Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Title Page
 Sylvie and Bruno
 Old Stine and the brownie
 A faithful dog
 Jennie's pet
 The old album
 The death of Amurath - The...
 Just in the nick of time
 Santa Claus in New Amsterdam
 About bears
 A child rescued
 Ice-sport in Pomerania - Willful...
 The Columbia cadet's drill
 Salvage of a Christmas wreck
 A little dog's day - Queer friends...
 The refugee and the goat
 Bonny's fortunes
 St. Nicholas in France
 The nutmeg - Running after the...
 The entangled magpie
 A visit to Toy Town
 Besieged in the snow
 The fairy of fashion
 Back Cover

Group Title: Vacation series
Title: Happy hours
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00085419/00001
 Material Information
Title: Happy hours lively stories and bright pictures
Series Title: Vacation series
Physical Description: 1 v. (unpaged) : ill. (some col.) ; 27 cm.
Language: English
Creator: DeWolfe, Fiske & Co. (Boston, Mass.) ( Publisher )
Publisher: De Wolfe, Fiske and Company
Place of Publication: Boston
Publication Date: [1896?]
Subject: Animals -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1896   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1896   ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1896
Genre: Children's stories
Children's poetry
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
General Note: Date of publication from inscription.
General Note: Frontispiece printed in colors.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00085419
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002223765
notis - ALG4017
oclc - 234189845

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Page 1
        Page 2
    Front Matter
        Page 3
        Page 4
    Title Page
        Page 5
        Page 6
    Sylvie and Bruno
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
    Old Stine and the brownie
        Page 23
        Page 24
    A faithful dog
        Page 25
    Jennie's pet
        Page 26
    The old album
        Page 27
    The death of Amurath - The banyan-tree
        Page 28
        Page 29
    Just in the nick of time
        Page 30
        Page 31
    Santa Claus in New Amsterdam
        Page 32
        Page 33
    About bears
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
    A child rescued
        Page 37
    Ice-sport in Pomerania - Willful Annie
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
    The Columbia cadet's drill
        Page 45
    Salvage of a Christmas wreck
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
    A little dog's day - Queer friends - Colie's macaw
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
    The refugee and the goat
        Page 59
        Page 60
    Bonny's fortunes
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
    St. Nicholas in France
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
    The nutmeg - Running after the rainbow
        Page 126
    The entangled magpie
        Page 127
    A visit to Toy Town
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
    Besieged in the snow
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
    The fairy of fashion
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
    Back Cover
        Page 148
        Page 149
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: AVE you ever rad Alice in W.onderland" ? :" Of course-44i ag

: ,: Why, everybody has read Alice in Wpnderland." ;

Yes, we knew you would say that. But allow us to finish ea isit

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rotation. What we really started out; to inquite was, Whether you had

S read "Sylvie and -Bruno," the new story by thd same authlor--Mi. Lwi

Carroll ? It is just as queer and juist as mixed-up as the adventures of

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SYJ AM. 4 B>4AT6 W, N0
Alice, and scarcely less entertain rig Sylie 'and Bruno are the children
of' .the Warden of Outland, \vho is .aind'of King, iii that country, lyi i
midway between Reality and' Fair)land 'The childrentherefore are little
Royal Hignesses.. ,-Sylvie is some .years, -older tha her:- brother., The .:
story opens at the palace of th e Warden of Outland. One of the ',chil-: ,, -
dren's friends is the Professor, who is a very learned .and clever man,, and
wears umbrellal s abit his legsin 'oder to' be ready for what he c alls :
"horizontal weather."
: :'The-Warden of, Outland is made 'King of Elfand. Syj'vie and Brruno
tlirs have a chance tp g. 'to Elfland.
Afterthe, King has gone, the Sub-warden' : : .
and.'wife, who are" hQrrid. people, conspire'
to capture -the government: and to take
awaytthe succession from Sylvieand Bruno
and g:ive it to their son Uggug, a little
monster who is as bad and .ugly'as Sy- W l-I
vie and Bruno are' good and pretty. .tJg-
;ug thro6is'rwater.:on a -poor old beggar., L I '
This begar was really the King of Elf- .
land, Awho had returned In one picture'
the reader sees with pleasure how Uggug's
own father, the Sub-varden, belabors him ,
with an umbrella.:
The Court -Professor, the children's
friend, is a delightful old fellow. ,
The crazy Gardener who keeps the
rate of Elflaid is evidently twin, brother
the carpenter. im "Alice thro'- the Look-., .

H"e thought he saw. an Elephant,
'that pradiced '.9i a. fife'} WV A,
,.He': khiked arain, and found it was
A Letter- fiom: his Wife, :
'At lerigth I realize he said
An t- The bitterness df Life :,,: :

SAnd what .'wiwd.ild bemg.. it was who
arg these wild words A: AGardener hA UoGG U TRIEt, an; '.
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seemed to be-yet-surelj. a mad one, by the way he brandished his rake-
madder, by the way he broke, ever and anon, into a frantic jig--maddest of
all, by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza .
It was so far a description of himself that he had the feet of an Ele-
phant: but the rest of him was skin and bone.-, and the wisps.of loose-
straw that bristled all about him suggested that he had been originally
stuffed with 'it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come out.
Sylvie and Bruno waited patiently till the end of the first verse.
Then Sylvie advanced alone (Bruno having suddenly turned shy), and
timidly introduced herself with the words: Please, I'm Sylvie l"
"And who's that other thing?" said the Gardener.
"What thing ?" said Sylvie, looking round. "Oh, that's Bruno. He's
my brother."
"Was he your brother yesterday ?" the Gardener anxiously inquired.
Course I were.!" cried Bruno, who had gradually crept nearer, and
didn't at all like being talked about without having a share in the con-
"Ah, well!" the Gardener said, with a kind of groan. "Things change
so, here. Whenever I look again it's sure to be something different I

"He thought he saw, a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He Iqoked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece,
'UAless you leave this house,' he said,
'I'll send for the Police '
*He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus:
SIf this should stay to dine,' he said,
'There won't be much for us!'
"He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
*The one thing I regret,' he said,
'Is that it cannot speak I'"

The Gardener, who breaks out with stanzas of this sort at the most
unexpected r.oments proves .: kind friend to the children, and, despite


the Sub-warden's orders, passes them through the gate, and enables them
to see their father and visit Dogland.
"There you are I" And he flung the door open, and let them out
upon the dusty high-road. A small yellowish-brown mouse ran ,wildly up
and down the road, lashing its tail like a little lion.
"Let's follow it," said Sylvie; and this also turned out a happy
thought. The mouse at once settled down into a business-like jog-trot,
with which they could easily keep pace. The only phenomenon that gave
them any uneasiness was the rapid increase in the size of the little creat-
ure they were following, which became every moment more and more like
a real lion...
Soon the transformation was complete: and a noble lion stood
patiently waiting for them to come up with it. No thought of fear seemed
to occur to the children, who patted and stroked it as if it had been
a Shetland pony.
"Help me up 1" cried Bruno. And in another moment Sylvie had
lifted him upon the broad back of the gentle beast, and seated herself
behind him, pillion-fashion. Bruno took a good handful of mane in
each hand, and made believe to guide this new kind of steed. "Gee-
up I" seemed quite sufficient by way of verbal direction: the lion at once
broke into an easy canter, and we soon found ourselves in the depths
of the forest. I [the author] say "we," for I am certain that I accompa-
nied them-though how I managed to keep up with a cantering lion
I am wholly unable to explain. But I was certainly one of the party when
we came upon an old beggar-man cutting sticks, at whose feet the lion
made a profound obeisance, Sylvie and Bruno at the same moment dis-
mounting, and leaping into the arms of their father.
"From bad to worse!" the old man said to himself, dreamily, when
the children had finished their rather confused account. "From bad to
worse! That is their destiny. I see it, but I cannot alter it. The self-
ishness of a mean and crafty man-the selfishness of an ambitious and
silly woman-the selfishness of a spiteful and loveless child-all tend one
way, from bad to worse! And you, my darlings, must suffer it awhile, 1
fear. Yet, when things are at their worst, you can come to me. I can
do but little as yet----"
SGathering up a handful of dust and scattering it in the air, the
old man slowly and solemnly pronounced some words that sounded like


a charm, the children looking on in
awe-struck silence:,
"Let craft, ambition, spite,.
Be quenched in Reason's night,
Till weakness turn to might,
Till what is dark be light,
Till what is wrong be right.!"

The cloud of dust spread itself out
through the .air, as if it were alive,
forming curious, shapes that were for,
ever changing into others.
SIt makes letters! It makes words!"
Bruno whispered, as he clung, half
frightened, to Sylvie. "Only I can't
make them out! Read them, Sylvie !"
"I'll try," Sylvie replied. "Wait-if



only I could see that awd---

"I should be very ill!" a discordant voice yelled in our aam.

"'Were I to swallow this,' he said,
'I should be very ill!" .' :

Yes, we were in the garden once more: and to escape that horrid,
discordant voice, we hurried indoors, and found ourselves in the library-.-:
Uggug blubbering, the- Professor -standing by
with a bewildered air, and my Lady, with'her
Sarms clasped round her son's neck, -repeatiig,'
over and over again: "And did they give him
nasty lessons to learn ? My own dear pretty
,, /^ *little pet" / ,-
The next time the Gardenerlet Sylvie:and
-X1. 'Bruno out, they went :on. a visit to Dogland.
There's a house, away there to the left"
s said Sylvie, after ,we, had walked what seemed.
to me 'about fift miles. Let's go, arid ask
^ for a night's lodging."
S7.It looks a very comfable Ihouse/" Bruno
said, as we turned into the :road leading up to
THE GARDENER. it. I doos hope that the Dogs will be kind

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.A:-Matiff, resse rlet,6ollai- ,
',,'an carryingig a n*usket,-w'as paki ng up,'.:
6w: dvr like a'sentinelnl. -in,'Jr~nt,'6
silent rance'.l e sta'rted,`6n' tatch~ing::
Sig, ii.. 6 f-e,.childre n-, "'and.'-- ca for.!
wa ra 'to'! me e tthem, keeing .his
mu~sket, pointed straight At. Truno,
whoStiq'& .q~uit e~ still, tho'g- h I ell :t
turn~d 'gle- Aiicl.,keipt, tight hold of

,y.1vylie~ss hand-,virhile-:the 'Sentine
;,alked soloemnly round '-and round "HE THOUGHT AESW A B FFA I

-them.-and.-Iobked. at th-em from all
points :pf'Niew_ ', Oobooh,'hooh boohooyah r" he'.- growled: at last "Woo-'
".bah ahhp1wa~h,.,Oobobh Bo wwahbd~h WOObooyah?-- Bow, wow P'he aske&b
Br'unB~d, se-Vere y..
O;i;',:f course' Bruno bunderstood all this, q _'i y e F Al Firie

i' u iiimad Dogge6--that ..is, D "aguige.~e But, as-pyu may find. it a lit-
tle difficulty, just. at fi~rst,- I had
bette.. pt it into"EngiSh for.

iiYom "Humans, L v rily, be'
lievee! Alcouple ofstray Hu-
? an s "'D 0 9 YOUyo
t :elong to-? .'What. do

"'We, :don't b Op n g ''to-a
Dog/":-~r Bruno- began, in ogee
(I tCTepeopl~es xevi belong'hg t'o
DoLYS T~I" he Whispered-lto Syl~vie.)%

B8ut, Syl~yi hastily che',6ed.
'~him, -for ear. of, hurtin- ',the'
Mastiffg feelih&..'-.," Please, -we
want, a-lifloboodiand' ni,&'S'
lodging -if thdres. roorn 'in,:ihe.
ho~huse,'1-sh*6 addeded, thiii'

tMIR RUD HIPP "US''OTAMUS': Sylvie spok. eL Doggee* verr


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prettily: but I think it's almost better, for you, to give the conversation
in English.
"The house, indeed !" growled the Sentinel. "Have you never seen
a Palace in your life?. Come along with me! His Majesty must settle
what's to be done with you."
They followed him through the entrance-hall, down a long passage,
and into a magnificent Saloon, around which were grouped dogs of all
sorts and sizes. Two splendid Blood-hounds were solemnly sitting up, one
on each side of the crown-bearer. Two or three Bull-dogs--whom I
guessed to be the Body-guard of the King-were waiting in grim silence:
in fact, the only voices at all plainly audible were those of two little dogs,
who had mounted a settee, and were holding a lively discussion that
looked very like a quarrel.
"Lords and Ladies in Waiting, and various Court Officials," our
guide gruffly remarked, as he led us in. Of me the Courtiers took no notice
whatever: but Sylvie and Bruno were the subject of many inquisitive
looks and many whispered remarks, of which I only distinctly caught one-
made by a sly-looking Dachshund to his friend-" Bah wooh wahyah
hoobah Oobooh, kah bah ?" (".'She's not such a bad-looking Human, is
she ?")
-Leaving the new arrivals in the, centre of the Saloon, the Sentinel
advanced to a door, at the further end of it, which bore an inscrip-
tion, painted on it in Doggee, "Royal Kennel-Scratch and Yell."
Before do"ng this the Sentinel turned to the children, and said : "Give
me your names."
"We'd rather not!" Bruno exclaimed, pulling Sylvie away from the
door. We want them ourselves. Come back, Sylvie Come quick !"
"Nonsense," said Sylvie, very decidedly: and gave their names in
Then the Sentinel scratched violently at the door, and gave a yell
that made Bruno' shiver from head to foot.
"Hooyah wah !" said a deep voice, from within. (That's Doggee for
" Come in!")
"It's the King himself !" the Mastiff whispered, in an awe-struck tone.
"Take off your wigs, and lay them humbly at his paws." (What we
should call "at his feet."),
Sylvie was just going to explain, very politely, that really' they couZd~tl


performi that ceremony, because their wigs wouldn't come off, when the
door of the Royal Kennel opened, and an enormous Newfoundland Dog
put his head out. Bow wow?" was his first question.
"When His Majesty speaks to you," the Sentinel hastily whispered
to Bruno, "you should prick up your ears !"
Bruno looked doubtfully at Sylvie. "I'd rather not, please," he said.
"It would hurt."
'"It doesn't hurt a bit!" the Sentinel said, with some indignation.
"Look! It's like this!" And he pricked up his 'ears like two railway-
Sylvie -gently explained matters. "I'm afraid we can't manage it,"
she said, in a low voice. "I'm very sorry: but our,ears haven't got the
right--" She wanted to say "machinery" in Doggee: but she had for-
gotten the word, and could only think of "steam-engine."
The Sentinel repeated Sylvie's 'explanation to the King.
"Can't prick up their ears without a steam-engine!" His .Majesty
exclaimed. "They must be curious creatures! I must have a look at
them!" And he came out of his Kennel, and walked solemnly up to the
What was the amazement--not to say the horror-of the whole.
assembly, when Sylvie actually fatted His Majesty on the head, While
Bruno seized the King's long -ears and pretended to tie them together
under his chin!
The Sentinel groaned aloud: a beautiful Greyhound-who appeared
to be one of the Ladies in Waiting-fainted away: and all the other,
Courtiers hastily drew back, and left plenty of room for the huge New-
foundlaid to spring upon the audacious strangers, and tear them limb
from limb.
Only-he didn't. On the contrary, His Majesty actually smiled---so
far as a 'Dog can smile-and (the other Dogs couldn't believe their eyes,
but it was true, all the same) His Majesty wagged his tail!
"Yah! Hooh hahwooh !" (that is, iWell! I never ") was the univer.
sal cry.
His Majesty looked round him severely, and gave a slight growl,
which produced instant silence. "Conduci my friends to the banqueting.
hall!" he exclaimed, laying such an emphasis on: "my friends" 'that sev-
eralb of the dogs rolled over'helplessly on their backs and began to lick

Bruno's feet. A procession was :
formed, but I only ventured to
follow as far as the door of'the :
banqueting-hall, so furious was '
'the, uproar of barking dogs
within. So I sat down by
the King, who -eemed to have, t
gone .to sleep, and waited till -
the children returned to say. A.
The next thing I remember- "
is that. it was morning: break- '
fast was just over: Sylvie was
lifting Bruno down from a.high
chair, and saying to a Spaniel,
who was regarding them with UGGUG AND THE VICE-WARDEN.
a most benevolent smile, "Yes,
thank you, we've had a very nice breakfast. Haven't we, :Brno ?"
"There was too many bones, in the- Bruno began, but, Sylvie
frowned at him, and laid her finger on her lips, for, at this moment,
the travelers were waited on by a very dignified, officer, the. Head:
growler, whose duty it was, first to conduct them to the King to
bid him farewell, and then
to escort them to the
boundary of Do glan d.
The great Newfoundland
received them most affa-
bly, but, instead of saying-
Good-by," he star t'led
t the Head-growler into
giving three savage growls,
by announcing that he
would escort them himself.
..... .It is a most, unusual
Sproceedi g,g Yout Maj-.
: esty" the Head growlee
THE DOG-SENTINEl. .exclaimed, almost choking

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with vexation at being set aside, for he had put on his best Court suit;
made entirely of cat-skins, for the occasion.
His Majesty calmly wagged the Royal tail. "It's quite a relief," he
said, "getting away from that Palace now and then I Royal Dogs have
S d'ull life of it, I can tell you! Would you mind" (this to Sylvie, in a
low voice, and looking a little shy and embarrassed)-" would you mind
the trouble of just throwing that stick for. me. to fetch?"
S Sylvie was too much- astonished to do anything for a'moment: it

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:sounded such a monstrous impossibility that a Ki'n should wish to run.
after a stick. But Bruno was equal to the occasion, and with a glad
shout of "Hi then'! Fetch it, good Doggie 1" he hurled it over a
:clump of bushes. The next moment the Monarch of Dogland had bounded
;- over the bushes, and picked up the stick, and came galloping back, to
,the children with it in his mouth. Bruno took it from him with great
decision. "Beg for it!" he insisted; and His Majesty begged. "Paw !
S.cohnmianded Sylvie; and His Majesty gave his paw. In short the iolema
:' ,ceremony of escorting the travelers to the boundaries of Dogland became
Sone long 'iproarious game of play I


"But business is business !" the Dog-king said at last. "And I
must go back to mine. I couldn't come any further he added, con-
sulting a dog-watch, which hung on a chain round his neck, "not even
if there were a Cat in sight !"
They took an affectionate farewell of His Majesty, and trudged on.
"That were a dear dog!" Bruno exclaimed. Has we to go far,
Sylvie ? I's tired !"
"Not much further, darling !" Sylvie gently replied. Do you see
that shining, just beyond those trees ? I'm almost sure it's the gate of
Fairyland! I know it's all golden-Father told me so-and so bright, so
bright !" she went en, dreamily.
It dazzles !" said Bruno, shading his eyes with one little hand, while
the other clung tightly to Sylvie's hand, as if he were half alarmed at
her strange manner.
For the child moved on as if walking in her sleep, her large eyes
gazing into the fa? distance, and her breath coming and going in quick
paintings of eager delight. I knew, by some mysterious mental light,
that a great change was taking place in my sweet little friend (for such
I loved to think her), and that she was passing from the condition of a
mere Outland Sprite into the true Fairy nature.
Upon Bruno the change came later; but it was completed in both
before they reached the golden gate.

The first thing I noticed, as I went lazily along through an open
place in- the wood, was a large Beetle lying struggling on its back, and I
went down upon one knee to help the poor thing to its feet again.
In some things, you know, you can't be quite sure what an insect
would like: for instance, I never could quite settle, supposing I were a
moth, whether I would rather be kept out of the candle, or be allowed to fly
straight in and get burnt-or again, supposing I were a spider, I'm not sure
if I should be quite pleased to have my web torn' down, and the fly
let loose-but I feel quite certain that, if I were a beetle and had rolled
over on my back, I should be glad to be helped up again.
So, as I was saying, I had gone down upon one knee, and was just
reaching out a little stick to turn the Beetle over, when I saw a sight that
made me draw back hastily and hold my breath, for fear of making any


noise and* frightening the little creature away. Not that she looked
as if she would be easily frightened: she seemed so good and, gentle
that I'm sufe she would never expect that any one could wish to hurt
her. She was only a few inches high, and was dressed in green, so that
you really would hardly have noticed her among the long grass; and
she was so delicate and graceful that she quite seemed to belong to
the place, almost as if she were one of the flowers. I may tell you,,
besides, that she had no wings (I don't believe in Fairies with wings),
and that she had quantities of long brown hair, and large, earnest, brown
eyes, and then I shall have done all I can to give you an idea of her.
Sylvie (I found out her name afterward) had knelt down, just as I
was doing, to help the Beetle; but it needed more than a little stick
for her to get it on its legs again; it was as much" as she could do,
with both arms, to roll. the heavy thing over; and, all the while she was
talking to it, half scolding and half comforting, as a nurse might do with
a child that had fallen down.
"'"There, there!' You needn't cry so much about it. You're not
killed yet-though if you were, you couldn't cry, you know, and so it's a
,general rule- against crying, my dear! And how did you come to tum-
ble over? But I can see well enough how it was-I needn't ask you
that-walking over sand-pits with your chin in the air, as usual. Of
course if you go among sand-pits like that, you must expect to tumble.
You should look."
The Beetle murmured something that sounded like "I did look," and
Sylvie went on again.
"But I know you didn't! You never do! You always walk with.
your chin up-you're so dreadfully conceited. Well, let's see how many
legs are broken this time. Why, none of them, I declare! And what's
the good of having six legs, my dear, if you can only kick them all
about in the air when you tumble? Legs are meant to walk with, you
Know. Now don't begin putting out your wings yet; I've more to say.
Go to the frog that lives behind that buttercup-give him my compli-
Sments-Sylvie's compliments-can you say 'compliments' ?"
The Beetle tried, and, I suppose, succeeded.
S"Yes, that's right. And tell him he's to give you some of that salve
I left with him yesterday. And you'd "better get him to rub it in for
you. He's.got rather cold hands, but you mustn't mind that."
_' '


I think the Beetle -must have shuddered at this idea, for Sylvie went
on, in a graver tone: Now, you needn't pretend to be so particular as all
that, as if you were too grand to be rubbed by a frog. The fact is, you
ought to be very much obliged to him. Suppose you could get nobody
out a toad to do it, how would you like "kat ?"
There was a little pause, and then Sylvie added: "Now you may go.
Be a good Beetle, and don't keep your chin in the air." And then
began one of those performances of humming, and whizzing, and restless
banging about, sich as a beetle indulges in when it has decided on


flying, but hasn't quite made up its mind which way to go. At last, in
one of its awkward zigzags, it managed to fly right into my face, and by
the time I had recovered from the shock the little Fairy was gone.

The Marvelous-the Mysterious-had quite passed out of my life
for the moment: and the Commonplace reigned supreme. I turned in
the direction of the Earl's house, as it was now "the witching hour" of
five, and I knew I should find them ready for a cup of 'tea and a quiet

,' .:; .: -~. 1
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and fteas t hnt. The
path through the wood ad
beehn made familiar to me,,.-
y many a solitary stroll
my former' visit to Eh.i
reton; s and ,how I could
haie so suddenly -and so -
.sthrely lost it was a- mys-
Sery- to me. "And this
....ope.. place," I said to my-
self, seems to have -some
: emory about it -i cannot :
d: tiuctly recall urely it :
is the very spot where. ID TE
'aw those Faiy -children! But I hope there are no, snakes about r" I
mu ed aloud, taking my seat on a fallen tree. "I certainly do not like
SiAkes-and I don't- suppose Bruno likes them,' either !"
No,- he doest. like them!" said a demure little voite at my side.
SHe's not afraid .of them, you know. But ,he doesn't like them. Het -
ys:. they're too waggly !"
Words fail me to-: describe the beauty, of the little group-,-couched
a "a patch -of moss-b on the trunk of the fallen tree--that met-my eager
gaz : Sylvie recining with her elbow buried in the moss, and. her rosy
cheek resting in the palm of her hand, and Bruno stretched at her feet:.
:wit his head in her lap.
"Too waggly ?" was all I could say in so sudden an emergency.
"I'm not particular," Bruno said, carelessly: "but I .do like straight:.
a'niamals best
"But you like a dog when it wags its tail," Sylvie interrupted. You

But there's 'more of a,
og, isn't, ntthere, 1 .i ster
S. _o.".Sr" Buno, Brun" B :' o. "

Sir "' .Bruno appealed to'::,
me. You wouldn't -like
to have a dog if it hadn't
S:-got nuffin but a head -,an
-'',':..",":')';;!i:(if' HE C A G D C 0 S LF 'i" ii,-i a .b i':-.," ti- --:. ii:".. :."":i@ .!

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"There im't such a dog as that," Sylvie thoughtfully remarked.
But there would be," answered Bruno, "if the Professor shortened
it up for us!"
"Shortened it up ?" I said. "How does he do it ?"
He's got a curious machine- Sylvie was beginning- to explain.
"A well curious machine," Bruno broke- in, not at all willing to
have the story thus taken out of his mouth, "and if oo puts in--some-
finoruvver-at one end, oo know-and he turns the handle-and it comes
out at the uvver end, oh, ever so short! And one day-when we was in
Outland, oo know-before we came to Fairyland-me and Sylvie took
him a big Crocodile. And he shortened it up for us. And it did look
so funny! And it kept looking round, and saying, *Wherever is the
rest of me to get to ? And then its eyes looked unhappy----"
"But you didn't leave the poor thing so short as that, did you r I
Well, no. Sylvie and me took it back again, and we got it stretched
to-to--how much was it, Sylvie ?"
"Two times and a half, and a little bit more," said Sylvie.
"It wouldn't like that better than the other way, I'm afraid ?"
"Oh, but it did though !" Bruno put in, eagerly. It were proud of
its new tail! Oo never saw a Crocodile so proud! Why, it could go
round and walk on the top of its tail. and along its back, all the way to
its head!"
I don't believe no Crocodile never walked along its own forehead r
Sylvie cried, too much excited by the controversy to limit the number of
her negatives.
"Oo don't know the reason why it did it r' Bruno scornfully retorted.
"It had a well good reason. I heerd it say, 'Why shouldn't I walk, an
my own forehead ?' So a course it did, oo know !"
"If t/tat's a good reason, Bruno," I said, "why shouldn't you get up
that tree?"
"Shall, in a minute," said Bruno; "soon as we've done talking. Only
two peoples can't talk comfable togevver, when one's getting up a tree,
and the other isn't !"
It appeared to me that a conversation would be scarcely 'comfable' while
trees were being climbed. even if both the 'peoples' were doing it: but it
was evidently dangerous to oppose any theory of. Bruno; so I thought it


best to let the question drop, and to ask for an account of the machlae
that made things longer.
This time Bruno was at a loss, and left it to Sylvie. "It's like a
mangle," she said: "if things are put in they get squoze--"
"Squeezeled !" Bruno interrupted.
"Yes," Sylvie accepted the correction, but did not attempt to pro-
nounce the word, which was evidently new to her. "They get-like that
--and they come out, oh, ever so long!"
"Once," Bruno began again, Sylvie and me writed- "
"Wrote !" Sylvie whispered.
"Well, we wroled a Nursery-song, and the Professor mangled it longer
for us. It were There was a little Man, And he had a little gun, And
the bullets '"
"I know the rest," I interrupted. "But would you say it lonrg-I
mean the way that it came out of the mangle ?"
"We'll get the Professor to sing it for you," said Sylvie. "It would
spoil it to say it."
"I would like to meet the Professor," I said. "And I would like
to take you all with me, to see some friends of mine, that live near here.
Would you like to come ?"
"I don't think the Professor would like to come," said Sylvie. "He's
very shy. But we'd like it very much. Only we'd better not come MAu
size, you know."
The difficulty had occurred to me already: and I had felt that per-
haps there would be a slight awkwardness in introducing two such tiny
friends into Society. "What size will you. be?" I inquired.
We'd better come as-common children," Sylvie thoughtfully replied.
"That's the easiest size to manage."


A BOUT the time when I was confirmed," said an aged Swedish lady,
'A1 whom we asked for a story, "our old servant Stine was living
wvh my parents. She came to us from a captain's, who had given up the
ea. It was a very quiet place. They never went anywhere, aad no-
body ame to see them. The captain only took a walk as far as the


quay every day. They always went to bed very early.. People said there
uwas a brownie in the house.
Well,. it so happened that Stine and the :cook were sitting in their
room one evening, mending and darning their things; it was near bed-
time, for the watchman had already sung out '-Ten o'clock !'. but some-
how the darning and sewing went on very slowly indeed-every moment
SJack Nap' came and played his tricks on them I At one moment Stine






was nodding, and then came the cook's turn--they could not keep ta-"
eyes open; they had been up early that, morning to wash cloches.
"But just as they were sitting thus, they heard a terrible crask do .:


stairs in the' kitchen, and Stine shouted: 'Lor' bless and preserve w!'
it must be the brownie!'
"She was so frightened, she dared scarcely move a foot; out '
last the cook plucked up courage and went down into the kitchen, closet
followed by Stirie.


* -*- -- -'J .



"When they opened the kitchen-door, they found all the crockery
on the floor, but none of it broken, while the brownie was standing on
the big kitchen-table, with his red cap on, and hurling the one dish after
the other on to ,the floor and laughing in great glee.
The cook had heard that the brownies could sometimes be tricked
.into moving to another.house, when anybody -would tell them of a very
quiet -place, and as she long had been wishing for an opportunity to
play a trick upon this brownie, she took courage and spoke to him-her
voice was a little shaky at the time-that he-ought to remove 'to the
tinman's over the way, where- it was so very quiet and pleasant, because,
they always went to bed at nine o'clock every evening; which was true
enough, as the -cook told Stine later: but, then, the master and all his
apprentices and journeymen were up every morning at three o'clock, and
hammered away and made a terrible noise all day.
"Since that day they never saw the brownie any more at the cap-
tain's. He seemed to feel quite at home at the tinman's, although they
were hammering and tapping away there all day; but people said that
the good-wife put a dish of porridge up in the garret for him every
Thursday evening; and it's no wonder that they got on well and became
rich, when they had a brownie in the house.
Stine believed he brought things to them. Whether it was the
brownie or not who really helped them, I cannot say," said the old .lady,
in conclusion, and got a,fit of coughing and choking after the exertion
of telli-ig this, for her, unusually long story.

D URING the excitement attending the'discovery of gold in the Black
'D Hills, the route swarmed with gangs of robbers. Their depreda-
tions brought out a remarkable instance of the affection and fidelity of a
Newfoundland dog.
A miner named Navarro one day started from the mines to bring
in a few hundred dollars' worth of dust to Deadwood. He was accom-
panied -only by his dog, and when he was within about eight miles of his
destination he must have been. attacked by two or more of the prowling
desperadoes who infested that region, and robbed and murdered.



His body was found, ten days, after, sti ipped of his money-belt and
his weapons, and by the side of the dead body was poor Navarro's very
faithful dog. moaning and howling as if to attract attention to its mas-
ter's fate ;i n fact, it was the noise made by the dog which led to the
search by which the murder was discovered.
The poor dog was covered with wounds, which he had evidently
received in trying to defend his master from the robbers; but tnot even
the pain of his wounds and the pangs of hunger which he rausz have
endured during his long vigil was sufficient to induce him to leave ,the
dead body of his inaster until he sa- that he was at last in friendly

ENNIE was a pretty little girl with laughing blue eyes and rosy
cheeks and bright curly hair. She lived in the country with her
father and mother and baby brother, in a large farm-house.,
On Jennie's fifth birthday her Uncle Tom brought her a guinea-pig
for a birthday present. At first she thought it was a funny thing to give
a little girl for a present, but then, as she said, Uncle Tom always did
differently to other people.
Jennie soon grew to be wonderfully fond of her dear little Popsy,
which was the name she gave to the guinea-pig. The pretty little ani-
mal, too, quickly grew to know her and to run after her. Jennie used
to feed her pet with mangel-wurzels and other green food.
Jennie taught her little Popsy to do some funny tricks, and it was
very obedient; and as Jennie, I am sorry to say, did not sometimes like
to do the thing she was told to do, her mother hoped her pet would
-teach her obedience. Jennie's greatest punishment when she haa' been,
very naughty was not to be allowed to see her guinea-pig for the rest
of that. day.
Great was the delight of the little girl when. one wet afternoon her
mother drew-Popsy's portrait, which Jennie declared was "Ijust ]ike
Popsy," and so pleased was she with it that she saved up all her half,
cents and dimes to buy a frame for it. Jennie asked her mother to let
her begin to learn to draw at once, as she thought it would be so nice
for her to make a picture of Popsy herself.


* 7-. -~*~Y' *~

DOLLY is alone in the great library. She sees around her heavy,
learned books, some in languages that she never heard of, azA
some in such very deep English that she can make nothing of them


She has been sent here to amuse herself till the. rest of the family so.
turn, and the time hangs. She is dreadfully lonesome. She has looked
at the strange old bindings, and cannot see any book to interest a
little girl



.I :



Ah! now she has it. Here is an old album. The pictures are
faded, and she sits down to look at them. Here are some of the family.
'Why, there is mother when she was a little girl! What queer
dresses she wore! And there she is when she was a young lady r
So Dolly is interested, and finds the time pass so rapidly that she
springs up with a start when they at last come in upon her and find her
coiled up in the easy-chair with the album in her lap.

OF all the trees on the earth, I am the largest and most splendid. In
India, my native land, I am looked upon as sacred by the Hindoos,
who believe I never wither or die. They use me as -an open-air cathe-
dral, and hold great religious festivals beneath my shade. My leaves are
gay and green; my fruit is a lovely scarlet fig, which you should see the
monkeys and parrots delightedly eat up. My. tiny baby branches hang
down, weakly and feebly, until they touch the earth, when they hide
themselves below and take root. Presently they shoot up, strong young
trunks In this way my main trunk is surrounded by groves and shady
walks. I stretch out my branches so far and so wide that many thou.
sands of people can take shelter beneath me. In a land where all is
beautiful I am regarded as a sight of surpassing grandeur.

THE Hiongnu, a fierce tribe of Mongols, lived centuries ago-in the
Slain north-west of China, and were a terrible scourge to that em-
pire. At last some of them turned in the other direction, and wandered
to the west of Asia, where Othman founded the Ottoman Empire. His
son Orchan extended his conquests and overthrew the Greek Empire, and
the country has since been called Turkey. This comes from our name
for the people, which is Turks; but they call themselves Osmanli.
Before the Osmanli crossed over into Europe, the Greek Emperor,
Cantacuzenus, tried to make peace with the terrible warriors, and gave
his daughter Theodora in marriage- to Orchan; but this did not save his


1,4-+-. ; .Ale .. .r l,'Y T


empire. The Greeks were quarreling among themselves, and they had, by
their pride and treachery, made the people of other countries in Europe
lose all interest in them or their danger.
Orchan ,died of grief at the loss of his son Suliman, who was killed
by a fall from his horse while practicing the "jereed." Under Amurath,
who succeeded his father in 1360, the tide of conquest flowed onward,
for he conquered Roumania, and made Adrianople (built by the Roman
Emperor Adrian) his capital; and before long the fields and valleys of
Bulgaria, and the colder regions of Servia and Bosnia, fell under the
Ottoman sway. It was in the great battle of Kossovo that the Servian
prince and all his principal nobles were killed. After the battle, Amu
rath, accompanied by his vizier, went over the field, and as he gazed on
the upturned faces of the dead around him, remarked how young they
looked. "Yes," said the vizier; "had they been older, they would have
been wiser than to oppose your arms !" At that moment a Servian soldier
started from among the dead and plunged his dagger into the conqueror.
The wound was mortal, and Amurath's career of victory was at the end.

LITTLE May strayed away. from her house when her mother was
engaged, and .the nurse-girl, Sarah, was gossiping, instead of mind-
ing the little one. May was very happy, and wandered on. There were
flowers in the grass that caught her eye; and she pulled them off,
aad then threw them away as something prettier caught her eye. She
wandered out of the gate and down the sloping green that led toward
the sea. She did not know that there was any danger, and she rambled
on. At last Mrs. Vincent wondered that she could not hear May's voice, '
and called to Sarah. Then there was confusion. May was lost. Mrs.
Vincent ran out, and at last caught sight of May nearing the dangerous
brink where the ground went suddenly down to the shore. With a prayer
in her heart and on her lips, she flew along, and reached May just, as
another step would have carried her down to death. Mrs. Vincent
could just manage to grasp the child's clothes and draw her uo, when
she sank back on the grass, and for a few moments could not speak ot
move. 'Little May was saved. '

. .: ..





W.. -. 7j N.



IT was away back in the early part of the last century-nearly two hun-

dred years ago-and.King Christmas had little power in the new Amer-

ian colonies as yet. Where the Dutch settled around Hudson River, how-

evr, King Christmas was in high honor. The Dutch were jolly, good-


humored, fond of children, and fond of seeing them happy. St. Nicholas.

the patron of children and sailors, was greatly respected by young and old.

He was represented with three children in a tub. Old Dutch ships were

so much like.-tubs, that, seeing the tub, the sailors took him for their

.patron; and the children all admired St. Nicholas, or Santa Claus, as

they called him, although they did. not like Rupert, his attendant, whe

carried switches for the naughty children.


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St. Nicholas and King Christmas seem to have had an understand-
ing with each other. At any rate, the Saint gave up his own particular
day in the calendar, sent Rupert off, and assumed the dress of old Christ-
mas, with his Winter dress and snowy hair. He became the special man-
ager of Christmas for the King in New Netherland. Then, too; the
Dutch were the first republicans in this country; they were the only col-
onists who had no king. It would scarcely do for them to set up a mon-
arch here, so King Christmas made St. Nicholas his prime minister for
New Netherland. Old and young looked forward to Christmas; such
preparation in barn-yard and kitchen; such fattened turkeys and geese;
such pies and crullers and doughnuts; such preparations among the
children to propitiate Santa Claus, gut heilig man! When the eve
came, and the good, jolly housewife could survey with satisfaction her
preparations for the day which was to honor King Christmas, the chil-
dren stole to the sides of the great yawning chimney, and there hung up
their stockings, the appointed receptacles for the Christmas presents which
Santa Claus was to bring during the silent hours of the night. Now, the
great historian Knickerbocker pretends that "good St. Nicholas, in the
sylvan days of New Amsterdam, would often make his appearance in his
beloved city, of a holiday afternoon, riding jollily over the tree-tops, or
over the roofs of the houses, now and then drawing forth magnificent
presents from his breeches-pockets and dropping them down the chimneys
of his- favorites. Whereas in the degenerate days, of iron and brass
he never shows us the light of his countenance, nor ever visits us, save
one night in the year, when he rattles down the chimneys of the descendants
of the patriarchs, confining his presents merely to the children, in token
of the degeneracy of the parents." But he is all wrong. St. Nicholas
was the patron of the children from the first, and the older ones had no
real right to his bounty.
King Christmas ruled wherever the Dutch spread, up the North
River, over on Long Island, up the Sound, and over in New Jersey, from
Bergen and Communipaw to the banks of the Hackensack and Raritan.
And, all was cheerful and bright from Christmas-eve till the close of
New Yeat's Day. This honest gray-beard custom of setting apart a
certain portion of this good-for-nothing' existence for the purpose of cor-
diality, social merriment and good cheer is one of the inestimable relics
handed down, to us from our worthy Dutch ancestors."


THE bear is found in various parts of the world, but is most abundant
in America, where it is highly esteemed as a beast of chase. It
prefers vegetable to animal food; but when pressed by hunger will eat
almost anything that comes in its way. Its greatest delicacy is honey,
to get which it will labor for hours, regardless of the stings of the bees
whose property it is making free with. When unable to get sufficient
vegetable food, it supplements its diet with animals, a fat young pig
affording .it a great treat after it has once taken to animal food.
In walking, all the sole of the foot touches the ground. This fact
enables it to rise on its hind legs and stand firmly in that position, but
gives it an awkward appearance when walking.
In British North America bears generally sleep during the Winter.
They get into a hollow tree, or any hole large enough to hold them, and
cover themselves up, leaving only a small hole to breathe through. Their
retreat is usually to be known by the hoar-frost which forms round the
breathing-hole, and they are thus betrayed into the hands of the hunter.
In the Southern States they merely retire to sleep during the prevalence
of the cold north winds, coming out again when these have ceased to
blow. Soon after they come out they get very thin, and are then eager
for any food.
Bears are sometimes trapped, some traps being so constructed as to
take them alive, others to kill them. If wanted alive, a small house is
built of logs, with a door opening only inwards. Inside this house are
placLc ears of. Indian corn in tempting profusion, and outside there are
generally a few ears scattered about to induce the bear to come that way.
He saunters along, picking up the grain as he goes, and sees a plentiful
supply in the house. In he goes, and satisfies himself. Turning to come
out, he,. finds the door shut against him. He then tries to break down
the walls, but if the trap be strongly built, he is safe there until the
hunter. comes.
If the bear is not wanted alive, a bait consisting of almost anything
eatable is laid in his path. When the bear touches this, he either causes
a tree to fall on him, or discharges a gun, which is so placed as to
shoot him.
A story is told of a bear, which, instead of seizing the bait with his

t- -. tth turned it over with his paw first, and in consequence hd thr

S,:aws, shot. off. He thus earned the name of. Old Two Claws. ; He

S- : ten visited the settlement, and was easily identified-by his tracks.

O ne day the wife of a settler was at work in her cabin. Hfr tw


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children were, she thought, playing together in ia, woods cAose o Suc
denly one of them ran in, too terrified -,. soeak at first, but on being
asked where the baby was, he replied taI; a bear had got him. The
agonized mother hurried to where her 1.hsb"l d was working, and told
him the sad tale. He immediately set orj ': follow the track, resolved
to bring back either his child or the skin Old Twc Claws," whom
the foot-prints showed the bear to be.
Some days after, a man, haggard and sc worn out as to be aknost
unrecognizable, arrived at the settlement, bris -rg with him the skin of
"Old Two Claws." It was the father. He nad' found no trace of his
child; but still had a melancholy satisfaction :. bringing back the bear's
skin. He was met at the door of the cabin by.n.is.,ife, holdi..g th one
hand the elder boy, and with the other-the baby '
The first thing the father did was to thank God on cis knees for
his child's escape. Then he asked the particulars. It seems that the
elder boy, instead of looking after the baby, strayed ?ff into the woods by
himself. He there saw the bear, and was so frightened that he ran in-
doors. When. asked where his little brother was, he. knew nothing about
him, and imagined the bear must have eaten him The baby had been
asleep all the time behind the house, and when it- woir- rv t~h father
had started.

DON MANUEL ACUNA, of Sonora, California. whilst making S-
usual rounds to look after his herds along the western shore of Lake
Tulare, saw a large bald eagle flying heavily near the ground, carry g a.
child in its talons, and the frantic mother vainly pursuing and screaming
at the ravenous bird. The eagle was making for a small island .n thq
.lake; by a supreme effort of his fleet animal, Acuna ccrld intercept it
at the edge of the lake, and givingrein, he sped forward to the point
of interception; but the eagle had passed out over the water, and as a last
resort. Acuna hurled at it his lasso with all the strength and skill of which
he was master, and saw,. triumphantly, its firm folds embrace both bird
and child, and bring them, with a splash, to the reeds and tules at the
margin of the lake. When he drew them ashore strange to say the
child was unhurt, and laughing hysterically.



T HE German children in Pomerania enjoy a peculiar species of sport
on the frozen Oder, which is depicted in our engraving. It is
called the" ice-carrousel," being a merry-go-round of sleds fastened to the
ends of a pole, which, pushed windlass-fashion by energetic lads, revolves
on a stout pivot 'fastened in the ice. The idea is worth borrowing by
those of our juvenile readers who live within reach of safe pieces of
smooth ice.

ANNIE BENBOW was a little town-bred child, who had never heard a
lark sing nor found a bird's nest in all her life. When her mother
spoke of the old farm-house, in Cornwall, where grandfather and grand-
mother lived, she thought how- dearly she would like to go and see for
herself the green meadows gay with Spring flowers, the lowing cows with
their soft gentle eyes, and even the clumsy cart-horses. But times were
bad both in country and town, and Annie's father could not spare the
money for her journey; the old people at the farm too, although they
would gladly have welcomed their little grandchild, had had several un-
fortunate seasons; rain had come just when all their hay was down, and
most of it had been washed into- the brook; disease had -broken out
among the cattle, the fruit crop had been a failure, and altogether poor
grandfather had hard work to get on at all.
But this Summer things were beginning to look better; the hay had
been got in, and though not a very 'heavy crop, was in thoroughly good
condition; and now harvest would soon be over, and there had not
been a drop of rain for nearly a fortnight.
So at last Annie was to have her heart's desire. Dear old grannie
had sent the money to pay her railway fare, and to-morrow she was to
start. Her parents told her that she must be a very good girl and not
give any trouble, and they hoped that the sweet country air would put
some color into her pale cheeks.
The journey was a long one, and it was nearly bed-time when she
reached Denton, the station at which she had to stop. The 'guard had
taken great care of her all the way down, and now came to the carriage-


door to ,help her out. On the platform she saw a gray-haired old man
whom she at once guessed to be her grandfather, and in another five
minutes they were seated in a comfortable cart and driving along the
shady lanes in the evening twilight. Every yard they went Annie saw
something fresh to admire, and she would have liked to stop to pick all
the flowers which were gleaming like stars along the hedge-rows. But it
was too late for that; they had four miles to drive, and grannie would


be getting anxious, so the good horse trotted steadily on and soe
landed them at the farm.
The next morning was full of wonders for the little girl; there wea
the pigs and the poultry to see being fed, and the cows being milked
and then the funny geese and ducks swimming on the pond in the yard.
Afterward she went into the corn-field -and watched the reapers at work,
'and altogether she thought herself the very happiest child in creation.

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Three or four days passed in this way, and all the wheat was safely
in the barn, and then the fruit-picking began.
One evening Annie heard her grandfather saying: "At last, dear
wife, we may hope to get out of debt; the corn will fetch a good sum,
for it's all as clean as can be, and it's lucky for us, for another bad
season would have quite ruined us."
"Yes, indeed, we have cause to be thankful," answered she, "for-God
has been very good to us."
The child was very pleased, for she had heard her father and mother
say what bad luck poor grandfather had had, and she determined to
write and tell them all about it.
Amongst the trees near the farm was one which puzzled Annie very
much. Instead of flowers or fruit, it was covered with prickly balls which
grew too high up for her to get at them. One day she asked grannie
what they were.
Wait a week or two, and you will see, my dear."
"Oh, do tell me now!"
"No, no said the old woman, laughing; "it will be quite a surprise
to you when they get ripe."
So she was obliged to wait; but every morning she would go to
the tree and see if any of the balls had fallen in the night.
At last to her joy she found several on the grass. She picked them
up and examined them, but still could make nothing of them. Presently
grandfather, who was watching her, said, "Tread on one, my dear."
She did so. the prickly husk cracked, and inside it she beheld three
fine chestnuts.
"Why, grandfather, I never knew that chestnuts had rough coats
before," said Annie.
"But they always do, my child. Now pick up all you can find, and
some time we will roast them."
"Oh, yes, that will be fun !" and the child soon had her apron full.
It happened to be a very busy day at the farm, but 'Annie, without
troubling herself to consider this, kept worrying everybody about her
"Grannie, when may I cook them? Grannie,- may I come and do
them in the kitchen now ?" she would ask, till at last the old lady, although
most kind, said: ".You are a very.troublesome little girl to-day, Annie ; and


as a punishment I shall not allow you to roast your chestnuts until to-
morrow. You kAow that I am too busy to attend to you, and I 'will
not let you play with. the fire alone; so, go away and amuse yourself
with something .else."
Annie went out of the room very sulkily, and with a naughty deter-
mination ito 'have. her own way; but she dared not go into the kitchen,
and where else could she find a fire? For a long time she thought and
thought, but at last she jumped and ran toward the barn. Just inside
the door was a heap of sticks, and taking a -number of these in her hand,
she went round to the other side of the 'building, well out of sight of
the house. Then getting some straw, she built a fire. Next, she must
get some matches; she remembered seeing some in grannie's bedroom, so
ran back to fetch them; but as she was coming down-stairs, the old lady
called to her.
"My dear, you must not go far away, for the wind is getting up,
and we shall have rain before long."
"No, I am not going far," she answered, and off she went again.
For a long time she tried to light her fire, but without success- the
wind was too strong; so at last she took her materials round to the end
of the barn where it was more sheltered, and had better luck; soon it
was blazing away gayly, but she suddenly remembered that she had not
brought her chestnuts. She did not like to go back to the house again,
for her conscience made her afraid, so she ran instead to the tree, which
was about a quarter of a mile away. Not many had fallen since her last
visit, but she did not much care: I fear she was more anxious about
having her own way than about tasting the nuts. She picked up about
a score,,and then hurried back to her fire. What was her horror to see
that the flames had caught that end of the barn, and had already burnt
a.large- hole. In a perfect agony of fright she rushed to the farm, shout-
ing, "The barn is on fire! grandfather, grandfather! the barn is on fire!"
Happily there were several men in the orchard behind the house,
and these came running out when they heard the alarm.
In less than two minutes they had reached the barn, and, the pond
being close at hand, succeeded in extinguishing the fire before it had
reached the corn which was stacked at the other side; the wind fortu-
nately blew the flames away from the building, and the rain, which had
come on suddenly, helped them greatly.


After the first surprise was over, the men began to wonder where
their master was-neither he nor the mistress had appeared; so on o:


them went back to tell the news, and Annie slunk along behind him.
At the door they were met by grannie, who was bitterly crying.

-,'-. .,. ~ -~


"Oh, ride for the doctor, quick!" she exclaimed. "I -believe your
master is. dead! He heard that the .barn was on fire, and fell down
in a fit."
Dr. Ray soon arrived, and after having examined the poor old man,
said that he had had a paralytic stroke, and might never speak again.


You may imagine what agony Annie suffered when she thought of
the mischief her naughtiness had caused. Oh! how she prayed God to
spare her dear grandfather's life; and her prayer was heard, for he did
not die.
But :he was ill for a long time, and when he got ablut again was

:~P- 4i-i'~
---1-:.~-. ~.1. ?


much feebler than before. The child confessed -her sin to both the old
people, and they forgave her, but could not keep her at Nest Farm any
longer, for they were afraid to trust her. So she was obliged to go
bpck home; but she had received a lesson which she never forgot.

THE very soldierly young cadets of the Columbia Institute, of New
York city, give an annual reception drill at the Seventh Regiment
Armory. The brilliant concourse of parents, relatives and friends who
assemble to honor the occasion are well repaid by the spirited and pict-
uresque evolutions which they witness. The corps, represented in our
picture, composed of five companies, marched in under the command of
Colonel N. A. Shaw, the commandant of cadets. There was a battalion
review by Colonel H. S. Farley, the corps'instructor, and company drill.
including Company E, composed of cadets under eight years old. The
cadets wore a, neat dark blue "uniform that, was set off by wh1te-cross'ed
belts. Then followed battalion drill, under Lieutenant-colonel C. F. Stone;
guard-mounting, by Adjutant Martin, with Captain H. 0. Poole and H.
Tenny as officers of the day; bayonet drill, under Major Schneider; sabre
drill, under Lieutenant L. Easton, and a well-executed performance of the
Gatling-gun manual. The conclusion of this latter, in infantry and artillery
movements, with numbers diminishing under 'five, is the subject of our

" AITH, mother, but it's a night !"-"Yes, boy, a night to make all
1 good Christians glad !" "Oh, yes yes, it is Christmas-eve, isn't
it? and you're all: ready for it. Jolly! I don't believe there's another
ranch in all Dakota where they're better fixed, so far as trimmings go.
It's just first-rate !"
And the young man paused in taking off his heavy frieze coat, all
powdered and stiffened with sleety snow, and looked admiringly round
the room. Rough and bare in itself, to be sure, for it was a prairie
cabin, consisting of this one large room, with a little bedroom and pantry
at one side, and a loft overhead; but to-night the rough walls were
hidden under a mass of greenery, while wreaths of moss and ground-
Ivy, and winter-green with its scarlet berries, hung from every available
cotn&; and-were festooned -across the one wide window, covered by no
jealous shade, but sending out its stream of ruddy light to cheer the
heart of any belated wanderer upon those lonely plains.
How nice you've done the looking-glass, mother, and-oh !"
For Malcolm Fosdick in his tour of the room had arrived opposite
its chief ornament. This was a .large and good engraving of Raphael's.
well-known picture, called the "Madonna of the Chair," handsomely
framed in carved wood-wood grown in the Far West, and carved in
Winter evenings by Malcolm's patient tools.
This picture had been decorated with especial care, and before it
burned a Fairy Lamp, the young man's last gift to the mother he never
failed to"'refiember in his rare business visits to St. Paul or Chicago.
"Yes, dear, I knew you loved the picture -because of its like-
ness "
"Yes-yes, mother, and 'tis a Christmas picture, if ever 'there was
one; but- "
"Hark, Mac!. What's that ?"
Did you hear it '
A,.-' : mother and son stood staring in each other's faces, every


nerve bent to listen for that faint, wild sound of a human voice upon
the trackless waste, it came again, broken, faint, yet desperate:
"' Hul-1---o! He-l-p!"
"'Help!' it said!" cried Malcolm, snatching up the coat he had
thrown over the back of a chair.
"But, Mac, it can't be .a human being --so far from any house-in
such a wild, wild storm! Oh, Mac, 'tis bogles--'tis mocking 'evil spirits,
wanting to lure you out- Don't go, my boy, my boy--don't go out-
side the door!"
"Mother, mother, I'm ashamed of you! What! hear a human voice
crying for help on Christmas- eve, and stay snug by my fire because
I'm afraid to go out? Nay, mother, you didn't train your 'boy to be a
coward. Besides, don't you know bogles never emigrate? They al
staid behind in Scotland. There now, one kiss, and keep up the' fire,
and have hot water- "
He rushed toward the door, but the stately old woman wa~ he-
fore him.
S"Stop i Kneel down till I give you ,my blessing. 'Twill caM Ae
good angels round us both-!"
S. The young man reverently obeyed, and the next moment was bat-
S tling with the storm, while the mother, shutting the door with difficulty
.... in the face of the hurtling blast, heaped fuel upon the fire, set the
: largest lamp upon the window-ledge, knelt for one agonized moment be-
fore the picture of the Blessed Mother and Child, and then busied her-
S. self inr preparations such as her son had suggested. .
Not fifteen minutes later she heard his voice raised in a cheery
shout, and as she threw open" the door he, staggered in, followed by two
'other men, whose panting sides aind desperate eyes told of the struggle
they had endured and the exhaustion that was uponthe m.
'-:. "Take care of. them, other !. Where'sthe bbttle-f -whisky ?: Now
or never 'tis needed! Here, fill me this. flask! Give me yon plaid, and
t his one, too."
SNay, you're not going again, Malcolm, surely
Ay, mother. dear ', 'tis a wreck on the railway, a mile' o sot from'
S here; and they saw ou lightly across the prairie-and'there's women in iti
.' ,,There, mammy, let me go and 'see to these poor fellows'! : .
Pale as death, the. Scotswoman -dropped the clingng arms from

a ~~--9~~~ ~~ ~: .,- : : :.:~~,
:': 1


round her one boy's neck, and let him go, as her forebears had sent
their best and bravest to death for the good cause, and turned her at-
tention to the guests beneath her roof. For, hand in hand with courage
and loyalty goes hospitality, in the simple code of Highland morals.


His back to the light, his face to the furious blast, dazed and
liinded by the stinging sleet, and the wind now and again swooping
down upon him with a fierce shriek and whirl like nothing but the onset
of a malignant power, Malcolm staggered forward, his strong young
Mood tingling fiercely, and his muscles braced .in eager strength, as he

1'I~ -

-----~- 7

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I I^




battled steadfastly with the demon of the storm, and felt himself con,
The storm as well as. the darkness obliterated all landmarks, and
hid the stars as effectually as if they had been extinguished, so that, in
spite of strength, determination and effort, Malcolm, like many another
adventurer, might have wasted his efforts in traversing a circle, but for
that guiding Christmas star behind him, the lighted window of his home,
where the Mother and Child smiled gently down upon the illumination
that, kindled in their honor, sent its radiance forth to cheer and save the
lost ones of the earth.
Glancing over his shoulder now and again, and governing his course
by this landmark, Malcolm Fosdick, after a half-hour's effort, had nearly
reached the point where the railway, carried in a sharp curve around a
broken piece of country, approached within a mile of his cabin, when
he came upon the first bit of wreckage, ani emigrant-car, derailed and
carried by its own impetus a hundred feet or so down a slight incline
at the side of the track, where it had capsized, and lay forlornly on its
side, its useless wheels moaning and whimpering as the savage blast now
and again stirred them upon their axles. In the lee of this car a little
group of passengers had sought shelter, and managed, by breaking and
splintering its wood-work, to build a rousing fire, serving the double pur-
pose of keeping them from freezing and of guiding any possible rescuers
to their side.
Coming noiselessly upon this little bivouac, Malcolm paused for an
instant -to collect his breath before announcing his presence, when his
eyes fell upon a sight that in a moment staggered and weakened him
as all the howling demons of the storm had failed to do.
In the most sheltered corner of the encampment, a young woman,
seated upon a broken bench, bent over a little child upon her knees,
eagerly examining its face, and, little as she knew or thought of her own
appearance, reproducing with marvelous fidelity the graceful pose of the
Madonna della Sedia. Was this a strange coincidence? Well, then,
what shall we say to the fact-for fact it was-that the sweet, pure face of
that Madonna, dream of the great master's brain, or modeled from some
lovely maid whose ashes have long since been transmuted into Italian
flowers, was here incarnated, line by line, tint by tint, in the living
woman sitting beside that fire of wreckage, and bending over her sleep-


ing child! A moment Malcolm stood transfixed, and then, with a strange,
hoarse cry, sprang forward, gasping, "Elsie !"
The young mother raised her head, and into the pale cheeks poured
a flood of startled color.
"Who-what-oh! Malcolm--Malcolm, is it-can it be you yourself ?"
"'Tis I myself, Elsie-Elsie--Elsie Murray!"
Something in the last words called back the color already ebbing in
the fair sweet face, and the tears with it; but although the great blue
eyes rose in one swift glance of appeal, they fell directly, and again Elsie
stooped, Madonna-like, over her child.
The other members of the group were on foot now, and several
men from the train were running up, at rumor of a rescue, so that Fos-
dick had all at once more to attend to than a dozen heads and tongues
could well arrange; but after awhile, when it had been concluded that
the passengers could most of them be made comfortable until morning,
by fires and barricades, and such arrangements as some old pioneers of
the West had already put in progress, Malcolm returned to the encamp-
ment beside the. capsized car, and finding, that drooping 'figure still
seated as he had left it, stood awkwardly silent for a moment, and then
asked: Is your -is Mr. Murray on the train, Mrs. Murray?"
The white, sad face was raised for a moment, and with no shadow
of emotion came the quiet reply:
He is buried in the old kirk-yard at home, and I believe my boy
n dying, now."
"No-no, Elsie! God forgive my hard heart! No, the boy shall
not die! Come, dear, rouse yourself and make a fight for his life. The
dear old mother is waiting for you, a short mile across the prairie, and
light and warmth and shelter. Come, Elsie, woman, standup, and let
me wrap the boy in this plaid-no, let me first pour a spoonful of this
spirit down his .throat, and you must take a drop as well. Now, then,
there's a brave lass! Come, we'll be at home and safe in no time.
Were you coming to me, Elsie ?"
"No, but to my brother Hugh-in Oregon, they call it," faltered
Elsie, already trustful and courageous.
And the light from the Christmas illumination led them, and Hope
and Love carried them, and over all the Child of Bethlehem protected
Stem, until they reached the home where all good things awaited then;


nd Margaret Fosdick, wasting no time in wonder or in questioning,
rave herself to the task of nursing the little child back to life and
health. Among the half-dozen men who had accompanied the young
:ouple home was one with a certain amount of medical skill, although,


Malcolm mischievously whispered to Elsie, "The auld wife's the bet.
r doctor of the two."
"And my Malcolm will be happy yet," whispered the mother, as she
id Elsie. and her boy in her own bed. For you'll not say 'No' again.




If the dear Lord sends me a Christmas gift, mother, Ill not refuse
it," whispered the girl, with a shy, sweet smile.
And so the morning broke, while still the herald angels sang, Peace
on earth, good-will toward men!

WHAT do they mean when they say
That every dog has his day?
For I have so many, so many, so many!-
Each day of the year is to me
The happiest day that can be.
In Simmer, with Pussy what fun,
When she came out to bask in the sun,
And I barked at her, teasing, and teasing, and teasing!
Then up a tree how she ran!
Looked down, "Catch me now if you can!"

AN alligator does not seem a likely animal to make a pet of, does it?
yet a gentleman once caught a young one on the banks of an
American river, which he succeeded in making perfectly tame. It would
follow him about the house like a dog, even going up and down stairs
after him. It not only showed affection for its master, but struck up a
great friendship with the cat, which she returned. When the cat lay
down by the fire, the alligator would come close, place his head upon her,
and go comfortably to sleep. In cold weather he slept in a box lined
with wool, in which he was shut up at night. Unfortunately, one frosty
night he was forgotten, and was found dead in the morning.

EIGHT years old to-day was Lance; but in spite of its being his birth.
day, and although he had had some beautiful presents he had
stolen away from everybody, and was sitting on an empty hamper in
the loft over the coach-house, crying.


The reason was this: It was Colie's birthday too, for Colie and
Lance were twins, and'their grandfather had brought each of them, as
his custom was on that day every year, a handsome present. And Lance's
trouble was that he wished that he had Colie's gift, and that Colie
had his.
"C olie, my boy," the old gentlemen had said, "you don't care a bit
for birds and animals, so I have brought you a pet which you must
feed and take care of, and then perhaps you will get to love other dumb
creatures for its sake. And Lance, my boy, you dislike reading, I know,
so here are three volumes with plenty of pictures-they will teach you to
care for books."
That was about half an hour before. Lance had tried to conceal
his feelings and look pleased, but when he saw the beautiful red-and-
yellow macaw, with its parrot-like beak and long tail and knowing eye.
and reflected that it was to belong to his brother, he had hard work to
keep from going into a rage and throwing his books on the ground.
"Stupid old grandpa!" he muttered, drumming his heels on the
hamper, and brushing two tear-drops from the front of his jacket. I
won't read his old books! Fancy giving that beautiful bird to Colie!
Colie won't feed it, or anything."
The hamper, which was a very rickety kind -of seat, gave way at this
point, and he rolled over. on to the floor. He did not get up, but lay
there on his face, a sniff at intervals being the only thing to show that
he was not asleep.
A step outside, nimble feet climbing the ladder to the trap-door,
and Colie was at his brother's side.
"Oh, don't, Lance!" he said, imploringly. "It's all right, you know.
You shall feed him and play with him as much as you like, and I'll read
your books, and we sha'n't ever think about who they belong to."
As the days went on, the little boy became more and more envious
of Colie's good fortune; for Colie spent most of his spare time in the
attic, and was always talking about "-Toby." as he called the bird, and
his clever ways. 'Lance never went up to see it, and tried to forget that
there was such a creature in existence.
Next month Colie went to stay with his grandfather for three days.
"You'll take care of Toby, won't you, Lance ?".he said, and Lance
nodded., Colie had faith in his brother, and went away quite at ease.


"Colie's sure to have fed it
this morning, so it'll be all
rig h t till to -morrow," Lance
said to himself.
The next morning he was up
early and out for a ramble be-
fore breakfast. Not far away
there was a farm-house, where
lived a boy whom Lance knew.
This boy was leaning on the
gate of the farm-yard, looking
out into the road.
"I say," was his greeting,
"'we've got the steam thresh-
ing machine coming to-day and
to-morrow to thresh out our
big wheat-stack. Come round
as soon as you've had your
breakfast, and see the machine
at work."
Lance was delighted. He
told his mother where he was
going, and was back at the
farm in a very short time. All
that morning he was watching
the big engine and looking in
wonderment at the whirling
wheels of the threshing-ma-
chine, and the time passed
very quickly. He staid at the
farm to dinner, after which he
returned where the iiachine-
was at work.
"You must come again to-
morrow," said his friend, as
they parted. "There'll be
another day of it."


Lance was only too pleased. On both evenings, when he reached
home, he was so tired that he could scarcely keep awake to eat his sup.
per, and was glad enough to tumble into bed.
The third morning after Colie's departure his father said to his



mother as 'he rose from the breakfast-table: "I'm just going to drive
down to the station to meet the boy. He was to come by the first train,
you know. Anything you want done in the town ?"
Lance, on hearing these words, turned quite white, for he suddenly
remembered the macaw. He had never once been near it, and Colie was
just coming back! ,
With trembling hands he put a little crumb of bread into a tea-cup
and poured some milk upon it.
With this in his hand, he stole up to the room.
He had scarcely courage to enter. When he did, he shut the door
again hastily, and stood just inside, looking in a horrified way at poor
Toby, who had fallen from his perch, and was hanging by his chain, ap-
parently dead.
Lance recovered himself in a minute enough to go near and un-
fasten the chain and lay the poor creature on the floor. It gave a
feeble flutter, half opened one eye, closed it again, and lay still.
The little boy's tears dropped on the unfortunate macaw's feathers
as he tried in vain to get it to swallow some of the bread and milk he'
had brought.
SIt's dead It's dead!" he groaned, for when he lifted up its head
it fell limply back to the floor. He was still sitting there by its side,
when a slight sound made him look up. There was Colie at the door,
looking at him.
Lance sprang to his feet.
"Look at your bird he said, in a tragic voice. "I have starved him
to death i"
He rushed past his brother, afraid of seeing his grief, down the
stairs, and out into the garden.
In a quiet corner of the orchard he lay on his face and cried as
though his heart were broken. They were not tears of anger now, but
of shame, repentance and sorrow.
Long after, it seemed, he felt Colie's arm thrown round him.
"Never mind, Lance. Toby's coming round. Papa came and made
him swallow a little water with a drop of spirit in it, and then we forced
some bread and, milk down his throat, and he'll soon be as right as a
trivet r"
And the twvr others returned to the house arm in arm-


A GENTLEMAN having taken a very active part in the Scotch re.
billion of 1745, escaped after the battle of Prestonpans to the
West Highlands, where he was received by a relative of his, a lady, who
being, like -himself, attached to the Stuarts, was glad to offer him an
asylum. But as the search was very strict after the rebels, who, if taken,
were executed, it was 'necessary for him to be carefully concealed.
He was therefore conducted by one of the lady's servants to a cave
in a sequestered part of the mountains, and being furnished with a
supply of food for some little time, was left to take care of himself. The
only way of entering his retreat was by a small opening, through, which
he had to creep, carrying his provisions with him.
A .little way from the mouth the cave became more lofty, and still
advancing cautiously in the darkness, he presently became aware of a
something that stopped his further progress. Unable to see what it was,
and afraid to strike anything in the dark with his dirk, he stopped and
felt carefully around for the object, and, soon perceived that it was a
goat with a kid. This would not have been an unpleasant discovery, had
he not feared that the owner, following the goat hither, might betray
him to his enemies; otherwise she might supply him with nourishment.
Soon, however, he discovered that she was in great pain, and then
carefully feeling about her, perceived that one of her legs was broken.
Fortunately, he was not without some knowledge of the treatment of
animals; he therefore, bound up her leg with his garter, and offered her
bread to eat. But her mouth was parched, and she refused the bread;
he then gave her water, which she drank eagerly.
Deeply interested in his suffering companion, he ventured out at
midnight, pulled 'a quantity of grass and the tender shoots of such trees
as goats are fond of browsing, and carrying them to her in the cave,
had the pleasure to find that she ate of them ravenously.
The goat remained for some time the companion of his solitude,
and he had the satisfaction of knowing that she was rapidly recovering.
At this time it happened that the servant to whom was intrusted the
secret of his retreat fell sick, and it was necessary to send another with
provisions. The goat on this occasion, happening to be near the mouth
of the cave, opposed the man's entrance with all her might, butting at
.t t, bu" ln, t'

i "-. : '


him most furiously. The gentleman in the cave hearing an unusual
noise, went forward a few yards, and then receiving the usual watchword
inom his new attendant, came to the entrance, and after a few words of


interposition, the faithful goat permitted the man to enter. So resolute
was the animal in her opposition, that the gentleman felt convinced she
would have died in his defense.

~. ...:

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S. Bu Atrmao or "SBavED OUT," Nor FouND OUT," "A Lrrtz Too Czu."

.NNY. was playing by himself, and making a terrific noise in
Sthe quiet house. Why he made such a noise I cannot think,
o because, as a rule, he was as quiet and dull a little fellow as you
ever could see. He played at queer games, invented wholly and
solely by himself, or he sat on a little chair staring into the fire, when
there was one, and thinking about no one knows what by the hour to-
gether. It was always a very quiet house, but to-day it was more quiet
than ever. And in the miidst of this silence Bonny, who had been sit-
ting looking at the fire- as usual, suddenly jumped up, dragged all the
heavy dining-room chairs out of their places, and put them in a row
across the room; then he flung open the door very wide, marched away
to the end of the hall, came flying in with as much clatter and yells as
shrill as he could manage, and dashed himself against the chairs,. which
had purposely beet. placed with the legs of one tilted against another,
so that they might go over easily. Down went three at a go, but
Bonny rushed forward and knocked over the others, then he threw him-
self between the legs that were poking out in all directions, uttering
shrieks and groans; then there was dead silence for awhile; then Bonny
began to emerge from between the legs of a chair, carefully putting his
hand to his head, as if he were much hurt. Then he held a conversa-
tion with himself, in- which he said very often that it was "a berry bad
hurt, bu:t if you don't cry, Bonny, it'll soon be berry nice and well again."
And he limped about the room, and declared he couldn't move at all
But presently he got quite well; then he put the chairs up in a row,
and did the whole thing over again.
He was standing with his back against the hall-door, preparing to
rush full speed on to the line of chairs, when old Mary came along.
She pushed Bonny on one side, 'and softly opened the door. There
4tood an old gentleman whom Bonny knew welL Worse, too, he came


In and wiped his shoes on the mat. Bonny flew off straight at the chairs
regardless of old Mary.
"Bonny." said the doctor, severely, "what are you doing, child, mak
ing all this fearful noise ?"
"Oh, he's an odd child!" said Mary; "his poor ma lying there so
bad, too. I dursn't leave her to see what the noise was."
Bonny went on with his game, quite regardless of their remarks
The doctor called him, but he only stared and twisted his long thin body
among the confusion of chair-legs, uttering groans and little shrieks,
which he did so naturally that the old gentleman asked, with a puzzled
face, "Well now, have you hurt yourself ?"
But Bonny refused to say, only he suddenly collapsed on the floor,
and lay there with his eyes closed and his body stiff.
The doctor took hold of his shoulders and pulled him on to his
feet, exclaiming: Now, what's all this ?"
"You dare!" Bonny cried, fiercely. The doctor was no favorite of
his, especially since he had drawn Bonny on his knee one day, and then,
as Bonny declared, stuck a small knife into him. Bonny never forgave
him, and nothing would induce him to go on the old man's knee a
second time. There was not much love lost between them on either side.
"I'm berry dead, I am," he cried, resentfully, when the doctor made
him stand upright. "She's a window train, and she's tundled down and
killed all the peoples. You're a nasty nan, you are; and my window
train-she's berry good and plays with me all the time, she does."
The doctor couldn't understand a bit what it was all about. The
child always talked incoherently, and mixed up words in the wildest way
"Now, Master Bonny, you pick up those chairs, and don't make no
more noise," Mary said; and then she and the doctor went away.
Bonny put the chairs back in their places rather regretfully; then he
stood with his finger in his mouth, staring out of the window. There
was nothing to be seen except a little square yard; with one very large
gear-tree that hid from view the other houses. Bonny watched the spar
rows till the cuckoo clock on the mantel-piece began-striking.
In a minute he was standing on a chair, gazing at the wonderful
bird. He had often heard it say Cuckoo" before, but no one had ever
shown him the. bird quite close. Now he was all alone, and could lok
at it as long as he liked.

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She opens his mouf like the little dirds in the tree," he said to
himself. "She lives in the lock, I think, an'she's got a tail, she has, 'cos
she open his mouf like the other dicky dirds, an' they's got tails. I want
to see his tail, I do; I'll stroke him, I will."
So. he pushed his finger in the little door, which snapped to, catch-
ing his finger tight.
S," He's a berry spiteful
thing, he is," Bonny said,
S angrily. Perhaps he's
hungry. I'll get him some
're'd-and-rutter, I will."
Bonny went down into
the deserted kitchen, and
I found some bread, with
which he returned in tri-
Sumph. But the cuckoo
Sahad shut himself into his
.. house,.and would not
come out, not even when
Bonny called him "Dear
cuckoo"; but after waiting
a long time, thinking the
bird might be asleep,
Bonny got angry, and
cried out in his quick,
funny way- "You're a
/ berry bad dird, you are,
I and if you don't eat nice

bread you're a dainty boy,
and he'll be put in prison
WILLILS ROBIN. and killed-naughty, bad,
wicked dird you are."
The door flew open, and out came Mr. Cuckoo, bowing and cuckoo-
ing as amiably as possible.
Bonny laughed with glee. He broke the bread and pushed it in at
the door. The cuckoo hardly seemed to like it, for he said "Cuckoo"
to a very slow, half-hearted' fashion, while he finally, with a very long.,

* .. . .
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** .:I-. l- "*:-,.-- -- ,


melancholy note, stuck his head out of the door with his mouth open,
Bonny was rather frightened. He gave the bird a shove which sent
him back into his house, pulling the door close with an angry bang,
Then Bonny pulled the door open, and pushed the rest of the bread.
and-butter inside for Mr. Cuckoo to eat at his leisure, for it was evident
he was a very touchy bird. There was nothing for Bonny to do. He
went out into the hall, and stood a little while listening. He had been,
told he was not on any account to come up-stairs, because his mother
was ill, and could not be worried with him; but he had been down-stairs
alone so long that he thought she must be well again now, so he went
up and stood outside her door.
"Muvver!" he called out, tapping at the door, "let me cun in, I say,
'cos I's berry tired, an' I'll be berry angry soon, I tell you."
A long silence, then the door was unclosed about an inch, and one of
Mary's eyes and half her nose peeped through.
Go away, Master Bonny; what a naughty boy you are! Go away,
and keep quiet, do."
'I've keepded kriet, I have, and I want suffin' a play with," Bonny
said, firmly.
"Now you're a dreadful child," said old Mary, in an angry whisper.
"Go up in the nursery and put it straight, and by then I'll come and
get you something to eat."
"What you say ?" he asked, slowly.
Go up and put the nursery straight"
"Can't I come in and see my muvver? I'll be berry kriet," Bonny
"No; go and do what I tell you."
Bonny went up into the deserted nursery. It was a room at the top
of the house, where Bonny spent a good deal of time playing by himself.
His few toys were there, and generally there was a fire with a guard
before it. Bonny loved a fire; it was quite a companion to him. It
was brother, sister and playmate. He saw all sorts of strange things
there, when he sat gazing into it by the hour together. But to-day
there was no fire, only dull ashes in a dirty grate. The floorwas littered
with yesterday's mess-card-board boxes, out of which Bonny was fond:
of making coal-trains, as. he called them, when he had filled them with


little bits of coal ; chairs turned topsy-turvy, sticks of wood for building
houses, scraps of paper scribbled overand dabbed with paint, two or
:' three dilapidated dolls, all undergoing punishment in odd corners.
Bonny began in a half hearted way- to put the things into a little
Cupboard. but he was growing cross, and he could not help taking up the
. *' dolls and smacking and pinching them a bit, just to vent .his ill-temper.
Presently he wandered to the window and stared out. There were
houses opposite, and in one there was a splendid fire which lighted up
all the room, and let Bonny see everything inside it. He forgot all his
loneliness and his ill-temper. His nose was pressed flat against the win-
dow-pane, and his round eyes opened as wide as they would go. He be-
held a little girl, with-long, fair curls, and a lady dancing about together,
and there was another lady sitting down with her back to Bonny." She
was doing something,with- her hands, for every now and then he saw
them moving quickly up and down. But stranger than all, there was, a
gentleman' standing behind her, moving one hand up and down, backward
.and forward, just like a mechanical toy of a man shaving himself that
Bonny had seen in a shop-window. It was all very puzzling to. Buo ny,
who could not make out a bit what they were doing.- In, few minutes
more the lady and the little girl came to the window. The child laughed
and nodded, and then down went the blinds.
Bonny turned away. It was getting 'quite dusk.- Then he went
down-stairs, feeling cross.
Standing in the hall was his father, who had just let himself in.
":.Here, Bonny," he said, "what are you doing down here in such. an
untidy ,mess ? How's your. mother ?"
: Bonny stared for a minute, and then said, What ?"
"There, don't look at me in, that daft way, child. How's your
mother ?"
When Bonny was cross, he poured out torrents of words with little
sense in them. He was very cross -just now.
,. "She's berry dead," he said, quickly, all. the words running one: into
another. Old nan doctor,. he stick little knives in him-,he do, and pull
her head off. 'cos she stare like a stupid, and she berry dead, I. tell you." ':
SMr. Cameron heard little else than the word dead," for he, never
S as, able to make out -much of Bonny's- gibberish. He thrust the child
S : aside, and ran up the stairs to the bedroom. .i ,

,' *, .


kitchen, although he did sometimes come down with her for a change;
and, in the second place, she never left her doors unlocked for tramps
to walk in-not she.
Something must be done; so Mr. Cameron went out, charging Mary


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'T".'S` D BON


on no account to breathe a word to her mistress. He started forth very
hopefully, and made straight for the police-station.
At the police-station he met with no better success.
Mr. Cameron was now not only perplexed, but seriously uneasy. He
asked the Superintendent, who waited upon him, what he thought could
have become of the child? Had he ever heard of children being stolen?
Oh, yes, he had heard of such things.
"Were they easily found again ?"
"Well, yes; they were generally found in a few days; but it was
a pity the child had not been missed at once. Three or four hours was
a great loss of time. Mr. Cameron had better describe the child, that the
police might know what to look for."
The man brought a pen and paper, and stood waiting.
"Girl or boy ?" he asked, thinking Mr. Cameron somewhat slow.
"How dressed?"
"I couldn't say. Like other children, I expect."
"What age ?"
"Nearly seven."
Name ?"
"Robert Douglas Cameron."
"Well now, please describe the child."
Mr. Cameron pondered.
"I never noticed that he was particularly dark or fair; very much
lke other children of his age, I should say; perhaps more dark than
fair; not fat, certainly not fat; rather a plain child, I suppose, and cer-
tainly not quick; no, I couldn't say he is a particularly intelligent child."
"Rather slow ? Just a little dull, eh ?"
"Well, yes, I should say so."
"It is best," he said to Mr. Cameron, "not to openly publish a de-
scription of the missing child if you suspect stealing. The abductors
would be warned and know exactly how to evade us. This description
shall be telegraphed to every police-station, and every policeman will be
furnished with it."
Then Mr. Cameron had to turn back home. Nothing more could be
done except to scour the streets near by, again search every nook and
cranny of the house, and make inquiries of the neighbors.


Bonny's father, as I have said before, had never taken any great
notice of his little son, and Bonny, in consequence, had never displayed
any great affection toward his father. Mr. Cameron had settled it in his
own mind that Bonny did not possess a warm, loving heart like most
little children of his age, or he would have shown it in his manner; and
as he thought him neither pretty nor clever, his father really found very
little that was attractive in the child.
But now that Bonny was lost, something rose up in his heart and
told him that he had not been very kind. He remembered that his
mother's delicate health had deprived the child of much of the loving
care which was so necessary for him. Old Mary was but a poor sub.
stitute, even if, she could have been always with him, which, of course,
she was not. The way that he had disappeared showed that he must
have been a good deal alone.
Mr. Cameron groaned to himself as he realized for the first time
what a dull, dreary child-life Bonny's had been.
When he reached home he locked himself in his study and tried to
forget all about it for a little while in his books.
But, somehow, he could not find one book in all his library to in-
terest him. Bonny's face seemed to stare at him from the pages with
sad, reproachful eyes; Bonny's voice to be calling to him, in his funny,
indistinct language, for help and protection. Once he sprang from his
chair and exclaimed: "What can have happened to the child? Into
what hands has he fallen? This is horrible, horrible!"
Then he glanced all around uneasily, as if fearing that some one
might have heard him.
He could not trust himself to go into his wife's room just then.
And as he sat there in the chill night, wondering what had become of
his only child, he formed all sorts of plans. Bonny should have a young
nurse, or nursery governess, to be always with him; he should have com-
panions of his own age -and toys; he remembered that he had never
bought him a single toy. He would take him out himself, to see the
sights and treats that other children went to see. He would lay aside
his books in the evening, and try to understand his quaint sayings, and
teach him to think and speak more plainly. In fact, there, was no telling
what he was not going to do for poor little neglected Bonny wuen he
was found.



Do YOU think Bonny caught the man up? In the first place, it was
growing dusk, and Bonny had only seen the back of the man from some

There were three young maids of Lee.
They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.


distance off. But Bonny never stopped to think. All he said to himself
'was, "I must hear that nusic," and off he went.
He tore round the corner and down the road. But presently that

There are three old maids of Lee.
They are o!J as o! can be

And one is d'.f. a.d oe"cannot see,
These three old maids ok Lee.

And one is d_-, -nd o-.-lcnnot see,
And they are all as cross as a glows tree,
These three old maids oi Lee,


road ended; or, rather, it zigzagged away in a crooked direction, and two
other roads branched out on either side, and farther on another road. I
There was no sign of any man with a "nusic" in his hand; no sign
of any one at all. Down which had he gone?
OOe led into the high-road, and down this Bonny turned, simply
because he always went that way and it came natural to him. When he
went out it was generally old Mary who took him, and she invariably
did some marketing at the same time, so they nearly always went to the
Now, the man had gone that way, but he was still a long bit on
ahead, quite out of sight. It would have been better if Bonny had given
up when he came to those roads, and gone home.
He ran as hard as he could down the quiet street. He. could see a
man in the distance, and although he could not tell whether it was the
man, he thought he would soon catch him up and find out. Presently
the man disappeared among a stream of people.
He paused a moment, and then turned to the right. Now, the man
with the "nusic" had really gone to the left.
'So Bonny did not find him, although he ran ever so far. Of course,
he was going farther away the quicker he ran. Some of the busy people
noticed the little fellow and tried, to speak to him, but he took no notice
of them-only stared and ran past them. What they thought I do not
know, but they let, him go.
One woman laid her hand on his shoulder and said:
Have you lost yourself, little boy ?"
It's the nan with the nusic what I'm running after," Bonny repAlea
SDid her goed up there ?"
Be quick then and run along," she, said, kindly; and Bonr-y 4evt,
on, thinking she had certainly seen the man.
He soon began to realize that the man was not to be found, and
he stood still in the road and stamped his feet with anger and disap-
'I must see that nusic," he said to himself; but it was no good
being obstinate, for there was no man and no nusic "to see.
He turned back very unwillingly., meaning to go home. For the first
time he stopped to think how angry and alarmed they would be if they
had missed him.


It was getting very dark. Bonny ran first in this direction and then
in that, and couldn't find his way at all.
Bonny was growing very frightened indeed now; but he was really
a brave little fellow, and he did not cry.
As he ran on he came to a railway bridge over the road.
Poor little Bonny was quite tired out. Under the bridge it seemed
nice and warm. There was a piece of stone jutting out near the ground,
which tempted Bonny to sit down. In a little while his head began to
bob backward and forward. He fell asleep.
After awhile a big man came along quickly. He stopped when he
saw the figure of a child sleeping in the cold night-air. -He looked all
round him in a puzzled fashion. Then he took Bonny up in his big
arms, and bore him swiftly away.

BONNY awoke in a very strange place-a room he had never seen
before; with a fire, a woman whose face he did not know, and a big man
with a large face and a long beard, who seemed to him like a giant.
Bonny struggled to free himself from the great strong arms.
Ach, me 1" said a gentle voice, "the little child wakes at last; dat
is goot"
Bonny slowly regarded the face before him. Then he asked: "Is
you berry good giant ?"
The man laughed, and showed so many white teeth that Bonny
said, hastily:
"Bad giants eat babies; I not a baby-I's a boy," and he struggled
off the giant's knee. He flew to the lady, who had stretched out her
arms to him, and burying his head in her lap, he cried: Make the big
giant go away-I's frightened."
She told him not to be afraid, for Herr Papa" was not a giant,
and would not hurt him, as -he loved all little children. She spoke so
gently and sweetly that, when the big man came back with some fruit,
Bonny, who was really hungry, allowed himself to be fed by the Herr
Then his wife went and fetched u bowl of steaming hot bread-and.
ailk, which made Bonny feel warm and comfortable.


When he had finished it they put a little stool near the fire for him
to sit on; and then, when he began to feel quite at home, they ventured
to ask him some questions.
Do you know what place this is ?" the Herr Papa asked.
Bonny looked all round, and then replied: "It isn't my house; it's
your house."
"Yes, 'tis vare goot answer," the big man replied, laughing; "but
tell me now, how did you come
here ?"
Z "I think you broughted me;
that's what I tell you."
Right again. Where did I
find you ?"
It was the nusic," he said.
rapidly -" nice nusic; and it
took me to see the nusic,
berry near, and carry me away
S"You have von name; vat
is it?" by
"The nan with the nusic,"
S Bonny burst out. Where's he
gone? He runned away, he
; A did. Bonny run too nan go
fast-Bonny go fast. Where's
A LITTLE BOY OF CENTRAL AMERICA. the nusic nan, I tell you ?"
They could not understand
this; but they wanted to find out where he lived, so they asked him
more questions.
What is your name, little boy ?"
No answer, but a stare.
Where do you live ?"
Still no answer.
"Did you run away? Ah, did you run after some music and get
lost, little boy ?"
It was a nan with a nusic," Bonny said at last.
Then they began to think that he was a little bit stupid, and they


q --




did not know quite what to do. Presently his eye fell on a hassock
under the table. He tugged it out, and seized the poker and began
drawing it across.
"It's a nusic like this," he said, gravely.
The man rose up and got something. It was the very, very thing
the music man" had.
Do the stick !" Bonny cried, eagerly; "do the stick, I tell you !"
Then Herr Papa lifted the box on to his shoulder, and put his head
down on one side just as the man had done (how Bonny watched him!),
took the stick, and drew it slowly 'across.
To Bonny's rapture there came forth a beautiful sound. Then the
stick went backward and forward, up and down, and the whole room was
filled with rhusic. Bonny crept close to the Herr Papa," and watched
him. The moment the big man had finished, Bonny snatched the violin
from his hands, put it on his shoulder, and placed the bow across the
It only made a grunt, however much he tried. Then he pushed it
away and began to cry.
The man handed it to Bonny again, holding his hand while he drew
the bow across. The beautiful voice came again, and Bonny's face was
all aglow.
"There's a nice noise in the nusic," he said.
"He haf von soul of music," cried the big man; "he lof it. I see
it in his face. Now, my little one, take it and try again, like this."
Bonny took the violin and drew the bow across as he had been
shown. At first there came a shaky, uncertain. sound, but Bonny did not
leave off until the sound was steady and clear.
He haf von goot ear," the big man cried. He shall be my little
child. I will teach him myself. Ccme, now, we will begin at once."
Bonny listened with bright eyes and eager face to the music, till at
last the wife said:
"Are you not going to take the little one home?"
Then the big man put down his violin and looked very thoughtful,
for that was a. thing more easily said than done.
"I must try to find out about my little child, but you shall keep
him safe and snug while I go."
So he went out to see if any one was inquiring for a lost child,


and Bonny was laid down to sleep very contentedly, his little brain so
full of delight that he had found the music for which he had been look-
ing so long that everything else was quite forgotten.
The professor went at last to the police, but no such lost child had
been claimed. He described it as bright and intelligent, fond of, music,
dressed as a poor woman's child would be. The only child asked for was
the son of Robert Cameron, Esq., of Horton House, St. Mildred's HilL
A dark, thin child, seven years of age, slightly imbecile.
The superintendent found the description of Bonny. "That is not
the child," he said, decidedly, and telegraphed back that no news of any
child answering description given had been brought there.
The professor and his wife waited anxiously all the next day. No
one came to claim the child. The following day they were to leave
London for Germany.
As they did not like to send the child to the Poor-house, they took
it with them.

WHEN Bonny saw the professor, next morning, he ran up to him
and said: You play the little nusic, I tell you."
So they had music before breakfast. Then Bonny stretched out his
hand, exclaiming, "Now I'll do the little stick;" and when the professor
hesitated--for his violin was a very valuable one-Bonny said: "You
must give me that nusic, I tell you," which was not a pretty speech by
any means.
Madame Bruder tried to entice him away to the nice breakfast, but
Bonny was very obstinate.
They gave him nice food, but Boony was naughty and would not
eat, until the professor had promised him that when he had eaten nicely
the "little nusic" should come back.
"Do you notice anything about the little one, mine husband ?" Ma.
dame Bruder asked.
"I notice many things, my wife. It is a strange child, but de genius
is always strange."
But his wife said: "The little one talks and acts as if he heard very
indistinctly all you say."


What?" the professor exclaimed, hastily. "No, no; it is no deaf
child, I assure you."
The good people did not know by what name to call the child.
Madame Bruder tried all the names she could remember. When she said
"Johnny," the child ex-
claimed, excitedly: "You
___' "telled me Bonny. I did
S say Bonny. Bonny's berry
good, he is. Bonny's got
beazles and window-trains,
e sl te and they tundles down
and kills the people, and
go about and make a
noise like this; and she
say to Bonny, you mustn't
play window-trains any
more, Master Bonny, 'cos
you make a noise and
muvver berry ill, and you
berry naughty boy, Bonny;.
and that's what I tell
The professor went off
into a big roar at this
long speech.
"It is Johnny," said his)
wife, "I dare say, that the]
,v'&". .\ ~ little one is named. John-.
ny," she said, "will YouI
give him a nice kiss ? and
he shall then play for you a little tune-shall play the nice music."
Bonny slipped down from his chair, and ran to the professor directly.
He was instantly landed comfortably on the professor's knee.
"Ah," she said, "it is Johnny, then! Little Johann, you have truly
the name of our little one. It is very strange."
"It is to show that this little child is sent to me by the good Gott


,., -, -. ; v. ],- ,.,,\ I
; i



for the little one He took," the professor said, solemnly. Now, my
little one, shall we get the music?"
But Bonny was very snug in the big arms, and did not want to move.
Presently he tugged the professor's coat-sleeve, and asked: "You tell
me your name, then?"
"My name is Herr Papa," the professor replied, laughing.
"You tell me her name?" Bonny asked, pointing to Madame Bruder.
"I think it is Madame Mutter-little mutter" (Mother).
"It is mudder," Bonny said, suddenly. "Yes, it is mudder, 'cos I
know it is, and you berry bad boy, 'cos you don't listen to what I tell
you. Is you berry good, Herr Papa?"
"Well, we will say 'Yes.'"
Is she berry good, too?"
"I think this little one can hear very well," the professor said,

PRETTY soon the professor put on his hat and went straight from
the house.
Bonny heard the door bang. "Where's gone ?" he asked.
"I t'ink Herr Papa's gone out."
Then Bonny showed that he could be very ill tempered, for he
stamped his little feet and screwed up his eyes and mouth, while. tears
raced down his cheeks. "You berry naughty boy!" he cried, wrathfully.
"He did say he'd fetch the little nusic. He telled a story, and I do be
berry angry."
"Come here, little Johann," Madame Bruder said, gently.
Bonny went quietly with her. Up-stairs she unlocked a box, and she
brought some little garments and some toys. The garments she put on
Bonny. Then they went ,back again to the sitting-room with the toys.
Suddenly Bonny looked up and found that the "little mudder" was
crying. Bonny put his arms round her neck. "I don't want you to
cry, 'cos you isn't naughty; you berry good littlee mudder, and Bonny is
berry good, too; all good, I tell you. Bonny not cry, littlee mudder not
cry; that's what I say."


When che professor returned, Bonny's cheek was pressed against her
bosom as lovingly as' if he had been her own Johann, and he did not
move even when the Herr Papa called him.
"Go, my little one," madame said. Run to your Herr Papa. See
what he has got for little Johann."
He had two "little nusics," one smaller than the other. The pro-
fessor put this into Bonny's hand.
"There, little one, that is your own little fiddle; and what will you
,say to Herr Papa for that ?"
Bonny laid the fiddle on his shoulder and drew the bow across the
strings; then, when he found the music was not nice, he said: "You
play, I tell you."
The Herr Papa played a little strain, which Bonny tried to imitate.
Then the professor took the fiddle away and brought a blackboard and
chalk, with which he drew lines and wrote funny little round dots with
tails to them. These were notes of music, which the Herr Papa was try,
ing to teach Bonny, but Bonny did not like that, and would not even
look at them; so the fiddle was taken away, and Bonny had another
little rage.
"It is but a baby," madame remonstrated; "you must not worry
him to learn."
"If he learn not now, he will nevare learn," her husband replied.
"It is a passionate little heart, but a loving one, too," madame said.
'Johann," the professor said, gravely, "I think I must take you
back to the street where I found you, all cold and hungry. Come,
then, with me."
The professor took his hand and drew him toward the door, but
Bonny began to kick and struggle and howl. "You bad man!" he cried.
"I kill you berry dead, I will. .I shall stay with littlee mudder."
"Little mudder will not have a naughty boy. Come, we will have
this battle out."
So Bonny was carried up-stairs and left 'alone.
After he had raged awhile, he stopped suddenly, and with a heavy
sigh sat down on the floor and began playing with the fringe of the
counterpane. Then the professor came in.
"Little one, are you ready to go away and leave Herr Papa and
little mudder ?" .


/ By and by his father came down again. He called Bonny. Look
here he said, severely. "Why did you tell me that story about your,
mother, you naughty child ?"
S Bonny stared blankly, and then asked. "What 7


S- .


You know what I said," his father replied. Why did you tel a
ntory, and say your mother was dead ?"
People is dead," Bonny muttered to himself in an injured to
*They's tundled Out of the window train, and all killed."

-~- .. -
'" ,..r "n se


"Yo kao wha c;kI : sad"hsfahrrpie." h idyut
Itory.~ ~ ~i/ an ayyu mte wsdad?
epl s ed, onymutrd ohislfi a njrd rI
'[he' tude u o h idw riadal ild"



bpe r



His father looked at him angrily for a moment, then his face re-
laxed. "I suppose it's oaly stupidity!" he exclaimed. "You can take
him down with you, Mary."
So Bonny went down-stairs and feasted on tea and hot toast, which
he devoured ravenously, for he was very hungry, and had no idea that
he had done or said anything wrong.

BONNY'S mother had been an invalid ever since he was born. So
poor Bonny, who had neither brothers nor sisters, was left a great deal
to himself. His father was out all day, and when he came home in the
evening, either shut himself up with his books, or went and talked with
his wife in her room. He was a quiet, grave, stern man. Twice a day
Bonny was taken into the dining-room to see his father, but he did not
much enjoy these visits, when he was obliged to be quiet, and had noth-
ing to amuse him. Mr. Cameron was not sorry to get the visit over.
He knew very little of children, and expected that when Bonny began to
talk he would give rational answers to simple questions, and show an
interest in anything he told him.
Bonny, on the other hand, talked very indistinctly, and showed very
little sense. Mr. Cameron was not amused, as most people are, by the
silly, inconsequent chatter of a small child. It rather irritated him, and
Bonny seemed particularly stupid. He was fond of staring in his father's
face, and asking "What?" a great many times.
The only servants of the household were old Mary, whose time was
much taken up with her invalid mistress, and a boy, who helped down-
stairs in the morning. Mary looked after Bonny's needs conscientiously,
but she had little time to spare to play with him, so that altogether it
was a dull life that the child led. But he amused himself so well up-
stairs in his old nursery that no one thought he was at all miserable or
unhappy; and Mary quite believed that he liked playing by himself far
better than he would care to have other children with him, and she
always told her mistress so.
Just now Bonny's mother was very ill, and Mr. Cameron had sent
for his sister to come and stay with her till some other nurse could be
had. As soon as she found an opportunity, she went up to the nursery

to take a peep at the little nephew she had not seen since he was
a baby.
He took no notice whatever of the visitor standing in the door-way,
but went on playing with a solemn and intent face. Mrs. Giles stood
and watched.
The room was in a terrible disorder. All the chairs were laid down
on the floor long ways and put together in squares. The high guard
had been dragged away from the fire-place and laid across a recess, leav-
ing only just a little aperture at which to go in and out. The table was
pushed into another corner, with the cloth all hanging down at the back,
and kept so by the few articles left from Bonny's breakfast, a lump or
two .of coal, and some broken toys. Bonny was crawling about the floor.
First he went into one little chair-house, where he sat for awhile grunting
and squeaking; then he crawled out again and went into another, where
he hopped about on his hind legs for awhile; then into another, where he
growled and paced backward and forward, with an angry face. Presently
an idea seemed to strike him, for he took three chairs, and-with many
struggles -piled them up one on top of another in a corner. Then he
began climbing up them in a very cat-like fashion. But presently one
came toppling down, rolling Bonny over on to the floor. He did not
utter a sound, but picked himself up and began again, and at last, by
the aid of another chair and the fire-guard, stood on the topmost one
leaning against the wall.
He looked all round with a kind of fixed stare, and presently his
eye lighted on his aunt. He did not smile or move, but only kept his
eye fixed on her for several seconds, with a perfectly blank, expressionless
stare. Then he carefully descended from his height, and began crawling
again on the floor.
His aunt was a little amused, but more frightened. She had never
seen much of children, but she was fond of them, and a favorite with
many she knew. However, she had yet to make friends with Bonny. so
she went into the room and called him to her.
He paused a moment on all-fours, turned his head round, and looked
at her. Then he went on with his game.
"Look here, Bonny," she said, dragging him up in her arms; I
want to talk to you."
"What '?


1 want to talk to you. I'm Aunt Lucy, you know, and I have
something nice in this little bag for you."
Bonny eyed the bag very solemnly. In fact, he had never smiled
once since his aunt had seen him. "I'll be all the beazles," he said,
"and then I'll cun, I tell you. Did they 'be nice beazles ? Yes, they
was berry nice beazles. Bonny likes 'em."
So he slipped away down on the floor again, and went the whole
round of the dens until
he came to the pyra-
mid of chairs. He was
very solemn over it all,
and never hurried him-
Sself. When he had
stared at his aunt for
about two minutes, he
descended and came
back to her.
What is that game
you have been playing,
Bonny ? she asked.
It's beazles gane,"
She said, staring up in
her face with very
round, bead-like eyes.
n"Beazles in the Zoo-
lions, tigers, bears; she
growls like this, and
climbs up a pole; one
LE D S OF THE EPPEbeazle hops about all
funny like this-he car-
ries a tiny with him, and pokes its head out. Did I go and -see hini?

Yes, I did see him, I tell you."
"Was it a kangaroo, Bonny?"
"What ?"
"A kangaroo. Was that the name of the beast that
tiny baby in its pouch ?"
"Yes; he was kamroo-baby kamroo; that's what I tell

carried a




.. Well," said his aunt to herself, "this is a very noticing little
b.oy, although he talks indistinctly and is not well-mannered." It was
time, she thought, to bring the cakes out of her bag now.
Bonny was much delighted with them, although he did not say,
Thank you."
Cake for kamroo ?" he asked.
"Yes, if you like."
"Then I'm .kamroo; so I'll eat him. Kamroo likes cakes, he do
that. You've got a plock. Let me see him." He pointed to his
aunt's watch-chain. She took out her watch to show him.
He looked at it for some minutes intently. Then he said: "Old
nan doctor have a plock; she pull out plock and say, 'Bonny, look
at my plock.' Bonny like plock; she look at it berry hard; then
old nan doctor, he take out little knife, and stick in Bonny's neck. I
berry angry id old nan doctor, berry angry id old nan doctor's plock,
berry angry id little knife. I going' to stick little knife in old nan doctor
sun. day; that's what I tell you."
"The doctor did it to make you well, Bonny," she said.
"He stick knife in me, I'll stick knife in him sun day, I will,"
B3.-ny persisted.
He's such a spiteful child," chimed in Mary, who just then pushed
ripen the door.
"Old nan doctor spiteful," said. Bonny.
"Don't stand staring at me like that, Master Bonny. Now, don't
put on that face. Do you hear, Master Bonny? Leave off, I tell
you. at once."
But Bonny stared all the harder, and Mary's face grew cross, too.
"You've got a spiteful face; you make an angry follhead, too, at
me. She is," he said-turning to his aunt-" look at Lally; she is
make angry follhead, isn't she? She's a spiteful boy, I tell you."
Mary was certainly frowning vigorously.
It was time for Mrs. Giles to go back' to the sick-room, so she
told Bonny she would come and see him again by and by. And
wherever you lay dinner for me, lay it for Bonny, too," she said to
Mary. "It must be very dull for him up here."
"Lor', ma'am, he don't care about no companions; he likes being
alone best." Mary replied.


Mrs. Giles doubted that, and was confirmed in her doubt when
Bonny came running to the top of the stairs, and called after her,
"You cun again soon, do you hear, I tell you ?"
Meanwhile Bonny played at "beazles" for a long time, and then
went and looked out of the window to see if the little girl would
come to the window and look out, too, but she did not. So he
started another game. Presently his Aunt Lucy came running up-stairs.
Bonny, dear, you mustn't make such a noise. It hurts mother's
The chairs were in requisition again; they were lying all about
the room.
"It's a window train," Bonny said, eagerly; "he's tundled down,
he has, and killed all the peoples. Favver said he did. I'm the
peoples, and I'm berry dead."
"What a little actor you are, Bonny! Do you make everything
you hear about into a game?"
"Yes, I do," he replied at last; "I make it into a gane, I do.
It's a window-train gane, that's what it is."
"Why a window train, Bonny?"
"Because what ?"
"That's what Lally says. He says, 'Because,'that's all It's rude
to ask krestions."
"Aunties may ask questions."
"Then children can, too. Will you let me ask krestions 7
"Yes, as many as you like, when I have time to answer them.
Think of plenty for me. Now you tell me what I asked you ?"
"What you said then?"
"Why do you call it a window train ?"
"She hasn't got coals in him, has she? Coals don't look out of
windows, do they? Peoples look out of window. It isn't a coal-train;
she's a window train. Coals isn't killed; peoples is killed and deaded
when trains bundles down; so she's a window train, didn't I tell you?"
"I understand perfectly now," said his aunt, who was beginning
to comprehend his strange jumble of words.
"You didn't 'stand before I telled you. Then you're as. stupid "
"Oh, that was not very pretty, Bonny. You must not play at


window trains any more to-day. Make another game, and I will coaoi
and see it presently."
But instead, Bonny went and looked out of the window.
While he stood staring, a man stood still in the street a short
distance off, and kept on passing a long thing he held in one hand
backward and forward over something he held, resting on his shoul-
der, in the other hand. It was what he had seen the gentleman doing,
Bonny felt sure; but the man's back was
turned to him, and Bonny screwed his
head about in vain to see all the man
was doing. He heard faint sounds like
music, he thought, and he put his ear
down against the window-pane to hear
more. Bonny grew very excited about it,


AT. CE~0( B e0ATfl. OIhS~K1 .

and watched and waited for the man to
come nearer.
Instead of which he slipped round the
corner and disappeared.
Then Bonny lay down on the floor and
rolled over and over in a rage. Then he
SStoT., took a wooden box and the poker, and
tried to imitate the man.
He went on doing this a very long time.
"What are you up to now ?" Mary asked, when she came to
fetch him down to dinner.
*What nan do this for ? Bonny asked.
SGoodness knows, Master Bonny. I never saw any man do that."
"Nan do it. Did I seen her do it? Yes, I been, did see him, 1
tel- you."
Don't you talk nonsense, Master Bonny, and come along."


Bonny followed sulkily. Suddenly an idea came to him.
He flew down-stairs so fast that Mary could not follow.
called to the child to come back, but he took no heed of her.


dining-room door was flung wide open, and in burst Bonny. Dowal
he went under the table, and fished out a hassock, seized the poker,)
and began his strange pantomime in front of his auntie.


"Nan do this," he cried, "nan do this; what nan do it for ?
I expect he was playing a violin," his aunt said, smiling.
"Eh, what ?" he asked, coming nearer, and staring eagerly into
her face.
"He did it to get music out of it, like they play a piano, you
He had never seen a piano, for there was not one in the house,
so he did not understand.
"Do it sing, like the church? Is it a nice, nice noise, what little
angels come and sing to Bonny when he's asleep, is it?"
"Yes, dear, that's what it is for."
But I can't hear any nice music. Where's ever gone?"
His aunt explained it to him. Poor Bonny was very disappointed.
He thought drawing anything across another thing would make nice
music. What a deal he had to learn!
He amused himself all the afternoon in playing with the box and
the poker, although no sound came out of it. He leaned his head down
on the box, just as he..had seen the man do, and very likely he imag-
ined the music. Anyway, he was happy, and did not want to go down
to tea at first; but when his aunt came up to fetch him Bonny went
at once.
She could not give much time to him, for she had. come to nurse
ner sister-in-law during the few days she had to spare away from her
country home, where .she kept a school. But she was growing inter-
ested in the strange boy, and wished she could stay longer.
And in, the house opposite, that little girl was lying in the back
bedroom ill, and she said to the kind friend who was nursing her-
for it was not her own home-" Have you seen that funny little boy
with the sad face, that stared at us so?"
Sometimes the answer was "No," and sometimes "Yes."
Liese, the little girl, asked very often about him. "I think he
is a very lonely child," the lady said. "I have noticed htm standing
at the window hour after hour, all alone. He goes out sometimes for
a walk with an old servant, but he never runs about and plays like
other children."
"Oh, poor little fellow! couldn't you ask him to tea one day?"
"When-you are quite well again, Liese: we must see if we can


think of some excuse for calling. You see, I do not know his parents
at all-not even their name."
Liese, who was a little German girl (they called her name Lisa),
gave an odd little German exclamation of impatience. It was a long
time to wait, when she wanted to see the little boy at once that
very day.
Mrs. Giles only staid three days, and then went away. Bonny
missed her at meal-times, and those little flying visits she used to pay
to the nursery; but he was looking out for the "man with the music,"
so he didn't mind much.
One day, when he looked out of the window, there was the man
at the corner-house. Bonny's face became all aglow with excitement.
But the man had just done playing, and he put his "music" in a
box and went away round the corner.
Bonny could not bear it. He had waited so long to see that
man with the music. He flew down-stairs, fumbled at the door-handle
until it came undone, was down the steps like lightning, and the next
moment was out in the road.

OLD Mary was in a terrible consternation when she went up -to
the nursery with Bonny's tea, and could not find him. She called
him, she looked all round the rooms, she went down-stairs, she camife
up again, and yet no Bonny was to be seen.
"It's some of his mischief," she said to herself; "he's hiding
somewhere, just to plague me. He couldn't disappear up a chimney,
or through a key-hole; so in the house he must be."
It wasn't as if he went out by himself ever; he never did. Be
sides, there were his hat and jacket in their usual place. Nothing had
disappeared but Bonny himself.
It was most mysterious. Suddenly a dreadful idea occurred to her.
She ran to the window, threw it hastily up, and stretched her head out.
To her intense relief there was no sign of Bonny lying in the bit of
front garden beneath; so he had not fallen out of the window.
But where is he ?" said Mary to herself. "He is a little imp of
mischief when he takes it in his head, and he is hidden up in some


odd corner; but you'll soon have to come out of that, Master Bonny,
and so I tell you."
She looked in the funniest places. Under all the beds, in the






*upboards, behind the curtains, under the chairs, in all the beds, be
hind every door, and in every odd corner where a child could squeeze
Then she opened all the drawers, and peeped into all the boxes nu
stairs, under the wash-stands, and moved everything on the shelves an l
tops of the cupboards. Then she descended to the klL~nen and nar
rowly inspected every hole and corner, not omitting the dust bin, but
still no Bonny was to be found. Mary began to grow very nervous, fot
it was getting dark, and presently Mr. Cameron would be home.
"I know," she said, suddenly, "he's dodging me about. While I m
looking in one place he slips into another." She did not dare say a
word to her mistress, who was too ill to be worried; and as she
could not sit still, she went up to the top of the house, and began
to search over again, looking as people do when they keep on search
ing and searching and cannot find a thing.
At last she heard Mr. Cameron's step in the hall.
"Please, sir," she said, in much trepidation, "Master Bonny's hid-
ing up somewhere, and I cannot find him."
"Then look again," Mr.. Cameron said, shortly.
"Please, sir, I have looked again," Mary replied.
"Well, then, look further."
"But I've looked everywhere, and he's just dodging me."
"Nonsense! as if a woman of your age could be bamboozled by
a baby like that. The child's in the house; then find him."
Mary departed crest-fallen.
As soon as Mr. Cameron had finished his solitary meal, he went
into his wife's room. When he came out, he rang the bell and said:
"Bring Master Bonny for a few minutes."
"Mastet Bonny's not found yet, sir."
"Not found !" thundered Mr. Cameron. Whatever do you mean t
"I can't find him anywhere, sir; I've looked everywhere. Where
that child's hid hisself I'd just like to know."
"Goodness me, woman, what are you trying to say ?" Mr. Cameron
cried,' in his abrupt manner when put out. "Do you mean to tell me
that you've not found that child yet? The woman must be mad."
"I think, sir, 'yu'd better look yourself," Mary replied, with much
"Tell me this: Is the child in the house?"


"Why, yes, sir. Of course he is. He's never allowed out alone."
"'Never allowed' is all very well. How do you know he hasn't
gone without being allowed ?"
Because .bh hat and jacket hasn't been touched. Besides," added
Mary, "do you suppose, sir, that child could leave this house without me
knowing it, what has my eye on him the whole day long? Besides, a
timid bit of a thing like him wouldn't dare go out into the streets in
the dark, you'll be sure."
When did you last see him ?" Mr. Cameron asked.
"Well, he was down-stairs with me safe enough all the afternoon
till tea. time; then I sent him up and told him I was coming directly,
and up he went, straight off to the nursery, and I am sure, sir, he's
never been down thmn stairs since."
"Then it's easy e.-ough," and as he spoke, Mr. Cameron strode
But he did not find Bonny either. Mary followed him from place
to place like a shadow. Not only was Bonny not to be seen, but not a
sound of him was to be heard. When they both came down-stails they
stood looking at each other, as Bonny himself might have said, "like
two stupids."
The child is lost," Mr. Cameron said, in an awful voice. "And
you' with your dodgings, have done a clever thing now."
"He's never left this house, I'm quite positive," said Mary; "but
there always was something odd about that child, and this is oddest of
all He might just as well have mnlted like one of his dolls, for all I
can tell where he is."

MR. CAMERON was seriously perplexed. It was clear that Bonny .was
not in the house. But then, where was he?
The only thing that he could think of was that the boy must have
been stolen. Some tramp had, perhaps, cone to the door while Mary
was out of the way, and seeing the child alone, had carried him off.
That was a strange thing, too, for Bonny could scream loudly enough
when he chose. Moreover, when he came to question Mary, she de.
dared, in the first place, that she had never left Bonny alone In -the '.

N ...


'Bonny only -hung his head.
"Will you come and be Herr Papa's good little child?"
The next moment Bonny was tightly clasped in the big arms, and
was sobbing away all his obstinacy.
When they went down-stairs, Bonny saw something that made him
stare. On Madame Bruder's knee was a little girl with long fair hair.
Liesewas a niece of the professor, a little orphan girL The two

r Y~~~ c*t~~


children :ere soon friends Liese, who was very good-natured, did every!
thing that Bonny told her. to do. They. played at window- trains, and
"Liese consented to be- headedd:" for quite a long time. Then Bonny
was, thef doctor,: and' felt her .pulse and made her put out her tongue, .
and pretend d to. stick a little knife into her and pour medicinee" into
-her mouth;, and when the professor, ahd. Madame Bruder returned, he .

: ~:~!~

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