloves and went out to dig around her roses.
She desired the circle of dark loam about her trees
to be exactly and truly round. So she found it neces-
sary to do her own digging.

As she set her foot on the spade, a little voice she
knew called from the bottom of the garden. “ Please,
Miss Chatty, were there a great many nice dolls
brought Saturday?”

And another little voice continued, “May we go
and see them?”

It was Sylvey Morgan and Teddy. They were
iooking over the broken paling of the garden fence,
their little faces twinkling with smiles and sunshine.

“Yes, birdies.

she that weepeth over the woes of. children.
upon a cloud over this city.

You may go up through the base-
ment, and J will step over and see Mintie.”

The children flew to the gate and up to the house,
' for you must know that it was very nice, indeed, to go


NIB AND MEG.



up to Miss Chatty’s parlors and look at the beauti-
ful dolls all by themselves. They well knew they
“mustn’t touch ;” and Miss Chatty was well assured
they wouldn’t.

She picked some clove pinks and went over to the
house of the children. It was a small cottage in vines
fronting a back street. She went around to the sit-
ting-room, where, by the window, sat a young girl
with a poor little pinched-up face. A cane, gayly
painted, and adorned with a flowing ribbon bow,
leaned against the window, and told the girl’s story.

The room was very plain only about this corner.
This nook had a bird cage and a hanging basket of
ivy in the window; Mintie’s chair, with its gay cushion,
stood on a Persian mat; there was a little window
garden growing on the ledge ; and on the elbow stand
was a globe with gold fish, while opposite hung some
pretty water colors. Mintie’s hair was tied back with
a rose-pink bow, and her wrapper was a marvelous
web of roses and posies. Altogether the endeavor to
surround poor Mintie Morgan with brightness and
beauty was very evident.

But Mintie herself looked peevish, and as if never
anything in the world had been done for her. It was
plain she was no nice, ideal invalid, but a girl whom
to take care of would be a great trial.

She did smile, however, as she took Miss Chatty’s
clove pinks. ‘You always bring enough, and plenty
of grass and leaves, so that there is a chance to try a
bouquet. I believe you do it that I may fuss with
them half the forenoon if I like.”

Miss Chatty colored a trifle at being detected.
“Well, that is nothing against me, I hope, Mintie.
How do you feel to-day?”

““O, good-for-nothing, and all tired.out just to think
it is Monday morning instead of Saturday night.”

“T do wish you had something pleasant to occupy
yourself with,” said Miss Chatty, sympathetically, in-
stead of whipping out the little sermon on content-
ment. She had always thought she wouldn’t thank
anybody to preach contentment to her, had she been
broken-backed and with no feet to speak of, like
Mintie.

“TIsn’t there anything you can do?”

“Of course there isn’t,” said Mintie. ‘I want
something pretty if I have anything, work which will
make me forget I am in this chair. I won’t sew the
children’s clothes. Father and mother should con-



trive that I was amused. And if you felt so very bad
for me, Miss Chatty, I guess you would have offered
to let me dress some of them dolls before now!”

“So I might, I should think myself,” said Miss
Chatty, startled into saying a very unwise thing ; for,
of course, a ten-dollar doll wasn’t to be put in care-
less fingers.

“But, of course,” continued Mintie, fretfully, “you
don’t have more than you can do yourself.”

“No,” said Miss Chatty, much relieved, “I don’t.
But, poor little Mintie, you ought to have something
nice to do!”

“Well, you need all the money, and I shouldn’t
like to work, even at anything pretty, unless I was
paid. I don’t wish to talk about work at all unless
that is understood. You needn’t ever bring anything
here to do just to amuse me.” And Mintie looked, —
only think of a young girl looking as ugly as pictures
of misers that you have seen!

As for Miss Chatty, she blushed clear up to her
eyes. “My dear child!” she exclaimed. ‘‘ How
could you think I should be unjust!”

And then she went and stood in the door. The
dear little old maid was dreadfully ashamed, and a
trifle indignant, too, over Mintie’s bad manners and
selfishness. But after a moment she reflected that
probably the poor girl had no pocket-money at all,
and couldn’t get any either ; and she recollected also
that it had been said that physical deformity often
produced spiritual crookedness and halting. She
tried to think of some way to help her. She thought
of offering Nib’s and Meg’s dolls to make and clothe ;
but no, Mintie wished to handle only beautiful things.

All at once her dream came up before her, as
pleasant as in her sleep, and it seemed to turn inside
out and reveal its meaning.

She went back and kissed Mintie. Then she went
home and kissed Sylvey and Teddy and sent them
away. After that she made herself ready, and went
upon another eccentric little journey among her
wealthy friends.

It is said that Miss Chatty talked a deal of beau-
tiful and flowery nonsense at every house where she
called, all about the influence upon poor children of
a flower to watch, or a bird to tend, or a lovely doll
to love. She told everybody that she was going to
send a missionary in the shape of a pretty doll to
every ragged and dirty child in the city.
NIB AND MEG.



They laughed at the idea of the doll-mission ; but
as she begged at most places for nothing more than
““pieces,”’ — bits of silk and bright woolens, remnants
‘of ribbons and laces, the natural leavings of dress-
making, of which there is always plenty at every
house, — Miss Chatty did not render herself very
‘obnoxious.

But at three or four houses there was far more
weighty talk ; and from them Miss Chatty took away
considerable money. Then she went down upon Vesey
Street, and one of her friends among the merchants
gave her a roll of bleached muslin, and the same good
man also gave her a card of edging in the narne of
his little daughter. She then went down farther still,
to Bleecker Street, where a jolly young importer of
‘cheap toys sold her a gross of china dolls at cost.

Tuesday, all day, she cut patterns of skirts, and
polonaises, and basques, and fichus, and walking jack-
ets, all as fanciful as possible, bearing in mind the
temper of her seamstress.

On Wednesday she went over to Mintie, carrying
the bundles and her own walnut cutting board.























And when Mintie had looked at the great army of
curly-pated dolls, with their naked little kid bodies,
every one of them wearing the same rosy smile, and
had laid all the lustrous silky velvets to her cheek,
and had sheened the silks over her knee, and had de-
lighted with the laces and the iris ribbons, she did
smile, the first sunny smile of her blighted life, I do
believe ; and she said she should be very, very happy,
and that she should dress no two dolls alike ; and she
never mentioned her wages at all.

But after Miss Chatty had unfolded her plan, and
told her how well she was to be paid, Mintie became
cross again. She said after the dolls were done it
was a shame for ragged children to have them, and
they would have to be taken from her house to be
distributed, for she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, bear the
sight of such creatures !

But in what manner the Doll Mission was organ-
ized, and how the lovely missionaries did their work,
and whether the Angel really stopped weeping, will
make another long story; and it will be still more
beautiful than this and the other.



sa



ii po Ey ——
(oer

————
THE LITTLE PARSNIP-MAN.



THE LITTLE PARSNIP-MAN.



BY E. F,



NE year Mrs. Dumpling was
ill all the summer, and there
was nobody mucn to tend the
kitchen garden, except Dimple.
Dimple was extremely sturdy,
but being shorter than the spade,
he could not use the spade at all ;
and he was so very much ‘shorter
than a hoe, that the hoe kicked,
and generally hit Dimple on the

he was so much shorter than the
weeds, that when he went to pull
them, the weeds felt quite at liber-
ty to turn about and pull him ;
they’d hang back and pull, and
pull, until they got Dimple all ex-



suddenly let go his little hands, and down would go
Dimple on the ground, over on his back, pulled right
“off his little roots, -—his little feet, I mean, — while
‘the weeds would just swing, and nod, and shake with
Jaughter, and then they would grow — oh, ow they
‘would grow! A little rough pulling at one, if you
don’t get pulled clear off your feet and out of your
place, is so very good for anybody.

Dimple finally gave up the weeds, and tended the
‘vegetables only. He cultivated them with a stick,
‘scratching along the roots, and making the soil black
and loose. One day he sat under a shady row of
tall mustard-weeds, and scratched along a line of some
feathery green stuff his mamma had sowed. He sat
poking the dirt, and thinking what a pretty green
plants turned as the dirt was stirred, when suddenly,
poking away a big stone, he saw something white, and
round, and wrinkled, just like a head, —an old man’s
bald head!

“Why,” said Dimple, “‘ who’s here?”

He dug a little, and he came to some sleepy old
eyes, all shut, and wrinkled, and peevish.

nose ; and before summer was out. |

cited and puffing, and then they'd |

'



“Why-ee!” said Dimple. “It és somebody!”
He dug and dug, and he came to a nose, — an

| awful big nose.

“Why-ee!” said Dimple. “It’sa Roman nose. I
fink it is a grandpa.”

He dug a little mite more, and there were some
moustaches growing right out of the big nose. He
pulled and pulled with his two forefingers, and loos-
ened them up, and all at once they flopped out of the
dirt ; and they were two long waxed moustaches.

Dimple was so surprised he said nothing this time,
but dug away, almost scared. Pretty soon he found a
mouth, a large funny mouth, close up under the nose,
and the mouth was dreadful live and quirky.

“Why-ee-ee!” said Dimple. “TI fink it zs some-
body, and he’s waking up!”

For now the eyes did seem to twinkle, and the little
bare skull to wink and move its wrinkles up and

down.

Dimple dug away again, and found a chin and some
straggling beard.

“T fink what it is now,” said Dimple.
readed about him yes’day. He lives down in. the
mines. He’s a Kobold, and he wants to get out.”

It was so bad to be stuck fast in the dirt, Dimple
dug now just as hard as he could. The little old man
himself didn’t help at all to loosen up his two long,
slim legs. Finally Dimple, with a mighty effort, and
by shutting both eyes hard, pulled them out, and he
tumbled over on his back, and the little old man tum-
bled over on /és back, and lay like one dead.

Then Dimple saw he had no arms. “ Dee-me! Hs
said he. “I be’eve he started to bring up some gold,
and the other Kobolds ran after him and cut off his
arms. Dee-me! I fink what if he has got up so far
and beed-ed to deff!”

Dimple scampered in, and his face was so white,
and his story so wild, that Mrs. Dumpling managed
to walk up into the garden.

Dimple took her to the place ; the little old man

)

“ Mamma
HOW

DORR FOUGHT.



was there, sure enough. Mrs. Dumpling saw him
herself, in a glimmering dazed kind of way, for just
one moment, — his twinkling eyes, his bald skull, his
Roman nose, his long moustaches, and his straggling
beard.

Then she sat down on the grass and laughed.

She picked him up; and the moment she touched
him there was an awful transformation. Even Dimple
saw it was only a parsnip, —a pronged, ill-shaped,
tough old parsnip.

But that night something happened which Dimple
never forgot. The old Parsnip-Man came to his bed
and spoke to him. But I regret to say that he used
many large words which Dimple could not under-
stand.

“Kind sir,” said he, “ naturally we are a fine and
shapely race, — we, and our cousins the Beets and the
Carrots and the Salsify. If we are brought up, as

_ every new generation ought to be, with tender sur-

roundings, and kept out of the company of stones



and clods and weeds, we have a dear promise that
many of us shall be placed on the dinner-table when
children eat, and be changed into rosy cheeks, and
white arms, and handsome young bodies, and live a
long, merry life above ground in the sunshine. But
if we are neglected by those upon whom we are de-
pendent, we are changed underground, and become.
horrid old fellows, with ugly faces ; and when we are
pulled up, we are carted away and fed to cattle.

“Do you know what it must be to be fed to cattle?”
he roared.

And then, after a moment, he smiled mournfully.
“A word to the wise,’he said. The low, pleading
tone floated all about Dimple like a cool, green leaf.
When he looked up to ask what the “ Word” was, the:
Parsnip-Man had disappeared.

Dimple told his mamma in the morning. Mamma
knew the “Word” very well. She said it was too
bad, and she would have the parsnip-bed hoed that
very day.



HOW DORR FOUGHT.



BY SALOME,



ITTLE Dorr Eastman always wore his sword —
i= in the daytime, I mean. He would have liked
to wear it at night — indeed, he tried it once ; but as
the belt was indispensable, and that was exceedingly
rasping and uncomfortable with a night-gown, and as
he often rolled upon the sword itself, and the sword,
being hard, hurt his soft, plump side, and his soft,
plump limbs, he gave it up, regretfully, since it was
Dorr’s belief that “real truly ” soldiers always slept
with their “arms” on, And Dorr “ knew ” — for was
not his brother Dick a colonel, and his father a gen-
eral, and his grandfather a general ?

But, then, they had been at West Point, and got
toughened. After he grew up and had been at West
Point, and had undergone discipline, doubtless a belt



would not be uncomfortable in bed, and a sword
could be worn with a night-gown !

The fancy-store in the village where Dorr’s papa
owned a summer mansion, drove a flourishing trade
during the season in gilt papers, and mill-boards, and
tinsels ; for, once a week, at least, the young soldier
fashioned new stripes and epaulets; one day being
a sergeant, on the next a major; and then, for days.
together, commander-in-chief U. S. A., during which
space mamma, and Trudie, and Soph addressed him as
His Excellency. Every stick which he could hew into
the shape of a horse’s head, became a gallant charger,
until mamma’s hall was one long, vast stable ; mamma
blew a whistle for veveil/é; and the embryo cadet
thought nothing of turning out at five in the morning,
HOW DORR FOUGHT.

and splashing into a cold tub, especially on picnic
mornings. But Dorr said he was hardening for West
Point and glorious campaigns.

His greatest anxiety was concerning these cam-













paigns.

‘““Mamma,” he said to her one day, “I fears
there’s no use in me growing up!”

“Why, Your Excellency ?
that,” said mamma.

“Cause everybody will be fighted out before that,
mamma. Colonel Dick says they settle things now,
and not fight.”

“Well, my little son, there will always be men who
must wear swords, to make people afraid, so that they
will think it is the safer way to settle without a war.
My little Dorr shall be one of those men, and a great
share of the time he will be home on furlough and
stay with mamma. Won’t he like that?”

“No, he wouldn’t!” cried Dorr, stoutly, swelling
up after the manner of colonels and generals. After

It grieves me to hear







a turn or two across the room, he came back to his
mamma’s knee. ‘It’s likely, though, there’ll be In-
juns. ‘There always was Injuns in this land, Trudie
says, and if they’s lasted s’long, it’s likely they’ll last
slong as I live ; and Dick says there’ll be always
war s’long as there’s Injuns!”

“OQ! my little blue-eyed Dorr,” said mam-
ma, “wouldn’t you care to be scalped?”

“Why'd I care?” answered Dorr. ‘ Wouldn’t
my ‘feet be to the foe’?”

Mamma could not but laugh at her stern little
man ; and then she thought he had better go
with the girls in the garden.

And there he was not a moment too soen.
The sacred inclosure was already invaded by
a ruthless hand —a fat, yellowish-black little
hand, which was thrust through the paling, evi-
dently after one of Soph’s treasures — the beau-
tiful rose-pink dwarf dahlia.

Dorr sawit. “Soph! Soph! he’s breaking
off your new Mex’can Lilliput dahlia!” and
headlong went Sergeant Dorr toward the fence ;
but, half way there, he tripped in the tall asters,
and crushed dozens of mamma’s choice autumn
blooms as he fell.

Soph and Trudie both came running down
the gravel. The boy behind the paling also
ran, or would, had not the fat arm been thrust
in too far ; for, turning it in haste, it stuck fast,
and now held him Sergeant Dorr’s prisoner.

His fall had made Sergeant Dorr very mad ;
and, picking himself up, he drove toward the
paling in hot haste. - “You flower-thief! them’s
Soph’s flowers! You clear out of this, or Pl shoot
you with my sword!”

And the sword was brandished ; and as Roly-poly
couldn’t “clear out,” much as he wished, he staid,
his hand still clasping the stalk of the ‘ Mex’can Lil-
liput,” which he seemed unable to let go. Seeing
that, down came Dorr’s wooden sword upon the arm!
It was a sturdy stroke, too, so sturdy that the sword
bounded and flew over on the other side, where an
angry little bare black foot kicked it far out into the
road, while the owner of the foot howled with pain.

“Dorr Eastman!” cried Trudie.

“ Vou cruel, cruel boy!” cried Soph.

“He no bus’ness with your flowers, then!” said
Door, crowding back an angry whimper.
HOW DORR FOUGHT.

“I’ve a mind to shake you!” said Trudie.. But,
instead, she went to the fence where the little bow-
lexeed mulatto, still howling, was trying to get free.

“ Little boy,” said she, “I’m sorry ; but it is wrong
to steal!”

“ But we done got no flowers of our own,” said he ;
“and besides, I hain’t broke it. O, dear, where’s
mammy? I hain’t gooine to stay hyer — don’t!
don’t!” He howled louder than ever as Trudie
took his arm.

“ Hush up, simpleton! I’m only going to get you
out.” With a firm grasp she turned his arm
where he might draw it back. “There, I’ll let
you out now, if you will stand still a moment
after I let go.”

The boy sobbed mightily, but stood still.
“Stand there till I tell you to go,” commanded
Trudie. Then she broke one of her own flow-
ers for him, and also went into her pocket.
“Hold your hand, now,” said she.

Sobbing, and with hidden face, the small rag-
amuffin held up his hand, and Trudie poured
into it a stream of pennies and candies. “The
flower,” said she, “is because you like pretty
things. The rest is to pay you for being
struck.”

The tawny little hand dashed the “pay” to
the ground. “I can’t be paid for being struck!”
he cried, baring his tearful eyes, and gleaming
with them at the “sergeant.”

































































“What's all this?” asked mamma, coming
down the walk.

Hearing the story, she went outside, and
bared the beaten arm. There was a frightful
jump on the soft, black baby flesh. She looked
up at her little soldier ruefully, and he ran off.

She took the child in, and bathed the bruise
with camphor, picked him a gorgeous bouquet,
and sent him home with various admonitions
and tendernesses. Then she waited for Dorr
to come.

By and by he came. He was still without his sword.

























“Mamma,” he said, ‘I have martial-courted my-
self! J runned after him, but he wouldn’t strike me.
Then I thought what you said ’bout ‘kisses for blows,’
but he wouldn’t kiss me; but I know’d there should
be a kiss somewheres, ‘cause ’twas your kind of a
battle, not papa’s ; so I gave him my sword, and asked
him to come to play — and — well, mamma, I haven’t
got any sword no more!”

The little heart heaved ; but mamma hugged him
close, and shed a glad tear to think her teaching had
had its effect as well as papa’s.























































He TUMBLED INTO HER Arms Hzap FIRST.

“My kind of battles are very hard, much harder

Ie rushed to her, as she turned at the sound of the | to be fought than papa’s,” she said, “and Dorr is

little footstep, and tumbled into her arms head first.



braver than if he had killed a hundred men.”

oie ¢---—______—












































































































































































































































































































































































































































ALL THE WAY TO CANADA,
TIM’S PARTNER. “eae





TIM’S PARTNER.



BY AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.



a IN’T got nothin’, Miss May, to set
“1 up a chap in housekeepin’ — have
you?”

“ Housekeeping!” the young lady
cried in surprise. “Why, surely,
Tim, you are not thinking of —” and she
paused, suddenly eying the figure before her
from head to foot.

A strange, misshapen creature it was. He
was barely eighteen, but he might have been twice
that from the looks of his face, which was thin and
sharp, and wrinkled about the eyes and forehead, sur-
mounted by a shock of sandy brown hair, and thatched
with an old gray felt hat going to tatters. A short,
humpbacked figure, with a body out of all proportion
to the pinched, slender legs. The arms were long,
and finished by hands twice too large. A poor, piti-
ful object ; yet there was something wistful and touch-
ing in the great brown eyes.

“Of gettin’ married? Was you goin’ to say that,
Miss May? He! he! A gal would want a husband
mighty bad, wouldn’t she, when she picked up such a
crooked stick? The good Lord knows why he made
me this way, I s’pose,” falling for a moment into a
reflective mood. “But ’tain’t that, Miss May. I’ve
got a room of old Mother Budd, and a stove, and a
mattress, and now I’ve taken a pardner— Jerry ; but





you don’t know nothin’ ’bout him. He’s a little chap
what’s had a drunken father all his life, and has to
get about on two crutches—worse’n me, a good
sight,” looking down with pride on his thin legs and
substantial feet. ‘And now his father’s sent up to
the Island, ’nd he had no place to go to. So we’ve
set up together. He’s smart in some ways, is Jerry —
kin sew like a gal, and cook, and we'll get along just
jolly. Only if we had some dishes and things. You
see we have to pay a dollar a week in advance, for
old Mother Budd’s sharp at a bargain, lookin’ out for
tricks. Then I bought some coal an’ wood, an’ that
took about all my spare capital.” He gave a sort of
humorous grin, as he said “ capital.”

He had shoveled off the snow and cleaned out the
gutter to perfection. Miss May had paid him thirty
cents. After a moment she said, —

“Come down in the basement, Tim.
wonder if we could find you an outfit.
housekeeping !

I should not

Two boys
It’s rather funny!”

Tim scraped and wiped his feet, stood his shovel
in the corner of the area, and followed the young lady
within. All winter he had been on hand to clean the
sidewalk and put in coal. Besides his wages she had
given him a few old garments, and his gratitude had
touched her. Now she felt rather amused.

~ Bridget gave him a somewhat unfriendly stare as
TIM’S PARTNER.



he entered the kitchen. She never could understand
why a lady like Miss May should take fancies “to
beggars and that sort of trash.” Dr. May looked
rather serious about it, and wished her mother had
lived, or that aunt Helen knew how to interest her in
other people. He saw quite enough of the misery
and wretchedness of the world without having his
pretty young daughter breaking her heart over it.

“Come and warm yourself, Tim. Bridget, where
are those cracked and checked dishes and old tins I
picked out the other day? And there are some chairs
down cellar. O, and those old comfortables I laid
away.” :

“Sure, miss, I was goin’ to ask you if I mightn’t
give the dishes to my cousin, Ann Flynn, who is to be
married on Sunday night. They’d be a godsend to
her.”

“We'll divide them ;” and Miss May smiled.

Bridget very unwillingly opened the closet door.
“‘Vhe idea of giving china dishes to a beggar! She
grudged everything that could go to a “cousin.”

Miss May picked out two cups and saucers, four
plates, two bowls, and several miscellaneous articles,
including a block-tin tea-pot and two or three dilapi-
dated tin pails.

“OQ, Miss May! Why, we’ll feel as grand as kings!”
and the eyes were lustrous with gratitude.

“Flere’s a basket to pack them in. Bridget, give
him a little tea and sugar, and some of the cold meat
left yesterday. 1’ll run up stairs and find some bed-
clothes,”

She came back laden. Tim’s face glowed to its
utmost capacity, which was large, seeing that he had
been out in the cold all the morning.

“There, I haven’t any table, but all these will help.
You are sure your partner, as you call him, is a trusty
fellow?”

“He’s good as gold, though he hain’t no legs worth
speakin’ of. He used to sell papers on the cars, but
he stumbled one day, ’nd had one cut off, and t’other
hurt. His father used to keep him round beggin’,
but he’s bound to have nice times now along o’ me.
If you could hear him sing, Miss May—it’s like a
bird hangin’ out a winder. When the weather comes
warm he kin sell apples and flowers, and sich. I'll
have a little spare capital bimeby to start him with.
An’ it'll be next to havin’ folks of one’s very own. I
never had any, you see. Not that I’d want a father



like Jerry’s. Poor little chap, he’s had rough times,
what with the beatin’ and the starvin’.”

Miss May winked a tear out of her blue eyes. How
ready these street Arabs were to stand by one an-
other! Would anybody in her “set” take in a poor
brother unhesitatingly?

Tim was grateful from the very depths of his soul,
and it was no mean one. He bundled the articles in
a great pack, and shouldered them, chairs and all,
and drew his rough sleeve across his eyes, while his
good-bye had a very husky sound.

If Miss May could have heard the rejoicing !

And yet it was a miserable little room, up three
flights of stairs, with only one window looking into a
rear house. Their bedstead had been made of dry
goods boxes, and when they covered it with her clean
chintz comfortable, and arrayed their closet shelves
with the dishes, leaving the door open so they could
feast their eyes on their new possessions, they could
not resist giving three cheers ; and Tim was actually
coaxed into dancing a breakdown, while Jerry clapped
“Finnegan’s Wake” with his thin hands on the one
good knee he had left. It was a blustering March
day, but they two had a delightfully warm room and
a feast. What amused them most of all was beautiful
Miss May’s idea that Tim was going to be married.

“Tim,” said Jerry solemnly, when their laugh had
‘ended, “I don’t know how girls feel about such poor
cripples as you and me, but my opinion is that my
‘mammy would have been glad enough to had a hus-
band with the great, tender heart you’ve got. Poor
mammy! I’m glad she’s in heaven along of the an-
gels, and I’m glad she don’t know about my legs.
God wouldn’t tell her when she was so happy — would

He, Tim?”

“No, He wouldn’t,” said Tim over a great lump in
his throat.

There never were such happy days in the life of
either as those that followed. Jerry cooked, kept
accounts, washed, ironed, and mended, and as the
days grew warmer began to do quite a thriving busi-
ness in button-hole bouquets, standing on the corner
as the men went up town. Now and then he sold
popular photographs on commission, or a lot of choice
bananas.

Tim was brisk and active, and caught up all man-
ner of odd jobs. Now and then he saw Miss May.
Once he sent Jerry with a bouquet of flowers.

4
TIM’S PARTNER.



“I wanted you to-see him, Miss May,” he said

afterward, hanging around until he caught sight of |

her. “He don’t look pale and peaked, as he did
when we first set up. It’s good livin’, you see, and
no beatin’s. And we have just the jolliest times you
ever heard of. He don’t want me to call him any-
thing but pardner. I do believe that ere little chap
would give his life for me.”

“OQ, Tim, how good you are!” she cried. “You
shame richer and wiser people. It is very noble to
take that poor little boy by the hand and love and
protect him.”

“Noble!” echoed Tim, pulling his forelock and
coloring through the tan and grime. “Why, Miss
May, he’s a sight of help and comfort to me; better’n
any wife would be, ’cause, you see, no woman who'd
take me ever’d be half so good.”

“Tim,” she said, opening her dainty Russia leather
pocket-book, “I want to add a little mite to your hap-
piness. I am going to the country soon, for the
whole summer. I want you to take this, and spend
it just as I tell you. You and Jerry must go on
some nice excursion; there will be plenty of them
presently. Get a good dinner, and take all the de-
light you can, and remember to tell me all about it
afterward.”

“O, Miss May, you are too good for anybody’s
folks! Indeed, I’ll tell you every word. And can
I come again next winter to shovel snow and do
chores?”

“Yes, indeed. I shall be glad to have you. God
bless you and your partner, poor, brave little soul.
I shall think of you often.”

“I never see an angel ’xcept the ones in the picters
with wings, but I know Miss May is one,” said Tim
to himself.

Tim and his partner counted their money that
night. Business had been flourishing of late.

“There’s twenty-one dollars that we’ve saved up
free and clear, and the lady’s five. Tim, ‘you had
better put it in the bank ;” and Jerry’s eyes sparkled
feverishly.

“Td have to hide the bank book then 3” and Tim
chuckled. “ Think of havin’ a bank account ! Why,
we’d feel a’most like Astor, or the old Commodore.”

“But I wish you would, Tim. I’m afraid to have
so much in the house. It will be something against



winter when business is dull. Now we’re making
plenty to live on. Won’t you, Tim?”

“To be sure I will—to-morrow. And we'll hide
the book in that same chink in the floor. No one
would think of looking there. And we’ll have a rous-
in’ time on some ’xcursion. We'll choose one with a
brass band, and have a little dance in one corner by
ourselves. There isn’t the beat of Miss May in this
whole world.”

“She’s good, but then she’s rich, you know. Five
dollars doesn’t look so large to her as it does to you
and me. But, Tim, I iove you better than a hundred
Miss Mays.” j

Tim chuckled and winked hard, but said never a
word.

He was off early in the morning, as he had an im-
portant job on hand. Jerry would have dinner all
ready at noon, and he would put on his “store
clothes” and go down to the bank like any other
swell. My eyes! Weren’t they in clover?

Tim could not get home until three; but he had
earned two dollars since morning. They each had a
key to the door, and finding it locked, Tim drew out
his. Jerry had gone to business ; afternoons were his
time. ‘There was no dinner set out on the table and
covered with a napkin. A curious chill of something
like neglect went to Tim’s warm heart ; but he'whistled
it away, found a bite of cold meat and some oatmeal.
Then he decided he would run over on Broadway and
tell Jerry of his good luck. It was too late to think
of going to the bank. ;

No little chap sat on the well-known corner. Tim
walked up a block, down again, and studied the cross
street sharply. Had he sofd out and gone home?
Or may be he had taken the money to the bank!
Tim ran home again. Yes, that was it. The money
was gone.

He waited and waited. Somehow he did not feel
a bit jolly ; but he boiled the kettle and laid the sup-
per. No Jerry yet. What had become of him? Had
he put on his best suit?

They had made a clothes-press out of a dry goods
box, and Tim went to inspect it. Why — Jerry’s
shelf was entirely empty. Shirts, stockings, yes,
everything, even to his old every-day suit, gone.
Tim dropped on the floor, and hid his face in his
hands, Had Jerry — .
TIM’S PARTNER.



It was funny, but Tim squared off and gave the box
a thump that bruised his knuckles. It seemed to him
that the box had breathed a suspicion that Jerry had
stolen the money and run away. Then he kicked it,
and sat down and cried as if his heart would break.
His pardner, little Jerry, a thief! ‘No, he would
never, never believe it.

He sat up till midnight, and it seemed to him there
bad never been such loneliness since the world began.
Then the next morning he made some inquiries.
Their two nearest neighbors were washerwomen.
Both had been out all day. No one had seen
Jerry.

If Jerry’s father were not in prison—but he had
been sent up in February for a year, and here it was
only the last of June. Or if there had been any evil
companions hanging around; but Jerry and every
scrap of his belongings, as well as the money, had
surely disappeared. 2

There was no gay excursion for Tim. He brooded
over his desertion, and grew morose, began to save his
money again, and shut himself up like a hermit. The
poor, crippled boy that he had taken to his heart, that
he had warmed and fed! Ah! it was very bitter.
Perhaps not even his beautiful Miss May would care
to remember him.

So he did not go near her. Autumn came on
apace. One dreary November day, when he could
find nothing to do, he turned homeward, weary and
heart-sick. Ah, if there was only a cheery voice to
welcome him !

Some one stood by his door, a lady in dainty attire.
Some one caught his arm, and cried, —

““O, Tim, I’m so glad you have come! I have
been waiting almost an hour. Tim, I’ve found little
Jerry, and he is dying ; but he asks for you constant-
ly. Come right away. Don’t lose a moment.”

“Jerry!” in a sort of dazed way, as if he but half
understood. “Little Jerry——my pardner? O, Miss
May —no, you can’t mean it —dying?”

“Yes, Hurry, Tim. I’ve waited so long already!”

They walked down the stairs, scudded through the
streets to a horse car. It seemed to Tim as if they
rode an hour. Then they alighted, and.a short walk
brought them to a decent looking tenement house.
Up one flight of stairs, and the door opened.

“Ts it Tim?” asked a weak voice.



Tim threw himself on his knees by the bedside,
and kissed the sweet, wan face with the tenderness
of a mother. For some minutes only sobs were
heard.

“Vou told him, Miss May?”

“No, Jerry. We hurried so there was no chance.
But I will tell him every word.”

“O, Tim, you didn’t think I was a thief?
my heart to go. Jt was father. He got out some
way, and had been watching us. He came that night
when we were so happy counting our money, but he
didn’t dare offer to take me away then. The next
morning he walked in with a paper, which he said
was a warrant for me, and that if I dared to say
a word he’d send me to the Refuge. I picked up
my things —I was so afraid of him —and then he
wanted the money, and swore if I didn’t get it he’d
murder me. I told him I wouldn’t; so he tied my
hands and bound my mouth, lest I should scream,
and then he hunted everywhere; and O, Tim, he
found it! He took me right out of the city with
him to a vile den, where they wanted to make a
thief of me.”

“©, Jerry, dear, don’t talk ; it takes away all your
strength. God knows I never could have a hard
thought of you now;” and Tim broke down.

“Just a little. I couldn’t get back to you. They
watched me, and beat me until I was sore and stiff ;
and there I staid until only a fortnight ago, when one
night I gave them the slip. I wanted to come back
and tell you how it was, but the way was so far, and
I was so tired, so tired! Then I fell down in the
street, and a good woman picked me up and brought
me in here, where it’s so nice and clean, Tim, and
such a quiet place to die in! And then J don’t seem
to remember much until yesterday, when Miss May
came in, and this morning, when she brought her
father. And then I wanted to see you, to tell you —
Tim, if I could live and earn the money — you were
so good to me —so good. Tim, if you could hold
me in your arms again! Miss May said I would find
that God cared for poor little
I like you to tell me. And
be your pardner again ?
You know now I

It broke

mammy in heaven ;
boys. Does He, Tim?
will you come and let me
Is it very far? Kiss me, Tim.
wasn’t a thief. Miss May sang something yesterday
about opening the starry gates — es
TIM’S PARTNER,





“At the portals Jesus waits ;
All the heavenly host, begin;
Open wide the starry gates,
Let the little traveller in,”

sang the sweet voice over a tremulous sob.

Closer clung the thin arms, and the cool cheek was
pressed against Tim’s, hot with burning tears. The
little hands that had kept their house tidy, and pre-
pared the simple meals, lay limp and useless. The
eyes could not see any more, but the lips smiled and
murmured a few incoherent words, soft, sweet, and
then an awesome silence. The little waif Jerry had
gone over the river.

“O, Miss May,” cried Tim, “ they 2/7 take him in —
won't they? For, you see, the poor little chap didn’t
have a square chance in this world! He’s been
kicked and cuffed about, and had to go on crutches,
an’ been half starved many a time, but he wouldn’t
lie nor steal for all that. He ought to be happy
somewheres. O, Jerry! Jerry! I loved youso! And
you was true to the last!”

“They will take him in,” Miss May says, with sol-
emn tenderness. And presently she unclasps the arms
that are wound around Jerry’s neck, lays the poor
hands straight, and leads Tim over by the window.
He looks at her with dumb, questioning eyes, as if he
would fain have her fathom the mystery that he knows
so little about. She brushes away some tears; but
O, what can she say to comfort him?
all he had.

Presently Tim comes back and kisses the cold lips
and stares at the strange beauty overspreading the
wan face.

“OQ, Miss May,” he cries, “do you suppose I could
ever earn enough to pay for his being buried in some

For Jerry was



country place, where there’d be a few flowers and a
tree growing over him? I’d work all my life long.
For he’d like it so. I can’t bear to think of having
him carried away —”

“No,” she says, with a shiver. “I will see about
it, Tim.” Then she gives a few orders to the woman,
and goes away, leaving Tim with his “ pardner.”

Dr. May shook his head at his daughter at first,
and said it was folly ; but two days after he had him
buried in a pretty rural cemetery, with a white marbie
slab above his head containing two words —“ Tim's
Partner.” And ‘Tim, who takes care of the doctor’s
horse now, and does odd chores, pauses occasionaliv
and says to Miss May, “ There never can be anyboap
quite like Jerry to me again. Over in the other cous
try we’ll be pardners forever,”

















“UNTO BABES.”



“UNTO BABES.”



BY HELEN KENDRICK JOHNSON,



“E* ittie oottie, I dettie ut ’en it det e ittie
iter ;” which, being interpreted, means,
“Ves, little rooster, I'll get up when it gets a little
lighter.”

The same was uttered by a pair of cherry lips,
opening below a pair of laughing eyes, which were
parted from the cherry lips by a cherry nose. The
nose was cherry because it stuck out from the face so
round and plump that the sun, which lad been around
painting cherries just this time of the year, threw a
glance at it and said, “There’s another!” and gave
ita good strong stroke with his brush. This little acci-
dent made the whole face look funny ; for, like most
people who do their work in a hurry, the sun had
dipped up so much paint, and dashed it at the nose so
carelessly, that it had hit ever so many other places
—a spot on the chin, a daub on the cheeks, and a
streak on the forehead. .

Now there is some excuse for the sun; for while
everybody knows that boys never will stand still long
enough to have ‘their faces properly attended to,
everybody, little and big, and not only that, but every
tree and flower and blade of grass, keeps dancing and
whirling about, while the sun is trying to fix it.

The result is just what you would expect — apples
‘vith one red cheek and one white one, blackberries
with three colors on the same stem, so that the boys
can always quote the old riddle, “blackberries are
red when they’re green,” and cherries that make half
your pail-full, “not fit to eat,” according to your

mother, and speckled little fellows, just like this
one.



On this particular morning there was great excite-
ment in the towzley head that popped up to make the
lucid remark above quoted. His big sister did not
dream that little Wide Awake took it all literally when
she said, “Don’t get up the first time the rooster
crows.”

She forgot that childhood’s sweetest trait is trust,
and she was startled to remember it when she heard



the precious little fellow’s sweet voice twitter out in
the faint dawn:

“Et, ittie ootie, I dettie ut ’en it det e ittie iter.”

Long before the sun had fairly got his paints mixed
for another dash at the fruit and the children, Strut
crowed again.

Was Wide Awake asleep? Asleep, indeed! Up
went the head again, and this time two flying heels
followed, and the bright voice sang again:

“FB ootie c’ows, an’ a’aw ’e do’s.”

He meant to say:

“The rooster crows, and away he goes,” meaning
his little self.

“Little brother, it isn’t time te get up for an hour.
Hop into bed again,” called out Sister Laura.

“’Ou ede ’econ’ tine,” said a sorrowful, drooping
little voice.

“Go to sleep—that’s a good boy!” was the an-
swer, and Laura set the copy for him by going off
instantly herself.

But Wide Awake had not won his name without
deserving it, and he passed along and lonesome hour
trying to amuse himself with nothing.

Finally, dressing-time came. When he reached the
kitchen, all was as busy as a coming picnic could
make it. Dinah was flying from cellar to pantry, and
from pantry to oven, As soon as he got to the back
stairs door-way, Wide Awake spied something wrong
high up on Dinah’s back.

“ Attieilly on ou olly,” he cried out.

“Keep still, Allie; don’t boffer. me screaming,”
said Dinah.

“ Atticilly on ou olly,” said he, coming close to her,
and pointing, and pulling her dress.

“Go ’long, I tell you!” said she. * I'll tell your
sister, and you won’t get no cake.”

Allie reluctantly stepped back a little; but he
spoke volumes of anxiety, had any one been look-
ing.

No one was.
“UNTO

“Oh! what’s dat on my neck?” screamed out Di-
nah, ina minute. ‘ Oh-h-h!”

“ Allie tole Dine attieilly on ou olly,” said Allie, as
Dinah’s cries brought Laura, who picked off from Di-
nah’s neck an immense caterpillar, which the patient
little fellow had been compelled to watch in its upward
journey from the shoulder where he first espied it.

At length the preparations were fairly finished, the
horses were at the door, Allie’s eyes were dancing
almost out of his head with joy, the refreshments were
all packed in, and, almost in the midst of the baskets
a stool was set for Allie, and his happy little self de-
posited upon it. The rest were finally seated, and
the picnickers move off for Dudley’s woods.

Everybody talked and laughed together; and Allie
sang to himself, with no fear of being heard. Pres-
ently he seized an end of his sister’s shawl, and
shouted with all his might:

“ Doos, Laula, doos!”

“Ves, dear, Laula knows.”

“ My doos, Laula! my doos ober dare.”

“Ves, dear, never mind,” was the answer.

“Ve’er min’ doos, Laula?” said the voice, anx-
iously.

“No, never mind, we’ll see another.”

“Where is the feather on your hat, child? ” asked
Laura, when they had ridden two miles farther.

“Doos dawn, Laula ; ’ou ed no min’ my doos.”

“Dear me! that was what he called his feather,
—his goose,’ said she. “I -might have remem-
bered.”

“ Laula, Allie’s feets feel ’et.”

“Wet, child? I guess not,” said Laura, and
chatted on.

They were nearing the woods as she spoke, and
soon the loaded carriages turned into a wood so unin-
viting and full of underbrush that you looked again
all over the party to see if they appeared crazy from
anything but gay spirits.

No, they were sane, no doubt ; and there must be
an explanation for such a choice. The explanation
was, that it was not choice at all, it was circumstance
which guided them. Twenty-five years ago that very
day, a party of four young married people, with their
older children, had come to this wood to pick black-
berries, which grew in great abundance upon its bor-
ders. It was half a frolic ; but stillit was no accident
that sent them home with forty shining black quarts





BABES.”

to enjoy by their firesides. The next year they went
again, and the next, and the next; and every year
the company grew larger. But, strange to say, as it
grew larger the quarts grew smaller, and finally, some-
how or other, “the blackberries are not worth pick-
ing this year ;” or “the blackberries are all dried up
this year,” became the continual complaint when the
excursionists returned home with emptier and emptier
baskets.

But the “ Blackberry Party” grew as thick as its
namesake fruit had been of old, and now, for twenty-
five years, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters,
grandchildren and neighbors, gathered to the time-
honored festival. To be sure, every year more of the
elders stayed behind, because they missed one and
another who were there “ last year,” and life’s merri-
ment was checked for them forever until they should
follow.

But new ones had come to take the lead, and the
merry scenes went on in the gnarled old forest. It
was a strange fact that in all these years the day on
which the picnic occurred had never been stormy.
A glorious succession of bright days had spanned the
quarter of acentury, and it was taken as a sign that
heaven smiled peculiarly upon the innocent joy which
the day was sure to bring.

This was the quarter centennial, and the procession
had picked up little Allie, as “big enough to go this
year.” And so little Allie was very happy, although,
in spite of Sister Laura’s assurance, he dd think that
his feet were “‘’et.”

Laura thought so too, in a minute; for she lifted a
can that had once held six quarts from the “morn-
ing’s milking,” and found “ only a stingy little pint or
so,” left.

“ Allie’s feet ws ’et, Laula,”’ said the voice, which
did not dream that it sounded like the silver trumpet
of an unheeded angel.

“Fisk an’ Tarlo ginkin auty, Laula,” said Allie
once more.

“Carlo naughty! drive him away. But he won’t
bite Allie.”

“No, ’¢ bite auty, pring auty.”

“ Never mind,—he won’t hurt you.
good doggie.”

“Go ’way, there! What are you
scamps! I declare! Frisk and Carlo have
drinking half that spring water!”

Carlo is 2

doing, you
been
“UNTO BABES.”



“ Allie tole Laula.”

But Laula was bemoaning the loss ; for the spring
was almost a mile away, and this wood was provided
with no modern conveniences.

The cask of ice-water was too precious to be used
for cooking purposes, and away trudged the youths
for another bucket-full.

This weakened the effective force of the dinner
getters materially ; for, under the pretense of picking
the traditional blackberries, nearly all the party, in
couples or in groups, had strayed off to parts unseen.
The remaining ones were lighting a lively fire, and
going through various manceuvres before it, and a
certain odor therefrom said plainly, “‘ You don’t often
get better coffee than I come from.”

Allie, meantime, was roaming about unnoticed.
He gained an immense amount of information in this
leisure hour.

Presently Laura called out, “I have got the lemons
ready ; bring me that box of sugar.”

The box was brought, a ten-pound one, and full to
the brim.

“Laula, don’ pu’ dat! Dat au ’alt, Laula!”

“Allie doesn’t like to see his pet sugar thrown
away in such a big hole,” said she, gayly, as she emp-
tied the box into the oaken cask. “Run for the ice-
water, J hear them coming from all directions.”

Great white lumps of ice, pure cold water, — in
they went, and Laura stirred violently with her mon-
strous ladle.

“Allie shall have the first taste,” said she, “to
show him that his dear sugar is not wasted,”

“ Allie don’ wan’! Allie know e au ’alt.”

“All spoilt? No, dear, just see how nice it is!”

“Laula pw’ in ’a/#,” said he, again. “ Laula ta’!”

Laula did “ta’,” then; and she dropped the cup
with a scream of horror. For, besides the fact that
ten pounds of salt in any combination do not help to
make either a refreshing or a thirst-allaying drink,
here were five dozen fine lemons, and many quarts of
ice-water, a hopeless loss.

“How could that stupid Dinah bring the salt
instead of the sugar?” she muttered, as soon as vex-
ation would allow her to speak at all.

One by one the party dropped in, and the first cry
was for lemonade, ‘“ Laura’s famous manufacture.”
More famous than it ever had been it became imme-
diately, and, amid the general din of exclamations no
one heard Allie say:



“Allie knew. Allie ¢o/e Laula "bout ’a/#/”

Then was felt, with greater cruelty, the absence of
milk for the fragrant coffee ; and the delicious cake,
and sandwiches, and ham, and turkey, and tarts, and
pastry, were but half enjoyed.

It was with a heavy heart that. poor Laura packed
up the dishes, and laid away more untouched food:
than usual.

A row of lemon and berry pies had been set upon
one of the benches ; and somebody, to keep the in-
sects out, had thrown a table-cloth upon them. Along
came two lovers, whose visions were only. fairy-like,
and who were in that state of mind when it made no.
difference where they rested or went, so that they
rested or went together. With their eyes entirely oc-
cupied in gazing at one another, they wandered up to:
the temporary cupboard.

A little voice close by fairly screamed out :

“Don it on’e bys! Don’t ’it on ’e bys!”

A vague smile into his earnest face was all the re-~
ply he received, and down sat the pair, too full of a.
fond trust in themselves to remember to doubt any-
thing created.

“Oh! oh! oh! oh!” resounded all about them,
and an instant later their own “oh” mingled in the
chorus, as the groan of broken crockery rose on the air,
and table-cloth and drapery were pronounced a ruin.

“?’Ou ’at wite on’e bys,” said a voice which was
not needed to confirm the fact.

At length the light of the twenty-fifth glorious day
began to steal in long darting lines among the foliage
that had been a shelter from its rays all day. As the
company assembled, it was found to have been an
unusually bad year for blackberries, though why it

‘should have been the most imaginative did not ven-

ture to suggest.

As they started homeward Laura said :

“ Now sit right still, Allie, for fear you should fall
out, for we shall go very fast indeed Nes

There was little need for the warning, as Allie was
well wedged down in front, and well wrapped up in an
extra shawl of Laura’s, because she forgot to bring
his little overcoat.

But by-and-by the whip worked quietly out of its.
broken holder, and no eyes but the two bright, observ-
ant eyes in the littlest head saw that in a minute it
must fall.

The little fellow tried to dart forward, but the great.
shawl held him too securely.
«UNTO



“ Sit still, Allie,” said Laura. |

Poor Allie seemed to think he might as well, too.
His warnings had.saved nothing, yet; but still from
his huge roll of woolen he said:

“OF ip dop, Laula.”

Presently the horses lagged a little, and the driver,
leaning forward for his whip; discovered its loss.

The long procession halted, wondering what had
happened to the first carriage. The whip was found,
“way back,” and, as two carriages had passed over
it, it was a handsome whip no more.

“What a shame!” said the driver, as he tried to
crack the broken lash,

BABES.”

“ Allie tole’ou. Allie’s patintam keen wown ou’!”
fell from the cherry lips.

Now came home and bed for the little child who
had begun to be joyous in anticipation at four o’clock
in the morning. No wonder that in such a long se-
ries of discouragements his “ patience was clear wore
out.”

His sleep that night was broken by a kind of baby-
boy, Cassandra-like murmur, which would have
touched to its depths the heart of any tender soul
that heard it.



“TLaula,” it said, plaintively, “ Allie tole ’ou!”
But Laula was fast asleep,





A PRIZE FOR A SQUIRREL,


WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BABY.



BY MAGARET EYTINGE.



HE Tutchy children were all mad.

I don’t mean they had lost their senses and
required strait-jackets, but they certainly did need
something to smooth the frowns from their brows and
the pouts from their lips.

The Tutchy children were pretty children — when
they weren’t mad — with bright blue eyes, much the
color of some of their grandmother’s centennial
dinner-plates, and auburn hair that looked as though
it would, on the slightest provocation, turn red.

There were nine of them, Susie, Willie, Robbie,
Lizzie, Nellie, Annie, Sallie, Maud and Baby.

Quite enough for such a little woman as Mrs.
Tutchy to look after.

Captain Tutchy was away —he was away about
half the time with his ship “The Treasure ” — named,
he said, after his wife—and Mrs. Tutchy had just
received a letter from him saying he could not be
home for the Christmas holidays, and so the children
must wait for their presents and their party until he
came, “and you may expect me, my dear,” the letter
ended, “ the second day of the New Year.

And this is why the Tutchy children were mad.

They said nothing until mamma, hearing baby cry,
went out of the room. Then they began:

“What will Christmas be without papa?” said
Lizzie. “Who’s to laugh, I’d like to know? Papa
does most of the laughing.”

“T shan’t, for one!” said Willie.

“Nor I,” said Robbie.

“There won’t be a bit of fun getting up early on



Christmas morning,” said Nellie. “No boxes to
open, and no stockings to empty!”

“7? not hang up my stocking, and I’ll not get up
early, either —so there now!” said Annie.

“Why! won’t Santa Claus come at all?” asked
Sallie and Maud, in one breath.

“Ves, I s’pose he’ll come,” answered Annie, “ but
he won’t bring such nice things as he does when
papa’s home. He’s a very, very old friend of
papa’s.”

“No party! Just think of it!”
“?Twon’t seem like Christmas.”

“And the captain,” said Robbie, who was fond of
giving the captain his title, “isn’t coming back till
the day school begins. He never did such a thing
before, and / think it’s real mean!”

“Great old holidays!” said Lizzie.

“7m mad!” said Susie, who, by-the-by, was the
eldest of them all.

“So are we all of us!” said the others in chorus.

Just then Mrs. Tutchy came into the room with
Baby in her arms, and in Baby’s arms was a funny,
broken-nosed doll.

Baby was the sweetest, dearest little thing that ever
played “patty-cake” or said “900,”

Her eyes were so blue that you thought of violets,
blue-bells, and summer skies, the moment you saw
them, and then gave it up, for there was nothing quite
as blue as they were, and her silken hair lay all over
her pretty, round head in tiny rings just the size and ©
color of mamma’s wedding-ring.

said Susie.
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BABY.



Mrs. Tutchy looked both surprised and sad when
she saw eight frowns and pouts— perhaps I should
say seven, as wee Maud’s almost disappeared when
she looked up at her mother—instead of eight
smiles.

But she pretended not to notice the sixteen unlovely
things, and said, in a pleasant voice, “ Baby is ready
for aride. I have wrapped her up warmly. Get her
hood, Susie, and, Willie and Robbie, fasten her little
wagon on your new sled. You may all go for a walk
—TI don’t remember such a fine 24th of December
for years —but I shall expect you home in an hour,
and whatever you do, take good care of Baby.”

Now if the Tutchy children had not been mad they
would have jumped up and down and shouted and
half-smothered Baby with hugs and kisses ; but being
mad, they went silently about —their silence, to tell
the truth, would have been considered noise by a
small, quiet family — preparing for their walk.

And when they were ready, if Maud had not set
them the example, they would have actually forgotten
to kiss mamma “good-by.” Dear me! how mad they
were !

Off they started in a funereal manner, Susie and
Maud ahead, the other girls following two by two,
and the boys dragging Baby, still holding the broken-
nosed doll, in her little wagon on the sled, bringing
up the rear,

Baby crowed and cooed and prattled to her dollie
— there never was a jollier baby in the whole world —
but still Will and Bobbie frowned and pouted.

“TI wish we didn’t have to lug Baby everywhere,”
at last said Willie. :

“So do I,” said Robbie.

They had never thought, much less said such a
thing before, but then they had never been quite as
mad before.

Suddenly the sound of a drum was heard, then the
shrill blasts of horns and the ear-piercing strains of a
fife, and they could see a crowd gathering in the
distance.

“Hurry up!” called Susie, who had remarkably
sharp eyes, “there’s some men on horseback dressed
awful funny!” and away she ran, dragging Maud by
the hand, and away went Nellie, Lizzie, Annie and
Sallie after her as fast as they could go.

“We can’t run with Baby,” said Willie, “and we’ll
miss all the fun!”



“Too bad!” said Robbie, with two frowns rolled
into one. “But I say, Will, let’s go anyhow.”

“Pshaw! there won’t be anything to see by the
time we get there,” said Will.

“T don’t mean to take Baby,” said Robbie. “We'll
leave her by the door of this empty house. Nothing
can happen to her before we come back.”

“That’s so,’ said Will, “we won’t be gone a min-
ute ;”” and they lifted the sled, wagon and all, up the
two steps that led to the door, and. before Baby knew
what they were about, they were off.

The other children were already two blocks away,
but the boys soon overtook them, and another block
brought them to the spot where the crowd was
gathered.

The frowns and pouts, for the time being, disap-
peared, and the Tutchys laughed long and loud at the
antics of the queer-looking figures who were parading
about with a patch-work banner inscribed, “Old
Original Santa Claus Guards,” when suddenly Susie
turned around, and with frightened eyes cried out:

“Why Will, — Robbie, where’s Baby ? ”

Will hung his head, but Robbie, assuming a care-
less air, replied :

“The captain’s youngest daughter? O! she’s
safe. We couldn’t bring her and run after you too,
and so we left her.”

But Susie waited to hear no more. “Show me
where!” she said, and they all started back again
on a much faster run than that with which they had
followed “The Old Original Santa Claus Guards.”

The “house to let” was quickly reached,

No sled — no wagon—no broken-nosed doll —no
BABY was there!

And now indeed the frowns and pouts took flight,
and tears and sobs came in their stead,

“O dear! O dear!” cried the Tutchy children,
“what shall we do?”

Then they ran hither and thither, asking every one
they met:

‘““Have you seen a baby in a little wagon on 4
sled?”

“A beautiful baby, with blue eyes?”

“A broken-nosed baby —O, no, no, no! a lovely
baby with a broken-nosed doll?”

““A sweet baby, with golden curls? ”

“A baby named ‘Snow-drop’ and ‘Diamond’ and
‘Bird’ and ‘ Plum?”
WHAT

HAPPENED TO THE BABY.



No one had seen her, and sadly the procession took
up the line of march for home.

O! how wicked we have been,” said Lizzie, “to say
that to-morrow wouldn’t be a merry Christmas, when

How they told their mamma they never knew, but | we had such a darling, beautiful baby !”

when the tale was done she gave one great gasp, and
tore out of the house like a wild woman, with no hat
on her head; and nothing but a small shawl about her.

“I must go too,” said Susie, and she flew after the
poor distracted mother, while the seven other children
sat down on the floor and cried.

“And dear papa coming home in a few days!”
sobbed Nellie.

“And mamma so good and sweet!” said Sallie.

“ And all of us such very nice chilluns!” said Maud.

Willie and Robbie said nothing, but buried their
faces in their hands, and wept softly.











































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































“] sEE DIS YERE BABY A-SETTIN’ ON A SLED.”

The sun went down, and back came mamma and
Susie, hollow-eyed and pale, but no Baby.

Not one of the children thought of stockings, or
presents, or parties, or Christmas itself, that wretched
Christmas Eve, but they clustered in silence, real
silence this time, about their mother, until one by one
they fell asleep.

But Mrs. Tutchy sat with dry, wide-opened eyes,
listening — listening all night long, until the joyous

morning chimes rang out upon the clear, frosty
air. .

As they ceased, the sharp ringing of the street door-
bell echoed through the quiet house.

Dropping wee Maud from her lap, where she had
slept for several hours, the poor little woman, her
heart beating loud and fast, hastened with trembling
steps to the door and flung it open.

There stood a tall, straight negro woman, with a
gaudy turban on her head, a small boy, much darker
than herself, clinging to her skirts with one hand, and
yes — O, thanks to the good God — holding the rope
of the boys’ sled with the other, baby in her arms!
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BABY.



Almost as wild with joy as she had been with
sorrow, the mother snatched her darling, and covered
her with kisses.

“Come in, come in,” she cried, in her old, pleasant
voice, the tired gone out of her face, and her eyes
shining bright with happiness.

Up jumped the Tutchy children from all corners of
the room, and such a hurrahing and shouting of
“Merry Christmas,” and kissing of Baby never was
known, even in ¢#a¢ house before.

““An’ now, yo’ Abraham Ulysses, yo’ jess tell the
lady yo’ information,” said the woman to the grinning
boy, pulling her dress out of his hand, and pushing
him forward.

“Needn’t push so,” said Abraham Ulysses, rolling
his eyes about in the most wonderful manner for a
moment, and then fixing them solemnly on Mrs.
Tutchy’s face.

“T war a-goin’ along, an’ da’ war a drum down da’
—I’s goin’ to have a drum—”

“Tl drum ye,” interrupted his mother, giving him
asmart slap on the cheek. “Perceed on yo’ story
widout no prelimnaries.” .

“Yo’ jess stop dat now, Mary Ann Johnson. I
ain’t tellin’ no story. I’s tellin’ the truff, ebery word
of it, an’ yo’d better mine yo’ brack bisness, Mary
Ann Johnson, and dat’s de fac’ !”

“Lissen at dat ar sassy young nigger!” said Mary
Ann Johnson, raising her hands and eyes. “Go on,
I tell yo.”

Abraham Ulysses went on.

“Da war a drum an’ sojers—lI’s goin” to be a
sojer, a sword sojer —and all de wite folks dey runned
to see ’em, an’ I runned, too, but ’pears, tho’, I
couldn’t git da’, an’ I see dis yere baby a-settin’ on a
sled, an’ I sez to myself, ‘Bressed nippers! Abra’m
"Lysses, dat ar’s one of dem angel babies dat done





come done from hebben Chrismasses, an’ dat ar’ sled
she’s a-settin on, Santy Close’s goin’ to giv’ to yo"
sho’s yo’ bohn!’ an’ I took hole dat ar rope, an’ drug
dat ar’ sled —”’

“To our premises,” interrupted his mother, “an’ he
cum a-runnin’ in, an’ a-shoutin’ ‘Hi! mam, here’s a
little angel fer yo’! take her out de waggin quick, an*
giv’ de sled to me.’

“ But bress yo’ heart, honey, I knowed dat ar’ baby
was mislaid de minute dese eyes beheld her, an’ I took
de sweet thing in my arms an’ mollified her tears, an’
giv’ her some milk an’ soon she fell asleep.

““An’ I set up dis yere bressed night wid dat ar’
bressed chile, ’spectin’ ebery minute somebody’d
come and require for her, an’ sho’ ’nuff, a perliceman
makes his appearment early dis yere bressed mornin’
an’ tole me—how he foun’ out war de chile was de
Lord ony knows —- to fetch de pooty lammie here, an’
I done come tho’ Mr. Johnson is a-waitin fer his
breakfis’, an’ de pork a-sizzlin’ in de pan dis yere
bressed minute.”

“Thank you a million times!” said Mrs. Tutchy ;
and in the twinkling of an eye Mary Ann Johnson was
several dollars richer than when she entered the room.

“Thank you a million of times!” repeated the
children; and Will, after whispering a moment with
Robbie, went up to Abraham Ulysses, and placed the
rope of the sled, which he had dropped while telling
his story, in his funny little black hand. “The ‘Two-
Forty’ is yours,” he said. :

“Hi, mam! look a-yere, yo’ Mary Ann Johnson, wot
I done tole yo’? Santy Close did send it to me,”
screamed Abraham Ulysses, cutting a queer caper,
“an’ sho’s yo’s bohn dat ar’ baby zs an angel, too,
ain’t she?” turning to Mrs. Tutchy.

“Yes, my boy,” said the happy little woman, “the
angel of is house.”

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A TURKISH CARRIAGE.


MRS. WHITE’S PARTY.



BY MRS. H. G. ROWE. -



fs OW, Ef May, you go right straight back home!

N Lotty an’ I want a little time to ourselves with-
out a little snip like you taggin’ after, an’ listenin’ to
every word we say ; so you go right straight back this
minute!”

Little Effie Maylie Marsh (called “Ef May” for
short ) turned her round blue eyes for a moment full
upon her sister, and then, without word or sign, trotted
composedly along in that sister’s wake, serenely
oblivious of the fact that she was the one too many
in the little party that had started, joyful at the pros-
pect of a whole afternoon’s confidential chat, for the
blackberry patch over the hill, when poor Ef May as
usual intruded her roly-poly presence just when she
was least wanted.

“Did Mother know that you came?”

Sister Anne looked and spoke with all the dignity
that her twelve years was capable of, but the intruder
never flinched.

“Ves, she did. JZ said lemme go pick blackberry
with the other girls, an’ she said ”»—

“What?”

“Yes, if they don’t prosect.”

Both girls laughed, for Ef May was famous for her
conversational blunders, and good-natured Lotty
whispered under the shelter of her sunbonnet :

“Let her go, she won’t do any harm.”



“Yes she will, She’ll hear every single word we
say and tell Gus of it just as quick as she gets home.
f know her, of old.”

Poor Anne had had bitter experiences of her little
sister’s quickness of hearing and equal quickness in
repeating whatever she had heard, and she was far
too shrewd to trust her on this occasion. But how to
get rid of the dear little nuisance— ah, that was the
rub!

“May,” she whispered mysteriously, and Ef May
pricked up her ears and looked curious. “If you'll
go home now, like a good girl, you shall (put your
ear closer, so Lotty won’t hear) go to Mrs, White's
party, to-night,”

Ef May had often heard older people talk about
parties, and in her inquisitive little soul she had
longed many a time, to know more about them, and
especially to see with her own eyes what they were like ;
and now she stood with her great blue eyes wide open
like a pair of very early morning glories, and a little
flush of excitement deepened the roses on her plump
cheeks, as Anne continued in her most seductive
tones:

“Now, run right along, there’s a darling! and Pll
get you ready, my own self, and see that you have
ail?

“Rockaway?” suggested Lotty, in a voice that

D
MRS. WHITE’S PARTY.



sounded suspiciously hoarse, to which Anne replied,
with an air of lofty disdain that, —

“Ef May had outgrown such babyish ways long
ago, and would go to the party as other folks did.”

Ef May was a very old bird for one of her age, and
this ‘ chaff’ between the two girls did strike her as a
little suspicious. Perhaps there was some hidden
flaw in this magnificent offer, and jerking her little

-yellow curly head one side like a shrewd canary, she
_fixed one round, bright eye full upon her sister’s face
as she asked solemnly :

“Now, Anne Marsh, — ‘honest an’ true, black an’
blue,’ can I go to Mrs. White’s party, this very
night?”

“Yes, you shall, if I have to go with you myself.”

Ef May was satisfied ; even Lotty’s half suppressed
giggle passed unobserved, and her face shone with
happy anticipation as turning her chubby feet home-
ward she smiled her parting salutation:

“Good-by, —I’ll go home an’ ’vepair myself for
the party.”

The girls laughed, but Lotty said rather regretfully :

“Tt was kinder too bad to fool the little thing so.
What will you say to her when night comes?”

“Oh, V’ll coax her up, somehow —make her doll
a new hat, maybe.”

And thus dismissing poor Ef May and her forth-
coming disappointment from their minds the two girls
walked gaily on, laughing and chatting in their
pleasant school-girl fashion, as they gathered the rich
purple berries, heedless of scratched hands and
stained finger tips, while they listened to the part-
ridge drumming in the cedars overhead, or the social
chatter of that provident little householder the squir-
rel, who, perched upon some convenient bough out of
possible reach of their longing fingers, discoursed in
the choicest squirrel language of his way of preserving
acorns and beechnuts by a receipt handed down from
Squirrel forefathers as far back as the days of Noah,
— 4 receipt that never had failed and never would.

It was after sunset when, with full baskets and
tired steps, they walked up the lane that led to
Anne’s home, both starting guiltily as they caught
sight of Ef May’s little figure seated in the doorway
with her bowl of bread and milk and her blue eyes
turned wistfully upon them as they came slowly up
the clover-bordered path.

ec :
I was in hopes she’d be asleep,” muttered Anne





with an uncomfortable feeling at the heart as she saw

| the joyfully significant nod with which her little sister

greeted her, and hastily bestowing a generous hand-
ful of the delicious fruit upon her, she said, with an
effort to appear natural and at ease:

“See what a lot of nice, ripe blackberries I brought
you!”

The little girl smiled, but she shook her head with
an air of happy importance.

“T’ll put ’em away for my breakfast,’ she whis-
pered. “I must save my appetite for fo-might, you
know.”

Anne could have cried with a relish.

“Oh, Ef May,” she began penitently, “I’m afraid

I’ve done wrong in telling you— ”

“Come, Anne! Come right in! Supper is wait-
ing for you,” called their mother, and the confession
was postponed until they should be alone again ; but
when that time came, and, after her usual custom
Anne took the little one to her room to undress and
put her to bed, the sight of the child’s happy expec-
tant face forced back the words that she would have
spoken and made her feel that she could not yet con-
fess the deception.

“You must curl my hair real pretty, now. I do
wish,” with a sigh, “that mamma would let me wear
her waterwig.”

And the bright eyes shone like stars, as she thus
gave the signal for the preparations to commence ; and
Anne obeyed, patiently brushing out the tangled locks
and curling them one by one over her fingers, ‘while
she listened to the excited chatter of her little charge
and vaguely wondered how long it would be possible
for those dreadfully wide awake eyes to keep open.
She was as long about her task as possible, but the
the last curl was finished at last, and Effie asked
eagerly:

“What dress are you going to put on me

By this time poor Anne was fairly desperate.

“JT forgot to tell you,” she said with a sudden de-
termination to carry out the joke to the end, “that
this is a queer party, something like the ‘sheet and
pillow case balls,’ that you’ve heard of, — and every-
body goes to this in in their nightgowns.”

Ef May looked up sharply.

“What’s that for?” she asked with a suspicious

look at her sister’s guilty face.
“ Because — well,I guess its because its the fashion.”

>»?


MRS. WHITE'S PARTY.

Ef May pondered the subject for a moment, and
then her brow cleared :

“Tl wear my very bestest one, then, with the
tuckered out yoke an’ Humbug trimming,” she said,
complacently, “ an’ my corals outside.”

Anne obeyed without a word, and the little lady
surveyed herself in the glass with a smile of intense
satisfaction.

“ Ain’t it most time to go?” she asked, and Anne



detecting, as she thought, just the ghost of a yawn in
the tone, replied briskly : :

“Oh no, not for some time yet. Come and sit in
my lap,— there lay your head on my shoulder, ea-sy,
so as not to tumble the curls, and I’ll sing, ‘ Tap, tap,
tapping at the garden gate,’ so you won’t get tired of
waiting you know.”

The little girl was nothing loth to accept her sister’s
offer, for in spite of her exertions to keep herself







































































































































































































Mrs. Wuitez’s Parry.

awake the heavy eyelids would droop, the curly head
press more heavily, and the lively, chattering little
tongue grow slower and more indistinct in its utter-
ances until at last it was silent altogether ; not even
the tiniest line of blue parted the golden lashes, the
dimples settled undisturbed into their old places
about the rosy mouth while only the faintest breath
of a sigh answered to Anne’s good-night kiss as she
softly laid her precious burden down among the
snowy pillows of her own little bed, and stole away,
with the secret resolve in her he“rt that never again,

by word or act, would she deceive the innocent little
sister who trusted so implicitly in her truth and honor.

It was a funny party, and Ef May looked about
her in astonishment as a servant in dressing gown
and night-cap, announced in a sleepy sing-song tone:

“Miss Ef May Marsh ? ”

Mrs. White, a heavy-eyed lady in an elaborately
embroidered and ruffled night-dress, gave her hand a
jittle languid shake, and asked, in a faint, die-away
Voice :
MRS. WHITE’S PARTY.





“ How do you rest, my dear?”

“Very well, maam, generally, ’cept when I eat too
much cake for my supper.”

At this Mrs. White nodded intelligently.

“?’S that you, Ef May?” murmured a voice at her
elbow, and there was Tommy Bliss, his brown curls
all in a tangle, and — oh, horrible! in a yellow flannel
night-gown with Zegs. Such a figure as he was with
his short body all the way of a bigness, and his little
yellow straddling legs like an old-fashioned brass
andiron.

Ef May turned away and pretended not to see him,
while she remarked with an air of kindly condescen-
sion to a little girl near her:

“It’s impressively warm here.”

“Kick the clo’es off, then.”

There was a refreshing briskness in the tones that
went straight to Ef May’s heart and she “took to” the
stranger on the spot.

“Who is that old gentleman with such a big tassel
in his night-cap?”

The little girl rubbed her eyes and looked in the
direction indicated.

“Oh, that’s old Dr. Opiamus. He gives all the
babies paragoric, and the old folks laudanum, so that
they can die and not know it.”

Ef May shuddered. There was something in the
idea that even to her childish fancy was horri-
ble.

“Don’t you want another blanket ?” asked her new
friend ; but Ef May shook her head.

“I hear some music?” she exclaimed, and just
then began the funniest medley of sound that was ever
heard: -

First, a low, soft, half-frightened strain as of some
wandering night-bird calling to his mate to set her
glow-worm lamp in the window to light him home ;
then the quick, cheery note of the cricket chimed in ;
the owl’s solemn “too-whit! too-whit! too-whoo !”
broke in at stately intervals ; and the “rain-call of the
loon burst forth like a wild, wierd laugh in the midst
of the softer sounds, until the dancers, who had tried
in vain to keep time with the strange music, faltered,
hesitated, and at last stopped entirely, and dropped
off to sleep upon the couches and easy chairs with
which the rooms were filled, to a low, monotonous
march that sounded exactly like the patter of rain-
drops upon the roof,



The costumes were a study, and Ef May who
strange to say didn’t feel at all sleepy herself, found it
rare fun to watch them.

There were old ladies, who minus their false fronts,
teeth, and spectacles, would never have been recog-
nized by their most intimate friends, in “ calf’s-head”
night-caps tied tightly under their chins, short night-
gowns with wide, crimped ruffles at neck and wrists,
and blue flannel petticoats just short enough to show
the felt slippers beneath ; young ladies, whose wealth
of curls, braids and puffs had many a time excited
the admiration and envy of their less fortunate sisters,
appeared here, looking like picked chickens, their
luxuriant tresses packed away in a drawer, their
flounces, and ruffles, and panniers, and overskirts, all
safe in the closet, their jewelry and their smiles laid
aside together, and they nodded indifferently to stately
gentlemen in tasselled night-caps and gorgeous dress-
ing gowns, or frowned aside upon the boys, who, in
all sorts of night gear, bobbed about in the most de-
sirable nooks and corners, disturbing everybody with
their clumsy ways and sleepy drollery.

In short, taken as a whole, a comical looking set
they were,— and so stupid! Ef May felt somewhat
hurt and a good deal offended when even her new
friend dropped off into a doze instead of listening to
her questions, and she was only too glad when a good
looking young gentleman with a pen behind his ear
and aroll of manuscript sticking out of the pocket
of his dressing gown, walked leisurely up to her and
began talking in a queer rambling fashion about the
people around them.

“What makes some of the sleepiest folks groan
and grumble so, all the time?” asked the little girl
curiously, and her companion laughed, a queer,
dreamy sort of a laugh, as he replied :

“Oh, those are the ones that came here on night-
mares,— that sort of riding always makes people rest-
less, it’s worse than a hobby for that!”

He spoke the last words with a sudden fierceness
that startled her, but he didn’t seem to notice her
frightened face for he kept on talking, in that steady
but far off tone:

“ Do you see that man there with his face all twisted
up into a knot? That’s the head master of the Boys’
Grammar School,—he ate toasted cheese for his sup-
per and he’s having a hard night of it, —no doubt the
boys will have a hard time of i, to-morrow.”


MRS. WHITE’S PARTY.



Ef May thought of brother Gus’ careless scholar-
ship, and trembled.

“ There’s a little girl that told a lie to her mother,
—hear her moan and sob! She will confess her
fault and ask to be forgiven, in the morning, I think.”

Ef May silently took the lesson to heart.

“Do you see that old fellow in the corner? How
he grasps with his hands and mutters, and now he is
trying to call ‘murder!’ He has spent all his life
hoarding up riches, and now, sleeping or waking, he
lives in constant terror of losing his gold that he will
neither spend for himself or others.”

“But here,” and the speaker pointed to a corner
near at hand, where rolled up into a round yellow
ball, was the figure of Johnny Staples, sound asleep
in the velvety depths of an easy chair, his good-





natured, honest little face, calm and peaceful, with
not acloud of suffering, remorse or fear to mar its
innocent beauty.

“ But here,” he repeated, “is one who will find in
our friend’s party the refreshment and rest that only
health and innocence can reasonably expect.”

Just then the company showed signs of a general
breaking up, and the assembled guests gave sucha
loud, unanimous sore that Ef May started up, terri-
fied half out of her senses ; and pulling vigorously at
her sleeping sister’s sleeve, she cried out with a burst
of angry tears:

“It’s a nasty, mean old party, any how!
snore, an’ talk in their sleep, an’ make
— I won’t go again, so, there!”

But she dd for all that.

They
up faces, an’

vue eae


F course Queer Church is on
Queer Street, in the town of
Manoa. And all good boys and
girls who study geography
know just where Manoa
ought to be.

Mr. Thingumbob is
and among the
ants are Mr.
What’s-
ree,








The Rev.
the minister,
principal attend-
So-and-So, Mr,
his-Name, Mr. Jigma-
Mr. You-Know- Who,
Mrs. Grundy, Mr. Tom Col-
lins, the Misses Glubberson,
Mr. What-d’ye-Callum, that

distinguished foreign family

the Van Dunks, Mr. William
Patterson, Mrs. Partington,
and Mr. Gradgrind.
You have possibly
heard of some of these
persons before. Be-
sides, there is quite
a congreyation, and
there is
also a
very big
number











































of little people, aged all
the way from five to fifteen.

Where there are so many of them it naturally
follows that they have a large number of things their
own way. But probably my story would not have
been written if a little girl called True Gravelines
hadn’t come to town. “True” is short for Gertrude,
which was her name,

True had been taken from the Orphan Asylum by
Mrs. Potiphar. And because she loved the little
lady, Mrs. Potiphar had her taught and trained as
her own daughter, and even Mrs. Grundy said that
she was charming, and the Glubberson girls —— who
were old maids and not handsome — allowed that
she would make a fine woman.

Finally True came across the story of
“ Goody-Two-Shoes,” which that great big
of an Oliver Goldsmith told so sweetly,
had some new ideas. One of them
would like to make some chang-
Church.

the boys and
ter school
plan. Now
her age, with
beautiful rich
she wore
such kid slip.




child
and she
was that she
es in Queer

So she got all
girls together af-
and proposed her
True was tall for
dark eyes, and
brown hair. And
lovely dresses,and





















QUEER CHURCH.

pers, and suck a splendid real gold chain with a true
and genuine watch that ticked and kept time. So
of course she had matters a good deal in her own
hands.

The “chatter meeting ” (as she called it) was held
in the summer-house that cost ten thousand dollars,
and that stood among Mrs Potiphar’s roses in the
side garden back of the lawn. And it resolved to
send a committee to wait on Mr. Thingumbob —for
Queer Church was the only church in Manoa, and
they all went there on Sundays.

They weren’t a bit afraid of him—not they! He
had lots of boys and girls of his own, and one of
them had such rosy cheeks that he looked as though
the angel had forgotten to bring him to the front
door and had stuck him in the apple-tree, whence,
when he was ready to be picked, his father had taken
him down.

To be sure True was the head of the delegation,
and it started off, twenty strong, on Saturday morn-
ing. How the people at the Manse opened their
eyes as the troop came in, just as grave as you please,
and asking to be shown up to the study. Well, so
did the minister when he saw them. He laid down
his pen and he said: “ How do you do, gentlemen
and ladies! Pray be seated!” So they all sat down
wherever they could, and waited for True to begin.

“Mr. Thingumbob,” she said, “why can’t we be
somebodies in church, too ?”

“T don't know, my dear. Aren’t you somebodies
now?”

“ O-dear-bless-me-no,” says True, all in a breath.

“Well, what would you like to do?” asked Mr.
Thingumbob.

“Why, we’d just like to have one week all to our-
selves in the church, and one Sunday all to ourselves,
to have sermons, and sing hymns, and all such
things.”

The pastor looked very queer— just like his
church. Now ¢#at had in it everything to make a
church pleasant — but it was all for big people. Said
he “True, I guess [ll try it. You stay here with me
and let the rest of these youngsters go.”

So the black-eyed ten-year-older stayed and talked
and planned, and then how they laughed, and then
they talked some more and laughed some more, and
then it was dinner-time. And away went True.

On Sunday morning in that beautiful autumn

weather, Mr. Thingumbob — who did pretty much as
he pleased too told the church about it. All that week
the children were to have it their own way. Nobody
was to do anything but the children. As a special
favor to himself he wanted to have #hem do just as
they pleased all that week and next Sunday, and he’d
be responsible. ;

When I first heard the story I thought the children
and he must have loved each a great deal, for him to
make such an offer. And I guess they did.

Let’s see. Monday was his reception evening and
he wanted nobody to come but the children. So
they all came, and played big people, and asked about
his health and how he enjoyed his summer vacation,
and talked of business, and said their children (doll-
children you know) had the measles and the whoop-
ing-cough, and what luck they had in shooting (with
a bow-gun) and how they hoped he’d call soon and
all that. Such a time! How funny it did seem, too.

And then there was Tuesday evening, and Mr.
Thingumbob had a literary circle who met in the
church parlor. So all the children went, and all the
big people were to have stayed away — but Z know
some who geeked. And Mr, Thingumbob told them
about the little boy, Tom Chatterton, up in St. Mary
Radcliffe church, and the boxes with the old papers,
and how this small chap wrote poetry and how he
pretended to copy it from the old papers, and how
great learned men went to words over it and some
said ‘He did’ and some said ‘ He didn’t’ and some
called him a ‘forger’ and some called him a ‘ genius,’
and how he got tired of it all, and how he took a
drink of arsenic and water and died when he was
hardly grown to be a man.— For that was just what
the big folks expected to talk about,

And then there was Wednesday evening, and that
was Prayer-meeting. And the big grown-up people
all stayed away and the little folks all came. How
they did sing! And what a pleasant talk they had
that night too — about the little Boy that heard the
doctors and asked them questions until his mother
thought he had run away and got lost. And Mr.
Thingumbob sat right down in the middle of them
and they got all around him and he was the only big
man there was there.

And then there was Thursday night—when the
church people used to go to their Mission Chapel
and help the poor people to sing and pray and find
QUEER CHURCH.

out how they did and what they wanted. So they all
went together—all the larger children of Queer
church,that is — and saw the mission people. And
True Gravelines felt so badly for a poor little girl that
she gave her her warm gloves. And Tommy What’s-
his-name let another fellow have his brand-new jack-
knife because he hadn’t got any at all of his own.
And there wasn’t one of them that didn’t give the
Mission people pennies, or promise things to them,
like the big folks.

And on Friday afternoon they had a sewing-society
and the girls came and sewed — dear, dear, what sew-
the
boys came to tea, and it was just like a picnic. And
Mr. Thingumbob was there too. And afterwards
they played “ Hy-Spy ” in the church up-stairs, down the
aisles and in the galleries and back of the organ—
and True Gravelines, for real and certain, hid under
the pulpit! And then they set back all the chairs in
the Sunday-school room and played “ Fox and Geese”
and “Thread the Needle” and ever so many other
things that I don’t know the names of — only I do
know that they were bound to act all the while like
gentlemen and ladies, and they surely did.

And then came Saturday and they forgot all about be-
ing big men and women, and went off to play and let
Mr. Thingumbob alone so he could write his sermon.
But he said he didn’t want to write his sermon, he
wanted to /a/k it, and he asked True what he should
talk about. And she told him she wanted to hear about
the little girl that was sick and died and that Some
One took by the hand and made her well. So he
said he would, and he promised to use real short
weenty-teenty words —“ Because ” said True, “ there’s
some that’s only little bits of things and “ey won’t
understand.”

And then Sunday came.
took back seats. A

ing it was!—and they brought lunch along and

And all the big people
And all the little people went in to
play big people, and opened their bibles and their
hymn-books, and stood up, and sat down, and sang, and
jeaned their heads forward in prayer-time,-and did
just what they saw their papas aad mammas do.
And one boy, Peter Gradgrind, he went to sleep, be-
cause he said that was the way his father did. And
Mr. Thingumbob laughed when he heard that.

And that was a real short service. It was al}, there,
every bit of it. But the sermon was onlya quarter
of an hour long and all the rest was in the same pro-
portion.

When it came time for Sunday school they all
went. And the biggest one in each class taught the
others. And by this time they had all got to be so good
that they were trying to be big folks in earnest. And
there was Tom Collins Jr. for Superintendent and he
tried his best. And True played the tunes on the
cabinet organ. And you never did see how well it
all went !

Weren’t they tired when night came! But out they
came again — that is the bigger ones did —and then
Mr. Thingumbob talked to them about growing to
be men and women. It was alittle sermon in short
words, but I don’t think they will forget it — for it
was about a Boy who did what his father and mother
wanted him to do, who learned his father’s business

_and worked to help the family along, who always did

good to others, who tried to be a boy and yet to do
like grown-up folks all the while. And by this time
all the boys and girls knew how it seemed to play at
big people, and make calls, and hear sermons, and do
good.

Then, they all went to bed and slept like tops.

And they talk there to this day about it. And isn’t
it funny? — the Queer Church people actually have
fixed some of the seats in front low enough for the
little folks, and they are very proud to see them sit-
ting there like small men and women. And _ every
now and then Queer Church has a sermon in short
words, and a prayer-meeting where the children
swarm on Mr. Thingumbob’s chair, and a sewing-club
of little girls —-O, and ever so many strange nice
things for children, that came of that week of playing
at big people.

And when you ask
Mrs. Grundy say?” and “ How does Mr.
take it?’ what do you think they answer ?

Why, they just say “We don’t care. We want the
children to grow up to love the church and to love
things that are good.”

Wouldn’t you like to go to Queer
make a week of it?

the folks there “ What does
Gradgrind

Church and
THE FUN-AND-FROLIC ART SCHOOL.



BY STANLEY WOOD.



OUSIN JOE had been sitting half asleep over a
book in the library, when all at once the door
opened just a little and a row of eyes peeped in at
nim, the eyes beginning somewhere near the top of
the door and ending pretty close to the bottom.
There were just five of these eyes; the one nearest
the top being large and of a lovely soft brown color,
the next one gray, the next one brown, the next blue,
and the last one away down towards the bottom, a
mischievous brown.

“Peep!” said a voice, which matched the mis-
chievous brown eye, and a fat little hand was thrust
tn through the crack.

“May we come in?” asked a soft voice, which
sounded near the top of the door.

“ Certainly,” said Joe, shutting his book and trying
to look as though he had not been half asleep over it.
The door opened, and the cousins marched in. First
came Bryant, a chubby five-year-old, with sturdy legs,
a large head, yellow hair and brown eyes full of mis-
chief, next to him Leefee, seven years old, slight of
figure, a little lady with light hair and sky-blue eyes ;
then Adale, ten years old, her brown hair flying and
her brown eyes dancing; after her Maud, only four-
teen, but quite a young lady for all that, with serious
pray eyes, and last of all, Cora, a slender young
woman of seventeen with soft brown hair and eyes.

“Ladies and gentleman,” said cousin Joe, when
they all stood before him, “to what do I owe the
honor of this visit?”

“Your Royal Highness,” replied Maud, who had
read one of Sir Walter Scott’s novels, “we have a
humble petition to present, in which —”

“ My top ’s broked,” interrupted Bryant, suddenly.

“And we want you to tell us a story,” said Adale
with eargerness.

“Have you learned your lessons, Adale?” asked
cousin Joe, very solemnly.

“Qh yes, indeed.”

“Where is Terra del Fuego?”

“But cousin, I study geography only five days in
the week ; you can’t expect me to know where Terra
del Fuego is on Saturday.”

“Really, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“ And you'll tell us a story?” said Leefee,

“ One we haven’t heard before,” suggested Adale..

“My top ’s broked,” said Bryant with much em~
phasis. :

“Friends,” said cousin Joe, “the demand for new
stories is in great excess of the supply. When I
finished telling you my last story, Adale there re-
marked that she had read that story in WIDE AWAKE..
Now there’s a moral in that remark of Adale’s, for
when my friends and fellow-citizens have grown old’
enough to read stories they are too old for me to tell
them to.”

“Oh, cousin!”

“But, 1’11 compromise with you; instead of a story
I'll give you a drawing-lesson.”

“T get drawing-lessons enough at school,” said.
Adale.

“T didn’t know you could draw, cousin Joe,” said.
Clara,

“T can’t; and that’s the beauty of my system.
The teacher doesn’t need to know anything about
drawing, and the students never learn anything.”

“ How absurd!” said Cora.

“ How curious!” said Maud.

“ How pleasant!” said Adale.

“Tow funny!” said Leefee.

“My top ’s broked,” said Bryant.

“The class will come to order,” said cousin Joe.

Then they all gathered around the library-table,
and each one was provided with a pencil and a bit of
paper.

“ Stucents of the Fun-and-Frolic Art School,” said:
Joe, “we have met for mutual deterioration in art.
As you all ought to know, but no doubt many of you
do not, Sir Edward Landseer was a great artist in
dogs, Rosa Bonheur is a great artist in horses and
THE FUN-AND-FROLIC ART SCHOOL.

kine, but we unitedly will be great artists in — pigs.”

“Pigs?”

“Ves, ladies and gentleman, I repeat it—pics!
Is there anyone in the class who can draw a pig?”

“T can draw one, such as the boys draw on their
slates at school,” said Adale.

“Please draw one then,” said cousin Joe. Ina
moment Adale had accomplished the task and handed
him the resiult.

“This,” said Joe, as he held it up in view of the
class, “‘ this ‘is





THE CONVENTIONAL PIG,

“ You see it doesn’t look like a pig, but every boy
knows it is intended to represent a pig. If it looked
a good deal more like a pig he might not recognize it.
Thus conventional politeness does not resemble real
politeness, yet everybody knows what it is intended to
represent. There is a moral in that remark some-
where — if you can find it — and now we'll go on with
the lesson. The first thing you must do in order to
become an artist in my school is to shut your eyes.”

“Shut our eyes!”

“Why, cousin,” said Cora, “I thought all artists
had to keep their eyes especially wide open.”

“There are some who do not,” said cousin Joe,
sententiously.

“Yve seen people shut ove eye and look at pictures
through their hand with the other — so,” said Adale,

making a fist of her little hand and peeping through

it.

“Those people were connoisseurs,” said Joe; “we
are artists and must shut dofh eyes, Cora; will you
begin? Shut your eyes, place your pencil on the
paper, and draw the outlines of a pig as nearly as you
can.”

“But, cousin Joe, isn’t this a play for little

“

” girls, not for — well — proper young ladies?”

“Very well, Miss Cora; we'll begin with Leefee
then.”

Little Miss Leefee seized her pencil eagerly, and
shutting her eyes uncommonly close, drew this:





THIS Is A PIG.

How the rest did laugh at poor Leefee!

“ You'll have to write under it, ‘This is a pig,’ ”
said Adale.

“ And I will do it too,” said Leefee, and she did
so, as you can see by the picture.

“Tt’s your turn now, Adale,” said Joe.

“This will be a conventional pig, like my other
one,” said Adale, laughing as she shut her eyes.
When she had finished her drawing, all confessed,
amidst great laughter, that it was not at all a “con-
ventional pig ;” so Adale wrote under her production :







‘¢-pHIs Ig AN UNCONVENTIONAL PIG.”

“Tt looks more like a tapir than a pig,” said Lee-
fee, mindful of Adales criticism on her effort.

“Well, isn’t a tapir a kind of unconventional pig?”
replied the artist.

“Your pigs are all too long,” said Maud; “you
don’t make them fat enough.”

“You can be guided by your own criticism, for you
THE FUN-AND-FROLIC ART SCHOOL.

come next after Adale,” said cousin Joe, merrily.
Maud drew her pig with great care. “There!”

said she, as she displayed the result of her labors,
‘what do you think of that?”







MAUD’S FAT PIG.

“Oh what a funny rabbit!” exclaimed Adale.

“Tt’s more like a rat,” said Leefee.

“Tt must be a pig,” said Maud firmly, “ I’m drawing
pigs.”

In the mean time Miss Cora, who had declined
to enter into such childish sport, had been closely
observed by Adale. Suddenly that versatile young
lady seized Cora’s paper before she could prevent it,
and exclaiming with a triumphant flourish, “ Cora’s
pig! Oh, do look at Cora’s pig!” she displayed this:





CORA’S FEROCIOUS PIG.

Cora blushingly acknowledged that she had been
induced by the enthusiasm of the others to try and
improve on their efforts.

“What a fierce-looking quadruped,” said Maud.

“Ves; I have called it my ferocious pig,” replied

Cora, evidently greatly enjoying her production.

“Ladies and gentleman of the Fun-and-frolic Art
School,” said cousin Joe, oratorically, “your incapacity
has exceeded my highest expectations. Your efforts
to draw the lineaments of the domestic animal known
as the pig having exceeded in grotesqueness and
falseness to nature the efforts of many more experi-
enced artists, I am naturally very much gratified. I
now have the honor to announce to you that’ school’s
out.’”

“Oh not yet, cousin.”

““ Not yet?”

“No; you must draw a pig,” said Maud.

“You must draw a pig,” said Adale.

“ You must draw a pig,” said Leefee.

“My top’s broked,” said Bryant.

“Necessity knows no law,” said cousin Joe.

“Bring me my pencil now, my hand feels skilful,
and the shadows lift from my waked spirit airily and
swift,” and with an air of vast importance he began
to execute his task. The little cousins were so fear-
ful that he would take a sly peep at his work, that
they blindfolded him, and his production was received
with shouts of laughter. When they took off his
muffler he saw this:





THE ACEPHALOUS OR ONE-EYED PIG.

d

“ OA what a bad pig,” said Cora.

“Oh what a bad pig,” said Maud.

“Oh what a Jad pig,” said Adale,

“Oh what a bad pig,” said Leefee.

“My top—”

“ Shall be mended,” said cousin Joe, taking little
Bryant upon his knee.
SOME QUAKER BOYS OF 1776.

BY C,

H, WOODMAN,

“FPN 1776, the eastern end of Long Island was over-

run with the English troops and mercenaries,

There was no security to life or property: everything
was at the mercy of the wicked Hessians.

At this time there was living on the island, and not
far from New York, a Quaker by the name of Patti-
son. Henry Pattison, the father, was one -
of the strictest of the sect ; of a noble, gen;

“Come, hurry!” said the horseman.

“T shall not do it!” said Edmund.

“What — sirrah!” cried the ruffian, “we shall see
who will do it!” and he flourished his sword over the
boy’s head, swearing and threatening to cut him down
unless he instantly obeyed.



erous nature, a kind neighbor, and a wise







councilor, He was universally loved and
revered. He won the name of the Peace-
Maker.

He owned a fine farm, and was growing
wealthy, when the war came and sad days
settled down upon the community.

Mother Pattison was the true type of the
Quaker wife and mother. Under her tidy
White cap beamed the placid, tender face

*which is so common among these pure-
: hearted people, and her skillful advice and
. winning words of consolation were often
“heard in the house of the sick and afflicted.
_Eight sturdy boys, and one little sweet,
timid flower of a daughter, blessed this

good couple, and made their home one of
happiness and love.

Edmund, the oldest son, was a hand-
some, manly lad of eighteen. Beneath his broad-
brimmed hat, his quiet “thee” and “ thou,” beat a
fiery and fearless heart that often broke through the
mild Quaker training and made him, notwithstanding
his peace principles, a leader among his fellows.

One day, as he sat in the barn, quietly enjoying his
noonday rest, a British trooper rode up to the door.
Seeing Edmund he shouted :

“Come, youngster, make haste and stir yourself,
Go and help my driver there unload that cart of tim-
“ber into the road!”

Now Edmund had just been hard at work loading

- that wood, to carry it toa neighbor to whom it was sold.

Both wagon and oxen belonged to his father.



‘© SEEKING FOR SOME FIRM SPOT OF ENTRANCE.’ — PAGE 82.

Edmund stood unflinchingly, fiercely eyeing the

enraged soldier.
Just then a little boy, Charles, the son of a neighbor,

ran into the house and told Mrs. Pattison that “a
Britisher was going to kill her Edmund.” She rushed
to the barn, begged the soldier to stop, pleaded with
her son to unload the wood and so save his life.

“No fear of death, mother; he dare not touch a
hair of my head.”

“Dare not!” The horseman flourished his sword
before the lad’s face and swore he would kill him
instantly.

“You dare not!” said Edmund firmly ; “and I will
report you to your master for this.”
SOME QUAKER BOYS OF 1776,

‘The fierce and defiant look really awed the trooper,
and he mounted his horse, although he still told
the boy he would “ cut him into inch pieces.”

Edmund knew that such things were actually done
by the soldiers, and he appreciated the man’s terrible
rage. He coolly walked across the barn-floor, and
armed himself with a huge pitchfork.

“You cowardly rascal!’?— the boy’s words came
fierce and sharp. ‘“ Now take one step towards this
floor, and I stab you with my pitchfork.”

‘The gentle Mrs. Pattison expected to see her boy
at once shot down like a dog. She ran to the house,
and, meeting her husband, sent him to the rescue.

Friend Pattison rode hastily up, and said calmly to
the trooper: ©

“You have no right to lay a finger upon that boy,
who is a non-combatant.”

The man did not move.

Then Farmer Pattison turned toward the road, say-
ing he would ride and call Col. Wurms, who com-
manded the troops. .

Upon this the horseman, thinking it best for Az to
see his master first, drove the spurs into his horse and
galloped away, uttering vows of vengeance.

The little boy who had alarmed Mrs. Pattison was
a lad of fourteen, — the son of a neighbor who was in
Washington’s army.

Sitting one day under the trees, with the little Pat-
tisons, talking indignantly of the “ British thieves,” he
saw a light-horseman ride up toward a. farm-house
just across the pond. He guessed at once what the
man was after. He tried to signal the farmer, but in
vain,

“They are pressing horses,” cried Charlie; “they
always ride that way when stealing horses.”

He thought of his father’s beautiful colt, his own pet.

“Fleetwood shall not go!” said he.

Running as fast as he could to the barn, he leaped
on to his back, and started for the woods.

The red-coat saw him, and, putting his spurs into
his horse, rising in the saddle and shouting, he tore
down the road at headlong speed.

Charlie’s mother rushed to the door. She saw her
little son galloping towards the woods with his mur-
derous enemy close upon his heels. Her heart beat
fearfully, and she gave one great cry of prayer as her
brave little boy dashed into the thick woods, and out
of sight, still hotly pursued by the soldier.

The trees were close-set and the branches :ow.
Charlie laid down along the horse’s neck to escape
being swept off. He cheered on, with low cries, the
wild colt, who stretched himself full length at every
leap.

With streaming mane, glaring eyes, distended nos-
trils, he plunged onward. Charlie heard the dead
dry boughs crackling behind, and the snorting of the
soldier’s horse, so near was his fierce pursuer. On, on
Fleetwood dashed, bearing his little master from one
piece of woods to another, till the forest became
dense and dark. He had now gained some on the
soldier ; and, seeing ahead a tangled, marshy thicket,
Charlie rode right into its midst.

Here he stood five hours without moving.

The soldier, so much heavier with his horse, dared
not venture into the swamp. He rode round and
round, seeking for some firm spot of entrance. Some-
times he did come very near; but every time sinking
into the wet, springy bog he was obliged to give it
up; he could not even get ashot at the boy, the brush
was so thick, Fleetwood instinctively still as a mouse,
and finally, with loud oaths, he rode off.

But the lad and the colt still stood there hour after
hour, not knowing whether they might venture out;
but at nightfall his mother, who had been watching all
the while, with tears and prayers, saw her dear boy
cautiously peeping through the edge of the woods. By
signs she let him know that the danger was past, and,
riding up to the house, he dismounted, Then, leaning
against his beautiful colt, his own bright, golden curls
mingling with Fleetwood’s ebon mane, the plucky
little fellow told his adventures to the eager group.

The Quaker neighbors in this vicinity had at last
been driven, by the outrages of the hostile troops, to
use some means of defense. They agreed that, when-
ever a house should be attacked, the family would fire
a gun, which would be answered by firing from other
houses, and so the neighborhood become aroused.

But Farmer Pattison so abhorred the use of a gun
that he would have none in his house. He procured
a conch-shell which, when well blown, could be heard
a great way. g

One night, while Charlie’s family were all soundly
sleeping, and, without, the clear November air was un-
stirred by a breath of wind, suddenly the grum report
of the conch boomed in at the windows and alarmed
the whole house.


























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































rae

igs

My q
aaa.


WHAT I HEARD

Wakened so unceremoniously, all thought it was a
gun ; but no one could tell whence it came. The ven-
erable grandfather knelt in prayer ; the sick English
officer, staring at the house, ordered his two guards to
prepare for defence ; the mother sat trembling, while
the two little girls, Grace and Marcia, hid their faces
in their mother’s night-dress.

But our Charlie was brave. He loaded the old fire-
arm, and, going down to the piazza blazed away, loading
and firing, to frighten away the unseen foe. Through
the still air could be heard the guns of the neighbors,
all aroused to defend their homes.

But no burning building could be seen, nor were
there any shouts or noises of conflict.

The alarm subsided, but for the rest of the night
the little family sat anxious and waited for the dawn.
In the morning they learned the cause of the alarm.

—_—_—____ +

ON THE STREET.

It seems that at noon, the day before, the Pattison
boys were trying their lungs on the conch, calling the
hired men to dinner.

Little Joseph stood by, waiting his turn, but it
didn’t come. Dinner was ready, and the shell was
put away on the shelf over the kitchen door. The
little fellow’s disappointment was great, and that night
he dreamed of robbers, of English soldiers and burn-
ing houses. He dreamed that he must blow the shell.

Up he jumped, ran down stairs, and through two
rooms, still asleep, and, standing in a chair, got the
conch from the shelf. Going to the back door he
blew it lustily, and aroused the whole family. They
rushed down-stairs in great alarm, and there stood the
little boy, bareheaded and in his nightgown, while
great drops of perspiration stood on his face, from the.
exertions he had made!



WHAT I HEARD ON THE STREET.



BY CLARA F. GUERNSEY.



OT long ago, while I was waiting for the cars at

a street corner, I heard two men talking to-

gether. The one was a young fellow of nineteen or

so, a big, tall youth, whose appearance would have

been pleasing had he not worn, in addition to a gen-

eral air of discouragement, that look of being on the
down-hill road, which, once seen, is unmistakable.

His clothes were sufficiently good in quality, but
they seemed never to have known the clothes-brush,
his coat lacked four or five buttons, for which three
pins were a very inadequate substitute, and he had an
aspect generally of having forgotten the use of soap
and water.

Perhaps all this might not have been his fault. It
is possible he had no womankind belonging to him,
though I don’t hold that an excuse for missing buttons,
and his work might have been such as bred fluffiness
and griminess, but no man’s work obliges him to
slouch when off duty, to keep his hands in his pockets,
or tilt his hat on one side.

The other man was a brisk, middle-aged person,
whom I take to have been a worker iniron in one way
or another. He had on his working-dress, and his

hands were black, but the blackness in his case was
a mere outside necessity, and went no farther than the
surface. He looked bright and sensible, and it was in
a pleasant voice that he asked the younger man:

“Well, Jim, got a place?”

Jim gave a weary, discouraged sigh, and shifted
from one foot to the other.

“Yes, I’m in Blank’s, but I might as well not be.”

“Why?”

“Oh,” returned Jim, in a forlorn manner, “what’s
the use? I work all the week, and when Saturday
night comes, there’s just five dollars. What’s that?
Why, it’s just nothing.”

“No, it ain’t,’ replied the senior, laying a kindly
hand on the other’s shoulder. “It’s just jive dollars
better than nothing. Put it that way, Jim.”

“Well, now, that’s so,” said Jim, brightening up
wonderfully after a minute’s thought. “It does make
it seem different, don’t it?’? And he walked off, ap-
parently much comforted.

If you think of it, Reader, you will see that the
difference between five dollars and nothing is infinitely
greater than that between five and five thousand.




KIP’S MINISTER.



BY KATE W. HAMILTON,



“STACK and Fill went up the hill, ” piped Bud’s

shrill voice from the hayloft in the barn where
“* Ty fetch a pail of water.
And Fill

she was hunting eggs.
Fack fell down and broke his crown,

999



If Bud’s own name had been Jill she could not
have come “tumbling after,” any more speedily than
she did. A board tilted, her fodt slipped, and ina
moment she was sitting on the floor below. For-
tunately a quantity of hay had fallen with her, so
there was no broken crown or other crushed bones ;
but her dignity was considerably jarred, and glancing
around to see whether any one had witnessed the
mishap, she discovered Kip looking out toward the
road from a door at the farther end of the building.

“Kip Crail! what makes you stand there for?”
she demanded, severely.

“Tm avatching my minister,” answered Kip
slowly.

It is not every boy who owns a minister all by him-
self, but Kip spoke as if nobody else had any claim
upon this one; and as he seemed to have noticed
neither her tone nor her downfall, Bud regained her
chubby feet, shook the hay from her yellow curls,
and going to Kip’s side looked curiously after the
slightly grey-haired man, in clothing somewhat worn,
who was quietly picking his way along the road.

Her blue eyes discerned nothing remarkable, and she
turned away disappointed.

“Ho! Why he’s everybody’s minister; he a’n’t
yours.”

Kip knew better than that. Did not he remember
who always knew him, and stopped to shake hands
and say “ How do you do, Christopher?” —a name
that made him feel nearly as big as anybody. And
who always asked after his mother? And did not
forget when he told him little Bob was sick? The
people in the house hitched up their sleek horses and
nice carriage, and drove two miles to the city church
every Sunday; but Kip, with freckled face shining
from soap, head wet and combed till not a hair could
stir from its place, and red hands thrust into his
pockets, trudged whistling over the hill to the little
frame church where most of the people from
the straggling villages and the neighboring farms
gathered.

“So he is my minister,” said Kip stoutly as he
considered the matter.

He would have liked to share the honor that day,
however, with the inmates of the large comfortable
farm-house ; for they were really the most prosperous
family in the village, while he, only a distant relative,
was “chore boy and gener'ly useful” as he phrased
it, And there was to be a“ donation party” at his
KIP’S MINISTER.

munister’s home that very evening.

“Tf they’d just give something handsome!” he
said to Nancy the “hired girl,” who was busy in the
kitchen.

“They won’t never think of it no more’n they will
of flyin’,” replied Nancy, dextrously turning a flapjack,
and the subject also, by requesting Kip to “ run for

-an armful of wood.”

Somebody always wanted wood or water, or some-
thing from the cellar, or something from the attic,
whenever Kip was in sight. But hescarcely thought
of the constant calls that morning, so full was he of
other thoughts. Nancy might dispose of the question
carelessly, but he could not. He was connected
with the house, and he felt that the honor of the
house was involved. Beside, he wanted his minister
well treated and he knew — few knew better than Kip
— how sorely the “something handsome ”
in the shabby little parsonage. He did not mean
they should “never think of it” as Nancy had said!
he would remind them by bringing up the subject
naturally and innocently in some way.

So he lingered in the room a few minutes after
breakfast, while Mrs. Mitchel was gathering up the
dishes, and Mr. Mitchel consulting the almanac. He
coughed once or twice, and then, staring straight out
of the window, observed as follows :

“There goes our big rooster! He’s most as big as
a turkey, a’n’t he, Aunt Ann? Turkeys always make
me think of Thanksgivings, Christmases, Donations
and such things —oh yes! there zs going to be a
donation down to the minister’s to-night!”

Kip considered that very delicately and neauy,
done !

“Eh ? what?” said Mrs. Mitchel, paying no atten-
tion except to the last sentence.

“ Who's going to have a donation?”

“ Down to the minister’s,” repeated Kip. ‘ Every-
body’ll take ’em things, you know — flour and potatoes
and wood — something handsome, I hope — the folks
that can ’ford to.”

That was another masterly hint. Kip chuckled to
himself at his success in managing his self-appointed
task but his spirits sank with Mr. Mitchel’s first
words.

“Well, now, I don’t know as I approve of that
way. The folks here can do as they please — it’s no
affair of mine — but seems to me it’s better to pay a
man a decent salary, and let him buy his own
things.”

was needed .

“Don’t know as 7 ’prove of that way either,’
soliloquized Kip indignantly when he found himself
alone behind the wood-pile. ‘Don’t know as I
*prove of folks giving me their old clothes,” looking
down at his patched knees. “Seems to me ’twould
be better to pay me decent wages and let me buy my
own clothes. But seein’ they don’t, these trousers are.
better’n none; and I guess if Uncle Ralph had a sick
wife and three or four children he’d think a donation
party was a good deal better’n nothing.”

Ideas that found their way into the brain under’
Kip’s thatch of light hair were sure to stay, and the
cows, the chickens, and the wood-pile heard numerous
orations that morning — all upon one subject.

“Now if I owned all these things, do you s’pose
I'd go off to the big city church every Sunday, and
wouldn’t go down now and then to see what was
a-doin’ for the poor folks round here? And when
I went, don’t you s’pose I’d see how his coat was
gettin’ shinier and shinier, and her cloak fadeder,
and all the new clothes they have is their old ones
made over? A boy don’t like that kind of dressin’-
up partic’lar well, and how do you s’pose my minister
feels? Don’t you b’lieve I’d know when she got sick,

‘how the bundles from the grocery-store was smaller

and fewer’count of the bottles that had to be paid for
and the doctor’s bill? And wouldn’t I hear the tremble
in his voice when he prays for them that has ‘heavy
burdens to carry?’ Just wait till I’m a man and
see!”

Old Brindle looked at him meditatively, and one
pert little bantam mounted the fence and crowed
with enthusiasm, but no member of the barn-yard
offered any suggestions ; and going toa little nook
behind the manger, Kip drew forth his own offering
for the important evening —a little bracket-shelf,
clumsily designed and roughly whittled out, but
nevertheless the work of many a precious half-hour.
He looked at it rather doubtfully. It did not alto-
gether satisfy even his limited conceptions of
beauty.

“But then if you keep it kind of in the shade, and
look at it sort o’sideways — so —it does pretty well,”
he said, scrutinizing it with one eye closed. “I guess
Mis’ Clay will, seein’ she’s had to look sharp for the
best side o’things so long.”

But how he did wish the others would send some-
thing — “something that would count,” as he said.
He was down on the ground gathering up a basketful
of chips when one of the well-kept horses and the
KIP’S MINISTER.

light wagon passed out of the yard and down the lane
bearing Mr. Mitchel away to the town. A host of
brilliant possibilities suddenly trooped through Kip’s
thoughts as he watched the vehicle out of sight. His
wish grew into something deeper and stronger.

“Oh please do make him think and bring back
something nice for them!” he murmured.

Bud, who had a fashion of appearing in the most
-unexpected times and places, looked at him wonder-
ingly from around a corner of the wood-pile.

“What makes you do that for?” she asked
solemnly.

_ “?’Cause,” answered Kip briefly, with a flush rising
to his freckled cheeks. ‘I don’t care,” he whispered

_to himself. “The minister’s folks are good and care
for other folks, and it’s bout time somebody was takin’
care of them.”

Bud did not quite accept the lucid explanation
givenher. She seated herself on a log and pondered
the subject until she reached a conclusion that she
considered satisfactory; and after that, though she
said nothing about it, she watched quite as eagerly
and much more expectantly for her father’s return
than did Kip.

There certainly was something new and unusual in
the light wagon when at last it drove up to the door
again. Both children discovered that at once — Bud
from the window, Kip from the piazza—a great,
easy, luxurious arm-chair. Mr. Mitchel lifted it out
and carried it into the house.

“See here! What do you think of that?” he said
to his wife trumphantly. “I happened into a furni-
ture store where they were auctioning everything off
and I got this at such a bargain that I took it in a
hurry. Isn’t that as comfortable a chair as you ever
saw? Just try it.”

Mrs. Mitchel examined and admired; Nancy who
came to the kitchen door exclaimed and interjected ;
and the household generally bestowed such un-
qualified commendation that Mr. Mitchel’s gratifica-
tion increased.

“I think I know a good thing when I see it,” he
declared, “and this couldn’t be bought anywhere else
for that money. Nothing in the world the matter
with it either, not a flaw about it except ” — showing
where the back could be lowered to make it more of
a reclining chair-——” this spring works a little hard.
But a cabinet-maker could fix that in a few moments,
and we'll have it done right away. Kip!” as the boy
passed the door—“ Kip, could you take this down to

the parson’s this afternoon? I want it to go at once.”

Kip could scarcely believe his ears. “Yes sir/”
he said with his eyes fairly dancing. “ You mean to
send it to him, uncle Ralph? guess I can take
it!”

He never called his minister “the parson” —it
scarcely sounded respectful enough — but of course
he knew who was meant and he was far too happy for
any criticising thought. That handsome easy chair!
Wouldn’t the very sight of it rest poor tired Mrs.



« AND JILL CAME TUMBLING AFTER.”

Clay? Kip could see just how her pale face would
look leaned back against the cushions.

“Tt’s pretty heavy for you to carry so tar though,”
Mr. Mitchel was saying when Kip recalled his wan-
dering wits far enough to understand. ‘Jim could
take it in the wagon perhaps” —

“T might put it in the hand-cart and wheel it vver,”
interposed Kip with a sudden inspiration. He could
bear no delay, and he wanted to take it himself.

Mr. Mitchel commended that suggestion as ‘not
KIP’S MINISTER.

a bad notion on Kip’s part.”

“ And what shall I tell him, uncle Ralph ?”

“ Tell him — why, he’ll understand ; he can see for
himself, Tell himI sent it, and he’ll know what to
do with it, I suppose.”

Kip supposed so too. He waited for no farther
directions, but made a partial toilet very expedi-
tiously, and was soon safely out on the road with his
treasure. To say that he was pleased and proud isa
very faint description of his feelings. He trundled
that hand-cart by no out-of-the-way route, and he was
not long alone ; the village boys hailed him:

“Hello, Kip! What you got there?”

“Tr’s our folks’ present to the minister,” answered
Kip grandly, and one after another the admiring boys
fell into line until the chair formed the center of a
triumphal procession. The village soon knew of the
gift, as the village always did know of everything that
happened within its limits, and Kip had the satisfact-
ion of being stopped several times, and of hearing
that Mr. Mitchel had done “the handsome thing,”
and that the chair was “ out-and-out nice.”

So, in a beatific state, he reached the gate of the
little parsonage. There was no lack of assistance.
Every urchin was anxious to share at least the
reflected glory of helping to carry it, and it was
borne to the house very much asa party of ants bear
off a lump of sugar — by swarming all over it. The
minister came to the door, the body-guard fell back,
and Kip presented his prize. é

_ “ Hlere’s something that Uncle Ralph sent you, sir ;
che bought it in town to-day. He said tell you he
sent it, and he guessed you’d know what to do with
it,” he said with shining eyes.

The minister’s eyes shone too, and then grew dim.
This was so unexpected, and it meant so much to
him! It had sometimes seemed hard to that kindly,
tender heart that the one of all the village who could
have done most, had never manifested any interest in
his work for those poor people — had not lifted with
even a finger the burden of care and sacrifice, or
shown any disposition to aid or encourage. But
there must have been sympathy after all. This was
a generous gift in its luxuriousness — a thoughtful
one, for it was for the dear invalid. He opened a
door near him and said softly:

“ Rachel, look here!”

_ How he had wanted just such an easy, restful
cushioned niche for the worn slight form! The boys
could not understand what it was to him in itself and

in what it represented — “‘ Only his voice had a trem-
ble in it like when he prays,” Kip said to himself on
his homeward way.

However he hated “ fixed up company ” in general
he would not for anything miss the gathering at the
parsonage that evening, and wood and water, cows
and kindlings must be looked after early. So it
happened he did not speak with Mr. Mitchel again
until nightfall. Then that gentleman bethought him
of his commission.

“ Ah, Kip, carried the chair safely, did you? B

“Yes sir.”

“Well, what did he say to it?”

“T wish you’d seen him, uncle Ralph!” said Kip
radiantly. “ Not, as he said much either, only some-
thing ’bout he didn’t know how to thank you—”

“ How to thank me?” repeated Mr. Mitchel in
amazement. “Why should he? Heisn’t so short of
work as all that, is he?”

“Short of work, uncle Ralph!” It was Kip’s
turn to open wide eyes of astonishment. “I should
think not, with all his preachin’ and Sunday-
school and poor folks! I don’t s’pose he thought
he’d have time to sit in it much himself; but Mrs, -
Clay, she’s sick —” ;

“What have the Clays to do with it?” demanded
Mr. Mitchel with clouding brow and a dawning
suspicion of something wrong. “I told you te taka
it to Mr. Parsons —the cabinet-maker’s--to have
that spring fixed.”

Kip saw it all then, but he wished the floor would
quietly open and drop him into the cellar, or that he
could fly through the roof. He thrust his hands
deep into his pockets, and hig face flushed and
paled. :

“J — thought — you said the parson’s,” he stam-
mered. “I s’posed ’twas for the minister’s dona-
tion, and so—”

“You took it there?” Mr. Mitchel completed the
sentence. ‘“ Now how in the world —”’

But it was too much te be borne. Kip waited for
nothing more, but rushed from the house, and if in
the shadow of the friendly wood-pile he leaned his
head against the rough sticks and cried, there was no
one to see.

“They may fix it ve any way they please,” he said.
“T can't doit! Ican’t and I wont!”

A little later he stood by the old gate watching the
great yellow mon come up, and digging his red fists
into his eyes now and then to wipe away some stray
KIP’S MINISTER.

tears of shame, indignation and grief that still
gathered there. This was not a very nice world
anyhow, he decided with a queer aching spot at his
heart. Almost it seemed as if he had asked for bread
and received a stone —a sharp heavy stone at that.

Indoors Mr. Mitchel had expressed very distinctly
his opinion of the carelessness and obtuseness that
could have caused such a blunder, and the “ awkward-
ness of the whole thing,” and in no little vexation
‘was trying to find some means of remedy.

“J might write a note and explain, but then —I
declare it’s the most awkward disagreeable thing I
ever knew! Such a stupid blunder.”

“Papa,” interposed the slow, wondering voice of
Bud, ‘I didn’t know there could be any mistakes up
there.”

“Up where, child?”

“In heaven. Kip prayed you’d bring something
for his minister —’cause I heard him— behind the
wood-pile,” said Bud with slow emphasis. “I thought
that made the chair come. I’m most sure ’twasn’t
any mistake, papa.”

Mr. Mitchel pushed aside pen and paper, put on
his hat and walked out. Hereally did not know the
best way out of the difficulty. It was very vexatious,
and in his perplexity he journeyed towards the
parsonage. When he came in sight of the house
he paused. What did he intend to do? Go there
when others were making their offerings, and explain
that he had not wished to show any friendship or
appreciation, anc, wanted to take back what had
been proffered through mistake? Certainly not! He
turned, but at that moment some one joined him.

“Ah, Mr. Mitchel! just going in? That was a
generous gif* of yours—exactly the thing for poor
Airs, Clay.” '

Others tame with similar comment.

There was

no chance to say anything, and scarcely knowing why
or how, Mr. Mitchel found himself in the well-filled
room, saw the sweet, pale face, with its smile of
welcome for all, looking out from the cushions of
the new chair, and felt the quick warm grateful clasp
of the minister’s hand. Something in look and
clasp and murmured words brought a sudden throb
to Mr. Mitchel’s heart, a moisture to his eye.

Then, before he had time to recover from his
bewilderment, some one had called on him to “make
a few remarks,” and others echoed the request, and
he found himself pushed forward to the front and
heard his own voice saying, “ How much cause all
had to value Mr. Clay’s work in the village,” and
expressing the hope that he might “enjoy these
simple offerings as tokens of esteem and friendship.”
Aye, and he meant it too,for catching the spirit of
those around him, and swiftly comprehending more
of the good man’s life and work than he had ever

~done before, he only regretted that he had not sent

the offering of his own free will and pleasure.

He found an opportunity, however, to whisper to
Kip who had slipped in later with very sober face —
a face that brightened at sight of him.

“Tt’s all right. Don’t say a word to anybody
about it.”

He had a pleasant evening despite a feeling of
strangeness about it, and on his homeward way
muttered something to himself about ‘‘a blessed
blunder.” What he told at home Kip did not know,
but when the boy arrived, a little later, Bud, wide-
awake and listening for his step, raised her yellow
head from its pillow and called:

“Ke—ip! it all comed out right, didn’t it?”

Kip thought it had. He was sure of it afterward
when he saw the friendship that from that night
began between the Mitchels and “his minister.”


JIM’S TROUBLES.



BY GRANDMERE JULIE.



is KNOW he didn’t
doit,” said good Mrs.

Martin; “he says he

didn’t do it, and I be-

lieve him.”

““Then you don’t be-
lieve me?” asked Mrs.
Turner rather severely.
“T wish I had never
seen thatboy! I’msure
I have done my best by
him, and been a mother

to him. And now he's turned out bad, everybody
blames me for it. Father says, if he has done it,
it is my fault for tempting him; Nelly has nearly
cried her eyes out about it; and everybody seems to
think it is more wicked to loose a spoon than to steal
it—I declare they do.”

“ Well, he’s been a good, honest boy ever since he
came here—a real nice, obliging, pleasant spoken
little fellow; and it stands to reasona good boy
don’t turn bad allina jerk like that,’ said Mrs.
Martin, shaking her head.

“T don’t know about jerks,” answered Mrs,
Turner, “but I do know that, as soon asT had done
cleaning that spoon, I put it back in the case, and
as I was a-going to put it away, Jim comes in to get
a pail, and says he, ‘ain’t it a pretty little box!’ and
says [: ‘yes, but what’s in it is prettier.’ Then I
smelt my bread a-burning, and I put down the case
right here,” said Mrs. Turner striking the corner of
her kitchen table, “and I ran to see to my bread,
and when I came back Jim was gone, and my spoon
was gone too. And I don’t suppose it walked off
itself—do you?”

“Of course it didn’t,’ said Mrs. Martin; “but
some one else might have come in, or it may be
somewhere ” —

“Vd like to know where that somewhere is, then,”
said Mrs. Turner ; “I have looked high and low and
turned the house upside-down fora week, and I
haven’t seen any spoon yet. And nobody could
come in without my seeing them because the front



door was locked and so was the kitchen door, and
anybody who came in or went out had to go through
the back kitchen where I was. I saw Jim go out:
with his pail, but I didn’t suspect anything then—why
should I? And it isn’t the spoon I mind so much,
it’s the trouble, and the idea of that boy that had
been treated like one of the family——but I won’t
say anymore aboutit. Jl send him back to New
York, and” —

“No, don’t do that! I guess I’ll take him,” said
Mrs. Martin. ‘‘ He hasn’t any home to go to, and if
you send him back, there’s no telling what will be-
come of him. Where is he?”

“T guess he is sulking about the place some:
where,” said Mrs. ‘lurner. “He said he hadn't
done it, and now he won’t say another word. I’lb
call him if you really want him.”

Mrs. Martin said she really wanted him, and Mrs.
Turner, stepping out on the kitchen porch, called out,
“Jim, Jim!”

There was no answer, but pretty soon a boy
walked across the yard toward the house, and stopped
near the porch.

He was a boy about twelve years old, tall of his
age and rather thin, and with a round, honest face,
which looked very pleasant when he was happy, but
which was at that moment very much clouded.

“Tl speak to him by myself, if you don’t mind,”
said Mrs. Martin, shutting the door and seating her-
self on the porch step.

“ Come here, my boy,” said she kindly, while her
homely face looked almost beautiful with goodness.
“T don’t believe you are a bad boy; I think it’s alla
mistake, and it will come out all right some day. I
am going to take you home with me, if you will
come.”

Jim’s brown eyes brightened, but he answered, not
very gratefully, “Thank you, but I’d better go away
from here—they all believe I took it.”

“No, they don’t; I don’t for one. You had bet-
ter stay and behave like a good, honest lad, and Ik
be a true friend to you. Besides, we mustn’t run
away fron our troubles! you know they are sent ta
JIM'S TROUBLES,

make us zuod and strong, don’t you see, my boy?”

Having finished her little sermon, Mrs. Martin
got up aid gave Jima motherly hug anda kiss.
And poor Jim “broke down” as he would have
called it. But it was a breaking down that did him
a world of good, aud made a new boy of him.

“There, there,” said Mrs. Martin, “now go and
get your things, and we will go home.”

Jim went up-stairs quietly to the little attic room
that had been his own for two years.
small bundle of his old clothes. He wouldn’t take
the new ones. ‘They was my friends when they
got them for me,” he said to himself, “ but now they
ain’t my friends any more, and them clothes don’t
belong to me now.”

Jim’s grammar was not perfect, but he meant well,
and in his heart he was very sorry to leave the
friends who had been so kind to him during two
happy years.

As he turned to go down-stairs, he heard a noise
in the hall, not Yar from Him, and he saw Nellie
Turner who seemed to be waiting for him. “Oh!
Jim,” she said, and could not say more, because she
began to cry.

Poor little Nelly had been breaking her heart about
Jim’s trouble. She wus a nice little girl ten years
old, with bright yellow curls, pink cheeks, and blue
eyes; but now the pink of her cheeks had run into
her eyes, and she did not look as pretty as usual.
But Jim thought she was beautiful, and her red
eyes were a great comfort to him.

At last he spoke, ‘‘ Good-by, Nelly ; Iam going
away.”

“T know it,” said Nelly, “but, Jim, I don't be-
lieve you are bad, and you will be good, won’t you?”

“Yes, I will,” said Jim. Then he left Nelly cry-
ing on the stairs, and went quickly to the porch
where Mrs, Martin was waiting for him.

“Well, good-by, Jim,” said Mrs. Turner. “I hope
yowll be a good boy. Remember I have been kind
to you.”

“Yes’m, thank you,” said Jim, rather coldly. He
wanted to see “Father,” but Mr. Turner had taken
himself out of the way.

While Mrs. Martin was walking home with her
little friend, and talking to him to cheer him up, they
heard something running after them, and Jim said,

“Here is Spot, what shall I do? I am afraid I can’t
make him go back.”

He made a _

“ Well, we'll take him home, too,” said Mrs. Mar-
tin. “TI like dogs, they are such faithful friends ;
they don’t care if people are pretty or ugly, rich or
poor, good or bad, they just love them, and stick to
them. Yes, we will take Spot, and make him
happy.”

This remark made two people very happy. Jim
brightened up, and laughed; and Spot, who had
kept his tail between his legs in a most respectiful
and entreating manner, now began to wag it joyfully,
and showed his love by nearly knocking down Mrs.
Martin, to let her know that he understood what she
had said, and approved of it.

Spot had been given to Jim by one of his school-
mates, and Jim was very proud of his only piece of
personal property. Spot was a white dog with a
great many black spots all over him, and he was not
exactly a beauty, but he was the best, lovingest,
naughtiest, and most ridiculous young dog that ever
adorned this world. He was always stealing bones,
and old boots and shoes, and burying them in secret
places as if they had been treasures, and no one had
the heart to scold him much, because he looked so
repentant and as if he would never, no never, do it
again as long as he lived.

Since the silver spoon had disappeared, Spot had
been very unhappy; people seemed to give him all
the benefit of their disturbed tempers. Mrs. Tur-
ner spoke crossly to him, and would not let him
stay in the kitchen; Mr. Turner had slyly kicked
him several times; Nelly cried over him when he
wanted to play, and Jim only patted his head, and
said, “‘ poor Spot, poor Spot!” by which he meant,
“poor Jim, poor Jim!” But now Spot felt that a
good time was coming, and he rejoiced beforehand,
like a sensible dog.

And, in truth, a pretty good time did come. Jim
was not entirely happy, because he could not prove
his innocence, but he found that no one had been
told of his supposed guilt.

Mrs. Turner had not said a word about her missing
spoon to any one. “TI will give him another chance
to begin right,” she had said to her husband, And
Mr. Turner had replied, “1 don’t believe he took it
any more than I did; so what’s the good of making a
fuss about nothing?”

No fuss had been made; but Mrs. Turner had
said to her little daughter, when she started for
school the morning after Jim’s departure, “Nelly,
JIM’S TROUBLES.

you must be careful not to say a single word to any-
body about Jim. But I don’t want you to ask him
to come here, and it’s just as well for you not to
play with him much.”

“Tt is too bad,” said Nelly. But she was an
obedient little girl, and the first time Jim came to



OPINIONS DIFFER RESPECTING JIM.

school, when she saw that he hardly dared to look at
her she thought that it would be better to tell him
the truth.

So at recess she called him, and asked him to go
with her on the road, where no one would hear them ;
then she said:

“Jim, I want to tell you something. Mamma
told me I must not ask you to come to the farm any
more, and that I must not play with you much, and
so I won’t do it. But I like you just the same, and
I will give you an apple every day to say we are
friends.”

Nelly was as good as her word. Every morning,
at recess, she gave Jim a small red and yellow “lady-
apple,” which she had rubbed hard to make it shine,
and which was one of the two apples her father gave
her when she went to school ; and the “lady-apples ”
were all kept for her, because she said they were so
good and so pretty — “just like my little girl,” Mr.
Turner said.

And what do you suppose Jim did with his
apples?

Eat them. No, not he!

Every time Nelly gave him an apple, he put it in
his pocket and took it home. Then in the evening
before going to bed, he made a hole in it — the ap-

ple, not in the bed —and strung it on a piece of
twine which hung from a nail in the window-sash in
his little room.

The poor apples got brown, and wrinkled, and dry,
but they were very precious to Jim, but every one of
them said to him, as plain as an apple can speak:
“ T like you just the same.”

And so the winter passed away quietly. Mrs.
Martin became very fond of Jim; she said he was
so smart and so handy about the house she didn’t
know what she would do without him, and she didn’t
think boys were any trouble at all.

But, alas, how little we know what may happen!

Spring had come, and house-cleaning had come
with it. Mrs. Martin had a nice “ best-room”
which she never used except for half an hour on
Sunday afternoons during the summer, and which
was always as clean as clean can be. But in Spring,
it had to be made cleaner, if possible; summer
could not come till that was done.

So the carpet was taken up, shaken, and put down
again, and as Jim had helped in the shaking, Mrs.
Martin kindly invited him to come in, and admire
the room.

. “What a pretty room it is!” said Jim; “ why don’t
you live in it?”

“ Because it would wear out the carpet, and it is
more comfortable in the sitting-room ;” answered
Mrs. Martin. Then she showed him a few books,
boxes, and other works of art which were spread out
on the big round table, and Jim admired everything.

Among Mrs. Martin’s treasures, there was a brown
morocco ‘“ Keepsake,” containing a pair of scissors,
a silver thimble, and a needle-case. It had belonged
to Mrs. Martin’s little daughter who had died sev-
eral years before, and when Mrs. Martin went into
the best-room on Sunday afternoons she always
opened the “ Keepsake,” and thought of the little
hands that had played with it, long ago.
as a reward of merit, she showed it to Jim.

“Tt is the prettiest thing I ever saw!” said Jim;
“when I am rich I will give Nellie Turner one just
like it.”

“She will have to wait some time, I guess,” said
Mrs. Martin, laughing.

Then they looked at the pictures of George Wash-
ington shaking hands with nobody, and of his wife,
looking very sweet and handsome.

“You are so great at stringing up things, Jimmy,”

And now
JIM’S TROUBLES,

said Mrs. Martin with a funny look, “I want you to
hang up these pictures for me, will you?”

“TI will,” said Jim, blushing a little as he thought
of his string of apples; “I will do it next Satur-
day.”

Jim kept his promise. The pictures were hung in
the best light and made the room look so much pret-
tier, that even Spot, who had been a silent observer,
could keep still no longer, and barked his approba-
tion. Then the blinds and windows were closed, the
door locked, and the best-room was left to quiet and
darkness.

The next day being Sunday, Mrs. Martin paid
her usual afternoon visit to the best-room. She ad-
mired the pictures a little while, then

him and he has been so good, too! But I must speak
to him about it, and if he has done wrong I must try
to be patient with him.”

When Jim came home from school in the after-
noon, Mrs. Martin called him into the sitting-room.
“Come here, Jim,” she said ; “I want to speak to
you.”

She had said it very kindly, but there was some-
thing in her voice that made Jim feel a little
queer.

He came in and stood before her, and she said to
him: “Jim do you know what has become of that
pretty Keepsake I showed you the other day? I can’t
find it anywhere, and I have looked and looked,”

she went to the round table to take
up the Keepsake ; but the Keepsake

eT
|

‘was not there.

She looked all over the table and
under it, behind every chair and in
‘every corner, but she did not find
it.. “I wonder where it can be?
Perhaps I took it to the sitting-room
without thinking,” said Mrs. Martin
to herself.

She went back to the sitting-room
and looked everywhere, but found no
Keepsake. Then she sat down in
her rocking-chair and tried to think
about something else, but could only
say to herself: “I wonder where it
as!”

Jim came into the room with a
mew Sunday-school book, which he
began to read. Mrs. Martin looked

‘at him while he read, but for some
teason she did not say anything to him about the
Keepsake.

The next morning she put off her washing, and as
Soon as Jim had gone to school she began to search
the whole house ; but no Keepsake did she find.

“It can’t be, it can’t be,” she said with tears in
her eyes; “but I must look in his room — perhaps
he took it up to look at—he said it was so pretty.”

Mrs. Martin went up to Jim’s room, but found
nothing there except his clothes, the apples, and a
few little treasures such as boys have.

Then she fell on her knees by Jim’s bed, and cried
‘with all her heart. “ No, I won’t believe it till I
have to,” she said at last. “Poor boy ; it’s hard on



























7 i ae '



“] LIKE ¥

OU JUST THE SAME! I LIKE YOU JUST THE SAME!”

“No,” said Jim boldly, “I havn’t seen it since. I
Then he stopped, and his face

hope it isn’t lost.”
There was something in Mrs.

blushed crimson.
Martin’s eyes, as well as in her voice, that reminded
him of his trouble about the silver-spoon.

“Oh ! you don’t think ” —he cried out.

But he could say no more — Mrs. Martin had him
in her arms the next moment.

“No, I don’t think,” she said, “I don’t, my boy!
not for the world I wouldn’t! only I can’t find it,
and — and — ”

“Let me look for it,” said Jim.

They looked again together, but with no success.
That night there were two heavy hearts in the quiet
JIM’S TROUBLES,

little house, and the next morning there were two
pair of red eyes at the breakfast table.

“You must not grieve so, Jim,” said Mrs. Martin,
“T hope it will all come out right; we must try to
bear it well, and go to work as if nothing had hap-
pened.”

But she could not follow her own advice, and the
washing remained undone.

Jim did not go to school, and spent his time look-
ing everywhere in the orchard and in the garden,
while Spot followed him, wondering what was the
matter, ;

No one had any appetite for dinner, and after try-
ing in vain to eat a potato, Jim went up to his
room,

Mrs. Martin tried to sit still, and sew, but she
could not bear it long; and when she heard the
children coming from school, she went to the gate to
look at them ; they were so happy that it seemed to
do her good.

“Ts Jimmy sick?” asked little Nelly, stopping on
her way.

“No,” said Mrs. Martin ;
and couldn’t go to school.”

Nelly wanted to send him a nice russet apple she
had kept for him, but she did not quite dare to do it
because Mrs. Martin looked so sober.

Jim heard her voice from his room, but he did not
dare to show himself. “She won’t like me just the
same when she hears of this,” he thought; and he
felt as if he had not a friend in the world. “I would
give my head to find that thing,” he said ; “she don’t
believe I took it, but she believes it too; I shall
have to go away from here, and I don’t care what
becomes of me, anyway.”

Mrs. Martin stood at the gate a little while watch-
ing the children, then she went to the garden to look
at her hot-beds—two large pine boxes in which
lettuce, radishes, and tomatoes were doing their
best to grow fast and green.

When she came near the beds, she saw Spot
stretched on the ground, enjoying an old bone, as
she thought.

“This won’t do, Spot,” she said; “I don’t want
you to bring your bones here. Go away!”

Spot did not seem to mind her at all, so she came
a little nearer to make a personal impression upon
him with the toe of her shoe.

“but he’s been busy,

Spot growled, and turned away his head a little,
and as he did so, a little silver thimble fell out of the
old bone and rolled upon the ground.

““My Keepsake!” exclaimed Mrs. Martin. And,
as she said afterward, she was so taken by. surprise:
you could have knocked her down with a feather.

She waited half a minute to get her breath when:
she picked up the thimble and ran toward the house,
calling with all her might: “Jim, Jim, here it ist
here, come!”

Jim never remembered how he got down stairs,
but there he was staring at the thimble, and so happy-
that he couldn’t even begin to say a word.

Mrs. Martin was just explaining to him: “you:
see it was Spot, and the bone, and the hot-bed
fell-out of it, and I knew it was not you’— whem
they heard a big voice calling from the road: “ Jim,,
Jim, come out here quick !”’

They looked round, and saw farmer Turner run—
ning as fast as such a fat man could run,.and wav-
ing something shiny over his head.

“Here it is!” he said, “here is that blessed
spoon! I was a-plowing in a corner of the orchard,.

. when I turned up a soft stone made of red morocco,.

with a silver spoon in it. Didn’t I tell you so? L
never believed it. Hallo! what’s the matter?”

The matter was a most wonderful scramble. Mrs.
Turner and little Nelly had run across lots, and here
they were, talking, and laughing, and crying. Every-
body hugged everybody else, and every body was so
glad she was so sorry, or so sorry she was so glad —
farmer Turner vowed he couldn’t tell which it was.
most.

At last they made out that they were all very glad,,
and Mrs. Martin invited them all to stay. to tea.
They accepted the invitation, and such a tea-party
never took place anywhere — not even in Boston —
for the company had joy as well as hot biscuits, and
happiness as well as cake.

Spot was scolded and forgiven, and wagged his taib
so hard that it is a wonder it didn’t come off.

As for Jim, he got kisses enough that evening to
last him for a lifetime.

This is the true end to a true story,. but not:
the last end by any means.

For Jim is now a “boy” twenty-one years old,
and Nelly “likes him just the same,” only a great
deal more,
YOY

Vp
v7

‘My
SA
GHEE

LZ

~

SS ESS

SS

=

‘WY



M Papal”

“ Tury LL THINK I’


ON THE WAY TO THE BLOOMING.

THE

CHRISTMAS THORN.



BY LOUISE STOCKTON,



N the December of 1752, Roger Lippett was a boy
of ten years, and “Dan,” his dog, was six
months old and had to be taught to swim. To this
pleasing duty Roger addressed himself whenever he
had a chance, and the only draw-back was that his
mother would allow no wet dog upon her sanded
floor, and as Roger had to bé wherever Dan was, he
had often a tedious time in waiting for such a very
curly dog to get dry.

But this Sunday afternoon the two had taken a
long walk after the swim, and when they came back
Dan was dry and uncommonly clean and white.

In the little parlor Roger found the usual Sunday
company. In an arm-chair on one side of the fire-
place sat Simon Mitchels, the school-master; oppo-
site to him, on a three-legged stool, was Caleb Dawe,
the parish clerk, and on the settle, in front of the
fire, was Roger’s cousin, old Forbes the miller, and
short Daniel Green, the sexton. His mother sat in
her high-backed chair by the window, and Phcebe
Rogers’ youncer sister was near her playing gleefully
with a kitten.

“Christmas!” said Caleb ; “there ’ll be no Christ-
mas! What between the New Way and the Old
Way, we'll all go astray. It is a popish innovation
at the best, and if King George knew his duty, he’d
put his foot on it.”

“Nonsense!” said Simon, testily ; “when a thing
is wrong, ’tis wrong, and if you mean to make it
right, you must not mind a little temporary trouble.
King George knows that just as well as any one, and
so do you! If you wanted a new roof on your house
you would first have to take the old one off.”

“Not Caleb,” said old Forbes. “Caleb ’d patch
the old one until it was new-made over.”

“Yes,” replied Simon, “that is just what we have
been doing with the year—patching and patching.
Now here comes King George, and says, ‘ Look here,
this is 1752, and if we are ever going to have a decent
regular year with the proper number of days in it,
tis time we were about it. But you people who
patch roofs object because it alters the dates for one
vear a day or two. Thanks be to the King, however

be has the power.”
THE CHRISTMAS THORN.

“ Alters the dates a day or two!” repeated Caleb.
“You yourself said the New Way would take eleven
days out of the year.”

“Only this year,” Simon replied ; “ afterward it will
be all right. It is but to bring the first of January in
the right place.”

“Tt was right enough,” persisted Caleb. “And I

say no one, king or no king, has any right to take

i

eleven days away from the English people.”

Then Mistress Margery Lippett spoke:

“For my part,” she said, “I think the New Way
unchristian. Mistress Duncan, you know, has a fine
crowing little boy, and when the squire asked how
old he was, she told him —’twas but a day so ago —
three months and two weeks; and he laughed, and
told her she would have to take the two weeks off.
Now ¢Aat I call unchristian, and not dealing justly
with the child.”

At this the school-master laughed, and taking his
pipe out of his mouth, and pushing his velvet skull-
cap a little farther back, he replied:

“They were both right, Mistress Margery. Both
of them. The mother counts by weeks — very good
—the squire by the proper calendar. One makes the
child three months and two weeks, and she is right ;
the other deducts eleven days to fit the calendar, and
he, too, is right.”

4

1! Out with it,” cried Caleb ; “out with such a cal-

‘ ~
endar! Why, the whole realm will be in confusion.

None of us will ever know how old we are, or when

the church-days are due ; but I doubt if, in spite of

it all, the Pope’s new calendar doesn’t keep the

squire’s rent-day straight.
that.”

“T suppose,” said Simon, “you all think the year
was created when the world was?”

“ Of course it was,” said Mistress Margery ; “ didn’t
He make the day and the night, and do you suppose
He would have passed the year over?”

“You are about right,” said Simon; “but the
trouble is we are just finding out what His year is?
See here, Roger,” and he turned his head to the
boy, “do you know how many different kinds of
years we can reckon?”

“Not I, master,” said Roger.

“Well, I'll tell you. Suppose you wanted a meas-
ure of time answering to a year, you might reckon
from the time the apples blow to when they blow
again, but if a frost or a blight seize them, you ’d be
out with your count, wouldn’t you?”

They ’ll look out for

“Truly,” said Mistress Margery, who delighted to
see how well Roger understood his learned master.

“Well, then,” resumed the teacher, “you would
soon find that if you wanted a regular, unchangeable
guide, one unaffected by seasons, by droughts, heats,
or hostile winds, you would look to the skies. You
would, perhaps, if you were wise enough, and had ob-
served — you would single out some special star ;
you would take close notice of its position, note its
changes, then you would say, ‘When that comes
back to the very spot where it was when I began to
watch it, that time I shall count as my year.’ Do
you follow me?”

“That I do,” said Roger.

“That, then, is one way in which a year was once
calculated, and the star chosen gave three hundred
and sixty-five days for a year.”

“ Now that is a calendar, true and unchangeable,
and correct beyond what a Pope can make,” said
Caleb.

“That, Roger,” said Simon, taking no notice of
Caleb, “is called a Sidereal year. Now, come you
here, Phoebe, and tell me what is a Lunar year?”

“A year of moons,” said Phoebe, her bright eyes
dancing.

“Vou have the making of a scholar in you,” said

Simon ; “’tis a pity you are a girl, A Lunar year és
a year of twelve moons. This Lunar year has but
three hundred and fifty-four days, still it served the
purposes of the Chaldeans, the Persians, and Jews.
’ “Then there was the Solar year, calculated by the
sun ; and it and the Lunar year agreed so badly that
every three years another lunar month had to be
counted in to keep the one from running away from
the other. Now, I suppose you all think,” looking
at the group around the fireside, “that all these years
began the first of January and ended the thirty-first
of December ?”’

“Tt is but just that they should,” said old Forbes,
Caleb disdaining. to speak.

“But chey didn’t,” said Simon. “The Jews began
their year in March ; in Greece it began in June, and
certain Eastern Christians began theirs in August.”

“That isn’t England,” said Caleb, in a tone of
contempt.

“Truly not,” said Simon; “ but the English year
used to begin the twenty-fifth of December, until the
coronation of William the Conqueror — when was

that, Pheebe?”’ ;
“In 1066,” said Phcebe, smothing her teacher’s
THE CHRISTMAS THORN.

yuffles with the air of a petted and privileged child.

“It was January the first, 1066,’ resumed Simon ;
“and it was judged so important an event that it was
ordered that ever after the year should begin on that
day. But I can tell you worse than that of England.
‘There are places in England to-day, where they
reckon their year from the twenty-fifth of March!

“ But long before William’s time,” he continued,
‘“ the Romans had ideas, and they thought it wise to
‘straighten up the year for their own use. So Julius
Ceesar — when did he begin to reign, Phebe?”

“T don’t know,” said she.

““Tn 63, B.C.” said Roger, eagerly.

“*No, that was Cesar Augustus, and we are coming
to him. Julius Cesar lived before that, and he ar-
ranged the years so that all the even numbers among
the months, except February, had thirty days, and all
the odd ones thirty-one. Do you understand that?”

“Not I,” said Phoebe, frankly.

“January is the first month; it is not an even
number?”

“No,” said Phoebe.

“ March is the third month, and so is not an even
sumber ?”

“No,” said Phoebe again.

“ They each then, being odd, had thirty-one days,
while May and July, and the other even months, ex-
cept February, had thirty days. That was all very
easy, and the length of the year seemed settled ; but
when Caesar Augustus came on the throne he was
not satisfied. ‘What,’ said he, ‘shall Julius Cesar
in his month of July have thirty-one days, and I, in
my month of August, have but thirty!’ And so he
at once made August longer.”

“He was very foolish,” said Phcebe. “I was
born in February, wasn’t I, mother? and J don’t care
because Roger was born in December, when there
are more days.”

“But you are not a Cesar,” replied her teacher.
““At any rate this Cesar made the year all wrong
again ; and in 1582 Gregory, who was Pope, set to work
to help matters. He had to drop some days, I believe,
in the first year just as we are going to now. The
French and Italian people, and some others, were
wise enough to see this improvement at once, and
they adopted Pope Gregory’s year ; but we, for nearly
two hundred years more, have been getting along
with the old way, and our new year comes ahead of
almost everybody else’s, and those who travel get
their dates badly mixed.”

”?

“ Surely,” said Roger, “it woud be best to have
the same year the world over.”

“So King George thinks,” said Simon ; “ but Caleb
here says not, and quarrels because eleven. days have
to be dropped out of this one year, so that for all
aftertime the years, months, and days, will go on in
an even, regular and seemly manner.”

“ And I rightly object,” replied Caleb; “ and when
the proper Christmas-day comes I shall keep it, and
no king, no pope, and no Julius Cesar, zodody, shall
ever make me change the blessed day for any other
falsely called by its name.” And Caleb put his
hands to his three-legged stool, and lifting it and
himself at the same moment, brought it down with a
bang.

“Well, we can’t go wrong about Christmas-day,”
said Mistress Margery, “if we but follow the bloom-
ing of the Glastonbury Thorn.”

“That we cannot,” answered old Forbes, “For
hundreds and hundreds of years, long before popes
or calendars were thought of, that Thorn has bloomed
every Christmas Eve, and not only the one at Glas-
tonbury, but every sacred slip cut from it and planted
has remembered the birthday of The Child and never
Jailed to blossom!”

“That is all superstition,” said [Simon ; “the plant
naturally blossoms twice a year — that is all.”

“ Indeed that is not all,” cried Mistress Margery.
“JT was born and raised at Quainton, but seven miles
from here, and there, as you all know, is a fine tree
grown from a Glastonbury slip, and many’s the time
when, with the whole village, have I gone out to see
the blooming.”

‘“‘ And when did it blcom, mother?” asked Pheebe.

“ Always on Christmas Eve. The blossoms were
snow white, and by Christmas night they were gone.”

‘“* But, mother,” said Roger, “why is the Glaston-
bury tree the best, if this at Quainton blooms as -
well?”

“ Because it was the first one planted, of course,”
said Mistress Margery ; “I know no other reason.”

Phoebe saw the little smile upon Simon’s face, and
taking his coat lappets in both hands, she bent her
pretty little head in front of his, and said:

“Tell us, master.”

“You think,” he answered, “that I must know all
the old wives’ stories? Well, I will tell you this one.
‘Joseph of Arimathea, you know, gave his sepulchre
to receive the body of the Lord. Into it the blessed
angels went, and out from it, upon the third day,
THE CHRISTMAS THORN.



came the Risen Saviour. From that hour, until the
one in which he saw the Lord return unto the skies,
Joseph followed Him, and then all Palestine became
to him empty and weary. There were people who
doubted the resurrection; people who said that
Joseph himself was one who aided in a deception;
and so, tired of it all, he took his staff in hand and
wandered until he came to England, and to Glaston-
‘bury. On Christmas-day he climbed the hill where
‘the old, old church now stands, and here, in sign that
his wanderings were over, he planted his staff. At
‘once it rooted, it shot forth leaves, it blossomed, and
the scent of the milk-white flowers filled the air.
From that time to the days when Charles and Crom-
well fought, it has blossomed on Christmas Eve ;
but then it was cut down by some impious hand, yet
still all the slips, the twigs, which had been cut off
by pilgrims, have kept the sacred birthday; and as
‘your mother says, the one in Quainton can as well as
the other decide between the Old calendar and the
New.”

‘“‘T am glad to hear thee say so,” exclaimed Mis-
tress Margery, with brightening eyes, “and if you
‘choose to journey with us when next we go to Quain-
ton, you are heartily welcome to our company, and
I'll bespeak thee a honest welcome from my sister
who, like my Phcebe here, has a strong leaning
toward learning.”

“Nay,” said the school-master, looking a little
ashamed of himself ; “I but told the story to amuse
the child. The plant is merely a sort of hawthorn
from Aleppo, and regularly blooms twice in the year,
if the weather be but mild.”

But although Mistress Margery was much disap-
pointed that he had no desire to go to Quainton, she
found both Roger and Phcebe bent upon witnessing
the Christmas blooming,

“TI don’t know,” said she, lightly, ‘but that be-
tween the Old Way, and the New, the Thorn will be
confused, and not know when it should bloom.”

“It will not bloom on your new Christmas, take
my word for that,” said Forbes ; “and if the children
will wait until the true day comes, I myself will take
them along, for I have a mind to see it myself.”

“But, cousin Forbes,” said Phaebe, “ it may bloom
on the new day.”

The little people had their way. On the morning
of the twenty-fourth of December, by the New Style,
but the thirteenth by Caleb’s count, Roger and
Phoebe started off, mounted on their mother’s own

steady white horse, Phoebe behind her brother, with
the bag containing their holiday clothes, while to
Roger was given their lunch, and a bottle of black-
berry wine for their aunt, with whom they were to
lodge in Quainton.

The morning was cold and bleak, but the children
rode merrily on. It was the first time they had been
trusted alone on such an expedition, and Phebe at
once proposed that they should play that Roger was
a wandering knight, and she one of the fair, distressed
damsels who were always met by knights when on
their travels.

“T would,” said Roger, “if you could find another
knight to whem I could give battle, but it is rather
tame to be pacing along here with you behind me,
and no danger ahead.”

“I wish then,” said Phoebe, “that mother had not
wanted cousin Forbes’ horse, for, perhaps, he would
have lent it to us, and then, with such a horse, we
could have been a knight and a lady out hawking,
and I would have given you a race.”

“That would have been a rarely good plan,” said
Roger, looking up the level road, “and I do not like
to lose it. Ho, lady,” he cried, looking behind him,
“thy father is in pursuit!” And clapping both feet
to the sides of the horse, he put him to his speed.

“Oh, Roger! oh, sir Knight!’ exclaimed Pheebe,
“my hood — if I could but tie it!”

“T cannot wait for hoods,” said the knight, in a
stern voice ; “when we reach my castle thou shalt
have twenty-two, and a crown beside.”

The lady would not have doubted this for the
world, but she nevertheless loosened one hand,
clinging desperately to her protector with the other,
and pulled off the hood, held it, and clutched her
knight who, with cries of “on Selim, on!” urged
poor old Dobbin to his best.

There was, indeed, a clatter of horses’ hoofs be-
hind, and with it a loud cry, Phoebe turned her

_ head.

“Oh, sir Knight!” she cried with very short
breath ; “my father zs near at hand! Hasten, oh,
hasten !”

And sure enough, some one was! He was shon
and stout, and looked much more like a butcher’s
boy than a gentle lady’s father ; and he was certainly
in pursuit, and he called again and again, but the
only effect was to make the flying knight more
vigorously kick the sides of his horse, and more
vehemently push on. But as fortune would have it
THE CHRISTMAS THORN.

the father’s horse was the swiftest, and in spite of
the knight’s best efforts he was down along-side.
‘What do you mean?” he exclaimed, “ by racing
off in this way! If I didn’t know that was Mistress
Margery Lippett’s horse I would have let you go on,

















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seeing that you haven’t

sense enough to know

he has lost a shae.”
At this Roger quick-

ly stopped his steed. CD.
“Which one?” he " ™
} ON THE ROAD ONCE MORE.
exclaimed — “Here

Phoebe, I must get down — the hind foot shoe is gone.”

“Oh, Roger,” cried Phoebe, “what would mother
say! She is so careful of Dobbin, and she charged
us to take heed of him; and Roger, must we go
home, do you think ?”

“Of course not,” replied Roger, ‘and see here
Dick,” for he now recognized his pursuer, ‘cannot
you tell me where to find a blacksmith ?”

“There is one at Torrey,’’? said Dick, “a mile
down that road. It is the nearest place, but it will
take you out of your way, if you are going to the
Blooming as am I, who must be off, or my master
will take my ears in pay for my tarrying.”

It was easy enough to find the blacksmith’s shop,
but the blacksmith was not there, although he would
soon be back, his wife said. Roger tied his horse,
and then he and Phoebe wandered about until he
declared it was lunch time; so they came back, and
were about to eat their lunch by the stile, when the
smith’s wife saw them, and calling them into her
kitchen, spread a table for them, and added a cold
pie and some milk to their repast.

But still the man did not come, and Roger waited
in great impatience. He was almost ready to start
off again for Quainton, but Phoebe was so sure that
the penalty of injuring Dobbin would be the never
trusting of them alone again, that he was afraid to
risk it. Then there came a man with two horses to
be shod, and he waited and scolded and stamped his
feet, and then the blacksmith came, but he at once
attended to the man, and so Dobbin had to wait.
But at last Dobbin was shod, and Roger mounted,
and then the blacksmith lifted Phoebe up.

“Where are you going?” said the smith.

“To Quainton,” replied Roger; “we are going to
see the Blooming.”

“Why, so are we,” said the man, “It is late for
you children to be on the road. If I had known all
this I would have shod your horse first. You had
better wait for us.”

“Oh, no,” replied Phoebe, “‘ we have first to go to
our aunt’s. It would frighten her greatly to have us
come so late.”

Roger looked down the road. It was certainly
late in the afternoon, but the road was direct, and so
he said good-by, and off old Dobbin trotted..

It now seemed as if the mile out of the way had
stretched itself to two, and it was fast growing dark
when they reached a mile-stone three miles from
Quainton. Little Phoebe was certain they should be
lost riding on in the dark; but not so Roger.

“There is no fear of that,” said he stoutly, “we
will meet others going.”

And Roger was right. The nearer they got to
Quainton the greater became the throng of people.
THE CHRISTMAS THORN.

and they were one and all going to the Blooming.

They came from the lanes, from over the fields,
out of every hamlet, from every road. They were in
wagons; they were on foot and ow horse-back ; two
old ladies were in a sedan-chair, and at last they
overtook an old man carried like “a lady to London,”
by two great sons. As it grew dark and darker, and
no stars came out to brighten the sky, wandering
lights began to shine forth and torches, candles,
lanterns, gleamed out on the roadside and flickered
in the bushes and among the trees. There was in
every group much talking and discussion; and it was
easy to be seen that most of the people were of
Caleb’s opinion, and doubted the new way of arrang-
ing the year; but it was equally clear that they
meant the slip from the Glastonbury thorn to decide
the matter for them.

Roger kept close behind a travelling-carriage which
was attended by two horsemen carrying torches, and
greatly to his joy it went into Quainton and passed
directly by his aunt’s home.

“There is no use in stopping,” cried Phcebe, as
the house came in sight, “it is all shut up and dark,
and aunt Katherine has surely gone with the others.”

This was so likely to be the case that Roger urged
on his horse, and again overtook the carriage. When
they reached the field in which the Thorn-tree stood
it was already filled with flickering, moving lights,
and was all astir with people and voices.

Roger jumped down, lifted Phaebe, and then tying
Dobbin to an oak sapling which still rustled with
dried and brown leaves, he turned to his sister and,
hand in hand, they hastened to where the Thorn was
growing, and around which stood a large group.

The tree was bare, leafless, and looked as if dead.

“If that blooms to-night,” said a woman, “ ’twill
be a miracle.”

“It is always a miracle,” said a grave and sober-
looking man by her side.

Pheebe held closely to her brother’s hand ; but the
scene was too wonderful to promise much talking on
her part. The darkness, the dim and shadowy trees
and bushes, the tramping of unseen horses, the con-
fusion of voices, the laughing and complaining of
children, the moving lights, the thronging people,
and in the centre of it all a ring of light and a dense
group around the tree, made a wonderful picture.

Nearer and_ nearer the people pressed, the parish
beadle in advance, with his watch in his hand, a man
by his side swinging his lantern so that the light

would fall directly upon it. Many eyes were bent on it,

It grew late, and the crowd became silent, gather-
ing closer around the tree.

“Twenty minutes of twelve—a quarter of twelve
— five minutes of twelve!” proclaimed the beadle.

The tree was still bare, and gave no signs of bloom.

“ Twelve o'clock 1”

And off in the distance pealed the bells, ushering
in King George’s Christmas.

The torches flared upon the tree; the people in
the rear of the crowd stood on tiptoe and craned
their necks to see the milk-white bloom.

But the tree was silent and bare!

King George could not be right.

The next day aunt Katherine came out of the
room where she was -putting her bed linen away in

. the lavender-scented press.

“The church-bells have done ringing,” she said.
“ Run, children, and see if any one has gone.”

Off flew Phoebe with Roger after her, and when
she reached the church-yard, the only perso