.

A BRAVE GIRL.

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. V.              
JUNE, 1878.         
     No. 8.

[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]

[Transcriber’s Note: The Original had no Table of Contents;
I have added one for ease of navigation.
The main Title is the Link.]

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A TRIUMPH.

BY CELIA THAXTER.

Little Roger up the long slope rushing
        Through the rustling corn,
Showers of dewdrops from the broad leaves brushing
        In the early morn,

At his sturdy little shoulder bearing
        For a banner gay,
Stem of fir with one long shaving flaring
        In the wind away!

Up he goes, the summer sunshine flushing
        O’er him in his race,
Sweeter dawn of rosy childhood blushing
        On his radiant face.

If he can but set his standard glorious
        On the hill-top low,
Ere the sun climbs the clear sky victorious,
        All the world aglow!

So he presses on with childish ardor,
        Almost at the top!
Hasten, Roger! Does the way grow harder?
        Wherefore do you stop?

From below the corn-stalks tall and slender
        Comes a plaintive cry—
Turns he for an instant from the splendor
        Of the crimson sky,

Wavers, then goes flying toward the hollow,
        Calling loud and clear:
“Coming, Jenny! Oh, why did you follow?
        Don’t you cry, my dear!”

Small Janet sits weeping ‘mid the daisies;[Page 514]
        “Little sister sweet,
Must you follow Roger?” Then he raises
        Baby on her feet,

Guides her tiny steps with kindness tender,
        Cheerfully and gay,
All his courage and his strength would lend her
        Up the uneven way,

Till they front the blazing East together;
        But the sun has rolled
Up the sky in the still Summer weather,
        Flooding them with gold.

All forgotten is the boy’s ambition,
        Low the standard lies,
Still they stand, and gaze—a sweeter vision
        Ne’er met mortal eyes.

That was splendid; Roger, that was glorious,
        Thus to help the weak;
Better than to plant your flag victorious
        On earth’s highest peak!

ONE SATURDAY

BY SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.

It was an autumn day in the Indian summer
time,—that one Saturday. The Grammar Room
class of Budville were going nutting; that is, eight
of them were going,—”our set,” as they styled
themselves. Besides the eight of “our set,” Bob
Trotter was going along as driver, to take care
of the horses and spring wagon on arrival at the
woods, while the eight were taking care of the
nutting and other fun. Bob was fourteen and
three months, but he was well-grown. Beside, he
was very handy at all kinds of work, as he ought to
have been, considering that he had been kept at
work since his earliest recollection, to the detriment
of his schooling.

It had been agreed that the boys were to pay for
the team, while the girls were to furnish the lunch.
In order to economize space, it was arranged that
all the contributions to the lunch should be sent on
Friday to Mrs. Hooks, Clara of that surname
undertaking to pack it all into one large basket.

It was a trifle past seven o’clock Saturday morning
when Bob Trotter drove up to Mr. Hooks’s to
take in Clara, she being the picnicker nearest his
starting point. He did not know that she was a
put off-er. She was just trimming a hat for the
ride when Bob’s wagon was announced. She
hadn’t begun her breakfast, though all the rest of
the family had finished the meal, while the lunch
which should have been basketed the previous
night was scattered over the house from the parlor
center-table to the wood-shed.

Clara opened a window and called to Bob that
she would be ready in a minute. Then she appealed
to everybody to help her. There was a
hurly-burly, to be sure. She asked mamma to
braid her hair; little brother to bring her blue
hair-ribbon from her bureau drawer; little Lucy to
bring a basket for the prospective nuts; big brother
to get the inevitable light shawl which mamma
would be sure to make her take along. She
begged papa to butter some bread for her, and cut
her steak into mouthfuls to facilitate her breakfast,
while the maid was put to collecting the widely
scattered lunch. Mamma put baby, whom she
was feeding, off her lap—he began to scream;[Page 515]
little brother left his doughnut on a chair—the cat
began to eat it; little Lucy left her doll on the
floor—big brother stepped on its face, for he did
not leave his book, but tried to read as he went to
get the light shawl; papa laid down his cigar to
prepare the put-offer’s breakfast—it went out; the
maid dropped the broom—the wind blew the trash
from the dust-pan over the swept floor. Clara
continued to trim the hat. As she was putting in
the last pin, mamma reached the tip end of the
hair, and called for the ribbon to tie the braid.
“Here ’tis,” said little brother. “Mercy!” cried
Clara, “he’s got my new blue sash, stringing it
along through all the dust. Goose! do you think
I could wear that great long wide thing on my
hair?” Little brother said “Scat!” and rushed to
the rescue of his doughnut, while Lucy came in
dragging the clothes-basket, and big brother entered
with mamma’s black lace shawl.

“Well, you told me to get a light one,” he
replied to Clara’s impatient remonstrance, while
Lucy whimpered that they wouldn’t have enough
nuts if the clothes-basket wasn’t taken along.

However, when Bob Trotter had secured Clara
Hooks, the other girls were quickly picked up, and
so were the four boys, for Bob was brisk and so
were his horses. Dick Hart was the last called
for. He had been ready since quarter past six,
and with his forehandedness had worried his friends
as effectually as the put-offer had hers. When
the wagon at last appeared with its load of fun and
laughter, he felt too ill-humored to return the
merry greetings.

“A pretty time to be coming around!” he
grumbled, climbing to his seat. “I’ve been waiting
three hours.”

“You houghtn’t to ‘ave begun to wait so hearly,”
said Bob, who had some peculiarities of pronunciation
derived from his English parentage.

“It would be better for you to keep quiet,”
Dick retorted. “You ought to have your wages
cut, coming around here after nine o’clock. We
ought to be out to the woods this minute.”

“‘Taint no fault of mine that we haint,” said
Bob, touching up his horses.

“Whose fault is it, if it isn’t yours?” Dick asked.

Clara Hooks was blushing.

“Let the sparrer tell who killed Cock Robin,”
was Bob’s enigmatical reply.

“What’s he talking about?” said Julius Zink.

“I dunno, and he don’t either,” replied Dick.

“He doesn’t know that or anything else,” said
Sarah Ketchum.

It was not possible for Sarah to hear a dispute
and not become an open partisan.

“I know a lady when I see ‘er,” said Bob.

“You don’t,” said Dick, warmly. “You can’t
parse horse. I heard you try at school once.”

“I can curry him,” said Bob.

“You said horse was an article.”

“So he is, and a very useful harticle.”

One of the girls nudged her neighbor, and in a
loud whisper intimated her opinion that Bob was
getting the better of Dick. At this Dick grew
warmer and more boisterous, maintaining that the
boys ought not to pay Bob the stipulated price
since they were so late in starting.

“Hif folks haint ready I can’t ‘elp it,” said Bob.

“Who wasn’t ready?” demanded Constance
Faber. “You didn’t wait for me, I know.”

“And you didn’t wait for me or Mat Snead,”
added Sarah Ketchum, “because we walked down
to meet the wagon.”

Clara Hooks’s face had grown redder and redder
during the investigation; but if Clara was a put-offer,
she was not a coward or a sneak.

“He waited for me,” she now said, “but I think
it’s mean to tell it wherever he goes.”

“I haint told it nowheres.”

“You just the same as told; you hinted.”

“Wouldn’t ‘ave ‘inted ef they hadn’t kept
slappin’ at me,” was Bob’s defense, which did not
go far toward soothing the mortified Clara.

Not all of this party were pert talkers. Two
were modest: Valentine Duke and Mat Snead.
These sat together, forming what the others called
the Quaker settlement, from the silence which prevailed
in it. The silence was now broken by a
remark from Valentine Duke irrelevant to any
preceding.

“Nuts are plentier at Hawley’s Grove than at Crow
Roost,” he jerked, out, and then locked up again.

“Say we go there, then,” said Kit Pott.

“Let’s take the vote on it. Those in favor of
Hawley’s say aye.”

The ayes came storming out, as though each
was bound to be the first and loudest.

“Contrary, no,” continued the self-made president;
and Bob Trotter voted solidly “No!”

“We didn’t ask you to vote,” said Dick, returning
to his quarrel.

Dick was constitutionally and habitually pugnacious,
but he had such a cordial way of forgiving
everybody he injured that people couldn’t stay
mad with him. Indeed, he was quite a favorite.

“I’m the other side of the ‘ouse,” Bob answered
Dick. “You can’t carry this hidee through without
my ‘elp.”

“We hired you to take us to the woods.”

“You ‘ired me and my wagin and them harticles—whoa!”
(Bob’s “harticles” stopped)—”to take
you to Crow Roost. You didn’t ‘ire me for ‘Awley’s,
and I haint goin’ ther’ without a new contract.”

“What difference is it to you where we go?”[Page 516]
Dick demanded. “You belong to us for the day.”

“Four miles further and back,—height miles
makes a difference to the harticles.”

Murmurs of disapproval rendered Dick bold.

“Suppose we say you’ve got to take us to Hawley’s,”
he said, warmly.

“Suppose you do,” said Bob, coolly.

“I’d like to know what you’d say about it,”
said Dick, warmly.

“Say it and I’ll let you know,” said Bob, coolly,—so
very coolly that Dick was cooled.

A timely prudence enforced a momentary silence.
He forebore taking a position he might not be able
to hold. “Say, boys, shall we make him take us
to the grove?”

Bob smiled. Val Duke smiled, too, in his
unobtrusive way, and suggested modestly, “We
ought to pay extra for extra work.”

“Pay him another quarter and be done with it,”
said Kit Pott.

Beside being good-natured, Kit didn’t enjoy the
stopping there in the middle of the road.

“It’s mighty easy to pay out other people’s
money,” sneered Dick, resenting it that Kit seemed
going over to the enemy.

Kit’s face was aflame. His father had refused
him any money to contribute toward the picnic
expenses, and here was Dick taunting him with it
before all the girls.

“You boys teased me to come along because
you didn’t know where to find the nuts,” said Kit.

The girls began to nudge each other, making
whimpered explanations and commentaries, agreeing
that is was mean in Dick to mind Kit, and Clara
Hooks spoke up boldly;

“I wanted Kit to come along because he’s
pleasant and isn’t forever quarreling.”

“Oh!” Dick sneered more moderately, “we all
know you like Kit Pott. You and he had better
get hitched; then, you’d be pot-hooks.”

This set everybody to laughing, even Dirk’s adversary,
Bob Trotter.

“Pretty bright!” said Julius Zink.

“Bright, but not pretty,” said Mat Snead, blushing
at the sound of her voice.

“Hurrah! Mat’s waked up,” said Julius.

“It’s the first time she’s spoken since we
started,” said Sarah Ketchum.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve spoken,” Mat
quietly retorted, blushing over again.

Everybody laughed again, even Sarah Ketchum.

“Sarah always puts in her oar when there’s any
water,” said Constance Faber.

“I want to know how long we’re to sit here,
standing in the middle of the road,” said Julius.

Again everybody laughed. When grammar-school
boys and girls are on a picnic, a thing
needn’t be very witty or very funny to make them
laugh. From the ease with which this party
exploded into laughter, it may be perceived that in
spite of the high words and the pop-gun firing,
there was no deep-seated ill-humor among them.

“To Crow Roost and be done with it!” said Dick.

“All right,” assented several voices.

“Crow Roost, Bob, by the lightning express,”
said Dick, with enthusiasm.

“But, as you were so particular,” said Sarah to
Bob, “we’re going to be, too. We aint going to
give you any lunch unless you pay for it.”

“Not a mouthful,” said Clara.

“Not even a crumb,” said Constance.

Nobody saw any dismay in Bob’s face.

I don’t intend to tell you about all the sayings
and all the laughter of those boys and girls on
their way to Crow Roost. They wouldn’t like to
have me, and you wouldn’t. Bob Trotter ran
over a good many grubs and way-side stumps, and
at every jolt Constance screamed, and Dick scolded
and then laughed. Mat Snead spoke three words.
She and Valentine had been sitting as though in
profound meditation for some forty minutes, when
he said: “Quite a ride!”

“Very; no, quite,” she answered, in confusion.

Sarah Ketchum said everything that Mat didn’t
say. She was Mat’s counterpart.

All grew enthusiastic as they approached the
woods, and when the wagon stopped they poured
over the side in an excited way.

“What shall we do with the lunch-basket?”

“Leave it in the wagon,” said Sarah Ketchum,
whose counsel, Kit said, was as free as the waters
of the school pump.

Clara objected to leaving it. Bob would eat
everything up. “Let’s take it along.”

“Why, no,” said Julius.

He was the largest of the boys, and, according
to the knightly code, he remembered the carrying
of the basket would devolve upon him.

“Yes, we must carry it along,” Sarah Ketchum
insisted. “Bob sha’n’t have a chance at that
basket if I have to carry it around on my back.”

Constance, too, said, “Take it along.”

“It’s easy enough for you girls to insist on
having the basket toted around,” said Dick, “because
girls can’t carry anything when there are
boys along; but suppose you were a poor little
fellow like Jule.”

“I wont have to climb the trees with it on my
back, will I?” said Julius. “I’ll tell you,” he continued,
lowering his tone—Bob had heard all the
preceding remarks—”we’ll hang our basket on a
hickory limb. It will be safe from hogs, and the
leaves will hide it from Bob.”

This proposition was approved, and the basket[Page 517]
was carried off a short distance and slyly swung
into a sapling. Then the eight went scurrying
through the woods, leaving Bob with the horses.
Wherever they saw a lemon-tinted tree-top against
the sky or crowded into one of those fine autumn
bouquets a clump of trees can make, there rushed
a squad of boys, each with his basket, followed by
a squad of girls, each with her basket.

But in a very short time the girls were tired and
the boys hungry. All agreed to go back to the
lunch. So back they hurried, the nuts rolling
about over the bottoms of the baskets. Julius had
the most nuts; he had eleven. Mat had the
smallest number; she had one.

“I hope you girls brought along lots of goodies,”
said Dick. “Seems to me I never was so hungry
in my life.”

“I believe boys are always hungry,” said Sarah
Ketchum.

Val Duke was leading the party. He got along
faster than the others, because he wasn’t turning
around every minute to say something. He made
an electrifying announcement:

“A cow’s in the basket!”

“Gee-whiz!” said Dick, rushing at the cow.
“Thunder!” said Julius, and he gathered a handful
of dried leaves and hurled them at the beast.
Kit said “Ruination!” and threw his cap. Clara
said “Begone!” and flapped her handkerchief in
a scaring way. Sarah Ketchum said, “Shew!
Scat!” and pitched a small tree-top. It hit Dick
and Valentine. Constance said “Wretch!” and
didn’t throw anything. Mat didn’t say anything
and threw her hickory-nut. Val threw his basket,
and hung it on the cow’s horn. She shook it off
walked away a few yards, then turned and stared
at the party.

“Lunch is gone, every smitch of it!” said Kit.

“Hope it’ll kill her dead!” said Sarah Ketchum.

“We’d better have left it in the wagon. Bob
couldn’t have eaten it all,” said Clara.

“I wish Jule had taken it along,” said Dick.

“I wish Dick had taken it along,” said Julius.

“But what’re we going to do?” said Constance.

“We might buy something if anybody lived
about here.”

“There isn’t any money.”

“Dick might give his note, with the rest of us
as indorsers,” said Julius.

“We might play tramps and beg something.”[Page 518]

“But nobody lives around here.”

“Hurrah!” said Dick, who had been prowling
about among the slain. “Here’s a biscuit, and
here’s a half loaf of bread.”

“But they’re all mussed and dirty,” said Sarah.

“You might pare them,” Mat suggested.

“Yes, peel them like potatoes,” said Julius.

“But what are these among so many? The
days of miracles are past.”

“What shall we do?” said one and another.

“Milk the cow,” said Mat.

Boys and girls clapped their hands with enthusiasm,
and cried “Splendid!” “Capital!” etc.

“I’ll milk her,” said Dick. “Hand me that
cup. I’m obliged to the cow for not eating it.”

The cow happened to be a gentle animal, so she
did not run away at Dick’s approach, yet she
seemed determined that he should not get into
milking position. She kept her broad, white-starred
face toward him, and her large, liquid eyes
on his, turning, turning, turning, as he tried over
and over to approach her flanks, while the others
stood watching in mute expectancy.

“Give her some feed,” said Mat.

“Feed! I shouldn’t think she could bear the
sight of anything more after all that lunch,” said
Dick. “Beside, there isn’t any feed about here.”

Somebody suggested that Bob Trotter had
brought some hay and corn for his horses. Dick
proposed that Julius should go for some. Julius
proposed that Dick should go. Valentine offered
to bring it, and brought it—some corn in a basket.

“Suke! Suke, Bossy! Suke, Bossy! Suke!”
Dick yelled as though the cow had been two
hundred feet off instead of ten. He held out the
basket. She came forward, sniffed at the corn,
threw up her lip and took a bite. Dick set the
basket under her nose and hastened to put himself
in milking position. But that was the end of it.
He could not milk a drop.

“I can’t get the hang of the thing,” he said.

“Let me try,” said Kit.

Dick gave way, and Kit pulled and squeezed
and tugged and twisted, while the others shouted
with laughter.

‘I BELIEVE SHE’S GONE DRY,’ SAID KIT.

“I believe she’s gone dry,” said Kit, very red in
the face. At this the laughers laughed anew.

“Some of you who are so good at laughing had
better try.”

Kit set the cup on a stump and retired.

Sarah Ketchum tried to persuade everybody
else to try, but the other boys were afraid of failure
and the girls were afraid of the cow. Sarah said
if somebody would hold the animal’s head so that
it couldn’t hook, she’d milk—she knew she could.
But nobody offered to take the cow by the horns;
so everything came to a stand-still except Sarah’s
talking and the cow’s eating. Then Bob Trotter
came in sight, all his pockets standing out with
nuts. They called him. Sarah Ketchum explained
the situation and asked him if he could milk.

“I do the milkin’ at ‘ome,” Bob replied.

“Wont you please milk this cow for us? We
don’t know how, and we want the milk for dinner.”

There came a comical look into Bob’s face, but
he said nothing. The eight knew what his thoughts
must be.

“We oughtn’t to have said that you couldn’t
have any of our lunch,” said Sarah Ketchum.

“We didn’t really mean it,” said Clara.
“When lunch-time came we would have given you
lots of good things.”

“That’s so,” said Dick. “Sarah told us an
hour ago that she meant to give you her snow-ball
cake because she felt compuncted.”

By this time Bob had approached the cow. He
spoke some kind words close to her broad ear, and
gently stroked her back and flanks. Then he
set to work in the proper way, forcing the milk
in streams into the cup, the boys watching with
admiration Bob’s ease and expertness, Dick wondering
why he couldn’t do what seemed so easy.
In a few seconds the cup was filled.

“Now, what’re you going to do?” said Bob.
“This wont be a taste around.”

“You might milk into our hats,” said Julius.

“I’ve got a thimble in my pocket,” said Sarah
Ketchum.

“Do stop your nonsense,” said Constance; “it’s
a very serious question—a life and death matter.
We’re a company of Crusoes.”

But the boys couldn’t stop their nonsense immediately.
Dick remarked that if the cow had not
licked out the jelly-bowl and then kicked it to
pieces it might have been utilized. Then some one
remembered a tin water-pail at the wagon. This
was brought, and Bob soon had it two-thirds filled
with milk. Then the question arose as to how
they were all to be served with just that quart-cup
and two spoons. They were to take turns, two
eating at a time.

“I don’t want to eat with Jule,” Dick said.
“He eats too fast.”

The young people paired off, leaving out Bob.
Then they all looked at him in a shame-faced,
apologetic way.

“You needn’t mind me,” said Bob, interpreting
their glances. “I don’t want to heat with none of
you. I’ve got some wittals down to the wagon.”

“Why, what have you got?” said Sarah Ketchum.
She felt cheap, and so did the others.

“Some boiled heggs and some happles and
some raw turnups,” said Bob.

Eight mouths watered at this catalogue. Sarah [Page 519]
Ketchum whispered:

“For a generous slice of turnip,
I’d lay me down and die.”

“I don’t keer for nothing but a hegg and a
happle, myself,” said Bob. “May be you folks
would heat the hother things. There’s a good lot
of happles.”

The eight protested that they could do with the
milk and bread, but urged the milk on Bob.

“No, I thank you,” he said.

“He’s mad at us yet,” Mat whispered.

“Look here,” said Sarah Ketchum to Bob, “if
you don’t eat some of this milk, none of us will.
We’ll give it to the cow.”

“No, we won’t do that,” Julius said: “we’ll
hold you and make you drink it. If you have
more apples than you wish, we’ll be glad of some;
but we aren’t going to take them unless you’ll take
your share of the milk.”

“And we’ll get mad at you again,” said Clara.

“I’ll drink hall the milk necessary to a make-hup,”
said Bob.

When the lunch was eaten, Mat said she didn’t
think they ought to have milked the cow. The
folks would be so disappointed when they came to
milk her at night. May be a lot of poor children
were depending on the milking for their supper.
Val, too, showed that his conscience was disturbed.

“You needn’t worry,” said Dick. “They’ll
get this milk back from the lunch she stole.”

“But they couldn’t help her stealing.”

“And I couldn’t help milking her,” said Dick.

At this there was a burst of laughter. Then
Mat wrote on a scrap of paper: “This cow has
been milked to save some boys and girls from
starvation. The owner can get pay for the milk by
calling at Mr. Snead’s, Poplar street, Budville.”

“Who’ll tie it on her tail?” asked Mat.

“I will,” said Val, promptly, glad to ease his
conscience.

And this he did with a piece of blue ribbon from
Mat Snead’s hat.

MRS. PETER PIPER’S PICKLES.

BY E. MÜLLER.

HERE’S nothing in that
bush,” said one old crow
to another old crow, as
they flew slowly along
the beach.

“No, nothing worth
looking at,” answered
the other old crow, and
then they alighted on a
dead tree and complained
that the egg
season was over.

That was because they were fond of sandpipers’
eggs, and there were none in that bush. No eggs
were there, to be sure, but there sat Mrs. Peter
Sandpiper, talking to two fine young sandpipers,
just hatched.

“Nothing worth looking at!” said she, indignantly.
“Well, anything but a crow would have
more sense! Nothing in this bush, indeed! Pe-tweet,
pe-tweet!”

And truly she might well be angry at any one
snubbing those young ones of hers. Their eyes
were so bright, their legs were so slim, and their
beaks so sharp that it was delightful to see them.
And they turned out their toes so gracefully that,
the first time they went to the sea to bathe, everyone
said Mrs. Peter Sandpiper had reason to be
proud of her children. But just as soon as they
could run they got into all sorts of troubles, and[Page 520]
vexed Mrs. Sandpiper out of her wits.

“THEY TURNED OUT THEIR TOES SO GRACEFULLY.”

“Such a pair of young pickles I never hatched
before!” said she to Mrs. Kingfisher, who came to
gossip one day.

“Well, well, my dear,” said Mrs. Kingfisher,
“boys will be boys; by the time they are grown
up they will be all right. Now, my dear Pinlegs
was just such—”

TANGLED IN THE LONG GRASS

But Mrs. Sandpiper had to fly off, to see what
Pipsy Sandpiper was doing, and keep Nipsy Sandpiper
from swallowing a June beetle twice too
big for him. They were great trials. They
were always eating the wrong kind of bugs, and
having indigestion and headaches. They were
forever getting their legs tangled up in long wet
grass, and screaming for Mrs. Peter Sandpiper to
come help them out, and at night they chirped
in their sleep and disturbed Mrs. Sandpiper dreadfully
by kicking each other. At last she said she
could stand it no longer; they must take care of
themselves. So she cried “Pe-tweet, good-by,”
and then she flew away, leaving Pipsy and Nipsy
alone by the sea to take care of themselves.

It was quite a trouble at first, for Mamma Sandpiper
had always helped them to bugs and
worms, one apiece, turn about, so all was fair.
But now Pipsy always wanted the best of everything,
and Nipsy, being good tempered, had to
eat what his brother left. One day bugs were
very scarce, and both little Sandpipers were so
hungry that they could have eaten a whole starfish—if
he had come out of his shelter. Suddenly
Nipsy, who was a trifle near sighted, said he saw a
large beetle coming along the beach. They ran
quickly to meet it. But what in the world was it!
It had legs; oh, such legs! They were larger
than Pipsy’s and Nipsy’s put together. Its back
was like a huge shell, and its eyes were dreadful.
The little sandpipers looked at each other in terror.

But a mild little voice from the creature relieved [Page 522]
them.

“I beg your pardon,” said he. “Let me introduce
myself. C. Crab, Esq., of Oyster Bay.”

“Oh, ah! Indeed!” said Pipsy. “Glad to
know you, I’m sure.”

“I think I must have lost my way,” said C.
Crab, Esq. “Could you oblige me by telling me
if you see any boys near?”

“Any boys?” said Pipsy and Nipsy, looking at
each other. “Never saw one in my life. What
do they look like? Have they many legs? Are
they fat? Are they good to eat?” asked both the
hungry little sandpipers.

“They are creatures,” said the crab, with a
groan,—”creatures a thousand times larger than
we are. They have strings. They tie up legs
and pull. They throw stones. If you ever see a
boy, run for your life.”

“Good gracious me!” cried both the little sandpipers.
“How very dreadful!”

But there were no boys in sight; so C. Crab
grew sociable, and offered to show them a place
where bugs were plenty. “Just get on my back,”
said he, “and I’ll have you there in no time.”

“OH, MY! HE’S GOING BACKWARDS!”

So they got on his back. It was very wet and
slippery, but they held on with their toes, while C.
Crab gave himself a heave and started.

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Nipsy. “He’s going
backward!”

“He actually is!” cried Pipsy. “At this rate
we’ll get there day before yesterday, wont we?”

“Surely,” said Nipsy. “How very horrid of him
when we are so hungry! What a slow coach!”

“Let’s jump off quick, or he’ll take us clear into
last week!” cried the silly sandpipers, and then
they skipped off and ran down the beach in the
opposite direction. C. Crab called to them, but it
was no use, so he went on his way. But as for the
sandpipers, they went on getting into trouble.
The day was hot, and after they had run some
distance, they stepped into the water to cool off.
Nipsy stepped in first, but the water was up to his
breast and it frightened him, so he stepped out
again.

“Pooh!” said Pipsy. “You’re afraid, YOU are!
Look at me!”

Then he jumped in, and only his head stuck
out.

“THIS IS TWICE AS DEEP AS YOU WERE IN.”

“This is twice as deep as you were in!” he
cried, turning up his bill, and rolling his eyes.

“You’re sitting down, you are!” cried Nipsy,
in scorn.

“I’m not,” said Pipsy.

“You are. I can see your toes all doubled up,
even if the water is muddy,” said Nipsy, and rushed
at him to punish him for bragging.

They both rolled under the water, and then out
on the shore, dripping wet and very angry with
each other.

Pipsy went home to the old bush and was very
miserable. He wanted something to eat, and did
not know where to find anything. Nipsy went
high up the beach, and found a lot of young
hedge-crickets. But he did not half enjoy them.
They were fat and smooth, and he was hungry,
but crickets had no flavor without Pipsy to help eat
them. But he was angry at him yet.

“He must come to me,” he said, sternly, to the
cricket he was eating.

“THERE, IN THE TWILIGHT, HE SAW A LONELY FIGURE STANDING ON ONE LEG.”

The cricket said nothing, being half-way down
his throat, and pretty soon Nipsy could stand his
feelings no longer. Catching up the largest,
smoothest, softest cricket, he ran down to the shore
as fast as his legs could carry him. There, in the
twilight, he saw a lonely figure standing on one leg.

“Pipsy!” he cried.

“Nipsy!” cried Pipsy.

And they flew to each other.

“Here’s a glorious fat cricket for you.”

“Forgive me, Nipsy,” said his brother.

And then they were happy.

UNDER THE LILACS.

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

CHAPTER XIV.

SOMEBODY GETS LOST.

Putting all care behind them, the young folks
ran down the hill, with a very lively dog gamboling
beside them, and took a delightfully tantalizing
survey of the external charms of the big tent. But
people were beginning to go in, and it was impossible
to delay when they came round to the
entrance.

Ben felt that now “his foot was on his native
heath,” and the superb air of indifference with
which he threw down his dollar at the ticket-office,
carelessly swept up the change, and strolled into
the tent with his hands in his pockets, was so
impressive that even big Sam repressed his excitement
and meekly followed their leader, as he led
them from cage to cage, doing the honors as if he
owned the whole concern. Bab held tight to the
tail of his jacket, staring about her with round
eyes, and listening with little gasps of astonishment
or delight to the roaring of lions, the snarling of
tigers, the chatter of the monkeys, the groaning
of camels, and the music of the very brass band
shut up in a red bin.

Five elephants were tossing their hay about in
the middle of the menagerie, and Billy’s legs shook
under him as he looked up at the big beasts whose
long noses and small, sagacious eyes filled him
with awe. Sam was so tickled by the droll monkeys
that they left him before the cage and went on to
see the zebra, “striped just like Ma’s muslin gown,”
Bab declared. But the next minute she forgot all
about him in her raptures over the ponies and their
tiny colts, especially one mite of a thing who lay
asleep on the hay, such a miniature copy of its
little mouse-colored mamma that one could hardly
believe it was alive.

“Oh, Ben, I must feel of it!—the cunning baby
horse!” and down went Bab inside the rope to pat
and admire the pretty creature, while its mother
smelt suspiciously at the brown hat, and baby lazily
opened one eye to see what was going on.

“Come out of that, it isn’t allowed!” commanded
Ben, longing to do the same thing, but
mindful of the proprieties and his own dignity.

Bab reluctantly tore herself away to find consolation
in watching the young lions, who looked so
like big puppies, and the tigers washing their faces
just as puss did.

“If I stroked ’em, wouldn’t they purr?” she
asked, bent on enjoying herself, while Ben held her
skirts lest she should try the experiment.

“You’d better not go to patting them, or you’ll
get your hands clawed up. Tigers do purr like
fun when they are happy, but these fellers never
are, and you’ll only see ’em spit and snarl,” said
Ben, leading the way to the humpy camels, who
were peacefully chewing their cud and longing for
the desert, with a dreamy, far-away look in their
mournful eyes.

Here, leaning on the rope, and scientifically chewing
a straw while he talked, Ben played showman
to his heart’s content till the neigh of a horse from
the circus tent beyond reminded him of the joys
to come.

“We’d better hurry along and get good seats
before folks begin to crowd. I want to sit near the
curtain and see if any of Smithers’s lot are ’round.”

“I aint going way off there; you can’t see half
so well, and that big drum makes such a noise you
can’t hear yourself think,” said Sam, who had
rejoined them.

So they settled in good places where they could
see and hear all that went on in the ring and still
catch glimpses of white horses, bright colors, and the
glitter of helmets beyond the dingy red curtains.
Ben treated Bab to peanuts and pop-corn like an
indulgent parent, and she murmured protestations
of undying gratitude with her mouth full, as she sat
blissfully between him and the congenial Billy.

Sancho, meantime, had been much excited by
the familiar sights and sounds, and now was greatly
exercised in his doggish mind at the unusual proceeding
of his master; for he was sure that they
ought to be within there, putting on their costumes,
ready to take their turn. He looked anxiously at
Ben, sniffed disdainfully at the strap as if to remind
him that a scarlet ribbon ought to take its place,
and poked peanut shells about with his paw as if
searching for the letters with which to spell his
famous name.

“I know, old boy, I know; but it can’t be done.
We’ve quit the business and must just look on.
No larks for us this time, Sanch, so keep quiet and
behave,” whispered Ben, tucking the dog away
under the seat with a sympathetic cuddle of the
curly head that peeped out from between his feet.

“He wants to go and cut up, don’t he?” said
Billy, “and so do you, I guess. Wish you were
going to. Wouldn’t it be fun to see Ben showing
off in there?”

“I’d be afraid to have him go up on a pile of[Page 524]
elephants and jump through hoops like these folks,”
answered Bab, poring over her pictured play-bill
with unabated relish.

“Done it a hundred times, and I’d just like to
show you what I can do. They don’t seem to have
any boys in this lot; shouldn’t wonder if they’d
take me if I asked ’em,” said Ben, moving uneasily
on his seat and casting wistful glances toward the
inner tent where he knew he would feel more at
home than in his present place.

“AT THE CIRCUS”

“I heard some men say that it’s against the law
to have small boys now; it’s so dangerous and not
good for them, this kind of thing. If that’s so,
you’re done for. Ben,” observed Sam, with his most
grown-up air, remembering Ben’s remarks on “fat
boys.”

“Don’t believe a word of it, and Sanch and I
could go this minute and get taken on, I’ll bet.
We are a valuable couple, and I could prove it
if I chose to,” began Ben, getting excited and
boastful.

“Oh, see, they’re coming!—gold carriages and
lovely horses, and flags and elephants, and everything!”
cried Bab, giving a clutch at Ben’s arm
as the opening procession appeared headed by the
band, tooting and banging till their faces were as
red as their uniforms.

Round and round they went till every one had
seen their fill, then the riders alone were left caracoling
about the ring with feathers flying, horses
prancing, and performers looking as tired and
indifferent as if they would all like to go to sleep
then and there.

“How splendid!” sighed Bab, as they went
dashing out, to tumble off almost before the horses
stopped.

“That’s nothing! You wait till you see the bare-back
riding and the ‘acrobatic exercises,'” said Ben,
quoting from the play-bill, with the air of one who
knew all about the feats to come, and could never
be surprised any more.

“What are ‘crowbackic exercises?'” asked
Billy, thirsting for information.

“Leaping and climbing and tumbling; you’ll
see—George! what a stunning horse!” and
Ben forgot everything else to feast his eyes on the
handsome creature who now came pacing in to
dance, upset and replace chairs, kneel, bow, and
perform many wonderful or graceful feats, ending
with a swift gallop while the rider sat in a chair
on its back fanning himself, with his legs crossed,
as comfortably as you please.

“That, now, is something like,” and Ben’s eyes
shone with admiration and envy as the pair vanished,
and the pink and silver acrobats came leaping into
the ring.

The boys were especially interested in this part,
and well they might be; for strength and agility
are manly attributes which lads appreciate, and
these lively fellows flew about like India rubber
balls, each trying to outdo the other, till the leader
of the acrobats capped the climax by turning a
double somersault over five elephants standing side
by side.

“There, sir, how’s that for a jump?” asked
Ben, rubbing his hands with satisfaction as his
friends clapped till their palms tingled.

“We’ll rig up a spring-board and try it,” said
Billy, fired with emulation.

“Where’ll you get your elephants?” asked Sam,[Page 525]
scornfully, for gymnastics were not in his line.

“You’ll do for one,” retorted Ben, and Billy and
Bab joined in his laugh so heartily that a rough-looking
man who sat behind them, hearing all they
said, pronounced them a “jolly set,” and kept his
eye on Sancho, who now showed signs of insubordination.

“Hullo, that wasn’t on the bill!” cried Ben,
as a parti-colored clown came in, followed by half a
dozen dogs.

“I’m so glad; now Sancho will like it. There’s
a poodle that might be his ownty donty brother—the
one with the blue ribbon,” said Bab, beaming
with delight as the dogs took their seats in the
chairs arranged for them.

Sancho did like it only too well, for he scrambled
out from under the seat in a great hurry to go and
greet his friends, and, being sharply checked, set
up and begged so piteously that Ben found it very
hard to refuse and order him down. He subsided
for a moment, but when the black spaniel, who
acted the canine clown, did something funny and
was applauded, Sancho made a dart as if bent on
leaping into the ring to outdo his rival, and Ben
was forced to box his ears and put his feet on the
poor beast, fearing he would be ordered out if he
made any disturbance.

Too well trained to rebel again, Sancho lay
meditating on his wrongs till the dog act was over,
carefully abstaining from any further sign of interest
in their tricks, and only giving a sidelong glance at
the two little poodles who came out of a basket to
run up and down stairs on their fore paws, dance
jigs on their hind legs, and play various pretty
pranks to the great delight of all the children in
the audience. If ever a dog expressed by look and
attitude, “Pooh! I could do much better than
that, and astonish you all, if I was only allowed
to,” that dog was Sancho, as he curled himself up
and affected to turn his back on an unappreciative
world.

“It’s too bad, when he knows more than all
those chaps put together. I’d give anything if I
could show him off as I used to. Folks always
liked it, and I was ever so proud of him. He’s
mad now because I had to cuff him, and wont
take any notice of me till I make up,” said Ben,
regretfully eyeing his offended friend, but not
daring to beg pardon yet.

More riding followed, and Bab was kept in a
breathless state by the marvelous agility and skill
of the gauzy lady who drove four horses at once,
leaped through hoops, over banners and bars,
sprang off and on at full speed, and seemed to
enjoy it all so much it was impossible to believe
that there could be any danger or exertion in it.

Then two girls flew about on the trapeze, and
walked on a tight rope, causing Bab to feel that
she had at last found her sphere, for, young as she
was, her mother often said:

“I really don’t know what this child is fit for,
except mischief, like a monkey.”

“I’ll fix the clothes-line when I get home, and
show Ma how nice it is. Then, may be, she’ll let
me wear red and gold trousers, and climb round
like these girls,” thought the busy little brain,
much excited by all it saw on that memorable day.

Nothing short of a pyramid of elephants with a
glittering gentleman in a turban and top boots on
the summit would have made her forget this new
and charming plan. But that astonishing spectacle
and the prospect of a cage of Bengal tigers with a
man among them, in imminent danger of being
eaten before her eyes, entirely absorbed her
thoughts till, just as the big animals went lumbering
out, a peal of thunder caused considerable
commotion in the audience. Men on the highest
seats popped their heads through the openings in
the tent-cover and reported that a heavy shower
was coming up. Anxious mothers began to collect
their flocks of children as hens do their chickens
at sunset; timid people told cheerful stories of
tents blown over in gales, cages upset and wild
beasts let loose. Many left in haste, and the performers
hurried to finish as soon as possible.

“I’m going now before the crowd comes, so I
can get a lift home. I see two or three folks I
know, so I’m off;” and, climbing hastily down,
Sam vanished without further ceremony.

“Better wait till the shower is over. We can
go and see the animals again, and get home all
dry, just as well as not,” observed Ben, encouragingly,
as Billy looked anxiously at the billowing
canvas over his head, the swaying posts before
him, and heard the quick patter of drops outside,
not to mention the melancholy roar of the lion
which sounded rather awful through the sudden
gloom which filled the strange place.

“I wouldn’t miss the tigers for anything. See,
they are pulling in the cart now, and the shiny
man is all ready with his gun. Will he shoot any
of them, Ben?” asked Bab, nestling nearer with a
little shiver of apprehension, for the sharp crack of
a rifle startled her more than the loudest thunder-clap
she ever heard.

“Bless you, no, child; it’s only powder to make
a noise and scare ’em. I wouldn’t like to be in
his place, though; father says you can never trust
tigers as you can lions, no matter how tame they
are. Sly fellers, like cats, and when they scratch
it’s no joke, I tell you,” answered Ben, with a
knowing wag of the head, as the sides of the cage
rattled down, and the poor, fierce creatures were
seen leaping and snarling as if they resented this[Page 526]
display of their captivity.

Bab curled up her feet and winked fast with
excitement as she watched the “shiny man”
fondle the great cats, lie down among them,
pull open their red mouths, and make them
leap over him or crouch at his feet as he snapped
the long whip. When he fired the gun and they
all fell as if dead, she with difficulty suppressed a
small scream and clapped her hands over her ears;
but poor Billy never minded it a bit, for he was
pale and quaking with the fear of “heaven’s
artillery” thundering over head, and as a bright
flash of lightning seemed to run down the tall
tent-poles he hid his eyes and wished with all his
heart that he was safe with mother.

“‘Fraid of thunder, Bill?” asked Ben, trying to
speak stoutly, while a sense of his own responsibilities
began to worry him, for how was Bab to be
got home in such a pouring rain.

“It makes me sick; always did. Wish I hadn’t
come,” sighed Billy, feeling, all too late, that
lemonade and “lozengers” were not the fittest
food for man, or a stifling tent the best place to be
in on a hot July day, especially in a thunder-storm.

“I didn’t ask you to come; you asked me; so
it isn’t my fault,” said Ben, rather gruffly, as
people crowded by without pausing to hear the
comic song the clown was singing in spite of the
confusion.

“Oh, I’m so tired,” groaned Bab, getting up
with a long stretch of arms and legs.

“You’ll be tireder before you get home, I guess.
Nobody asked you to come, anyway;” and Ben
gazed dolefully round him wishing he could see a
familiar face or find a wiser head than his own to
help him out of the scrape he was in.

“I said I wouldn’t be a bother, and I wont.
I’ll walk right home this minute, I aint afraid of
thunder, and the rain wont hurt these old clothes.
Come along,” cried Bab, bravely, bent on keeping
her word, though it looked much harder after the
fun was all over than before.

“My head aches like fury. Don’t I wish old
Jack was here to take me back,” said Billy, following
his companions in misfortune with sudden
energy, as a louder peal than before rolled overhead.

“You might as well wish for Lita and the
covered wagon while you are about it, then we
could all ride,” answered Ben, leading the way to
the outer tent, where many people were lingering
in hopes of fair weather.

“Why, Billy Barton, how in the world did you
get here?” cried a surprised voice, as the crook of
a cane caught the boy by the collar and jerked him
face to face with a young farmer, who was pushing
along followed by his wife and two or three
children.

“Oh, Uncle Eben, I’m so glad you found me!
I walked over, and it’s raining, and I don’t feel
well. Let me go with you, can’t I?” asked Billy,
casting himself and all his woes upon the strong
arm that had laid hold of him.

“Don’t see what your mother was about to let
you come so far alone, and you just over scarlet
fever. We are as full as ever we can be, but we’ll
tuck you in somehow,” said the pleasant-faced
woman, bundling up her baby, and bidding the
two little lads “keep close to father.”

“I didn’t come alone. Sam got a ride, and
can’t you tuck Ben and Bab in too? They aint
very big, either of them,” whispered Billy, anxious
to serve his friends now that he was provided for
himself.

“Can’t do it, anyway. Got to pick up mother
at the corner, and that will be all I can carry. It’s
lifting a little; hurry along, Lizzie, and let us get
out of this as quick as possible,” said Uncle Eben,
impatiently; for going to a circus with a young
family is not an easy task, as every one knows who
has ever tried it.

“Ben, I’m real sorry there isn’t room for you.
I’ll tell Bab’s mother where she is, and may be
some one will come for you,” said Billy, hurriedly,
as he tore himself away, feeling rather mean to
desert the others, though he could be of no use.

“Cut away and don’t mind us. I’m all right,
and Bab must do the best she can,” was all Ben
had time to answer before his comrade was hustled
away by the crowd pressing round the entrance
with much clashing of umbrellas and scrambling
of boys and men, who rather enjoyed the flurry.

“No use for us to get knocked about in that
scrimmage. We’ll wait a minute and then go out
easy. It’s a regular rouser, and you’ll be as wet
as a sop before we get home. Hope you’ll like
that?” added Ben, looking out at the heavy rain
pouring down as if it never meant to stop.

“Don’t care a bit,” said Bab, swinging on one
of the ropes with a happy-go-lucky air, for her
spirits were not extinguished yet, and she was
bound to enjoy this exciting holiday to the very
end. “I like circuses so much! I wish I lived
here all the time, and slept in a wagon, as you did,
and had these dear little colties to play with.”

“It wouldn’t be fun if you didn’t have any folks
to take care of you,” began Ben, thoughtfully looking
about the familiar place where the men were
now feeding the animals, setting their refreshment
tables, or lounging on the hay to get such rest as
they could before the evening entertainment.
Suddenly he started, gave a long look, then turned
to Bab, and thrusting Sancho’s strap into her
hand, said, hastily: “I see a fellow I used to know.[Page 527]
May be he can tell me something about father.
Don’t you stir till I come back.”

Then he was off like a shot, and Bab saw him
run after a man with a bucket who had been watering
the zebra. Sancho tried to follow, but was
checked with an impatient:

“No, you can’t go! What a plague you are,
tagging around when people don’t want you.”

Sancho might have answered, “So are you,” but,
being a gentlemanly dog, he sat down with a
resigned expression to watch the little colts, who
were now awake and seemed ready for a game of
bo-peep behind their mammas. Bab enjoyed their
funny little frisks so much that she tied the wearisome
strap to a post and crept under the rope to
pet the tiny mouse-colored one who came and
talked to her with baby whinneys and confiding
glances of its soft, dark eyes.

Oh, luckless Bab! why did you turn your back?
Oh, too accomplished Sancho! why did you neatly
untie that knot and trot away to confer with the
disreputable bull-dog who stood in the entrance
beckoning with friendly wavings of an abbreviated
tail? Oh, much afflicted Ben! why did you delay
till it was too late to save your pet from the rough
man who set his foot upon the trailing strap and
led poor Sanch quickly out of sight among the
crowd.

“It was Bascum, but he didn’t know anything.
Why, where’s Sanch?” said Ben, returning.

A breathless voice made Bab turn to see Ben
looking about him with as much alarm in his hot
face as if the dog had been a two years’ child.

“I tied him—he’s here somewhere—with the
ponies,” stammered Bab, in sudden dismay, for no
sign of a dog appeared as her eyes roved wildly to
and fro.

Ben whistled, called and searched in vain, till
one of the lounging men said, lazily:

“If you are looking after the big poodle you’d
better go outside; I saw him trotting off with
another dog.”

Away rushed Ben, with Bab following, regardless
of the rain, for both felt that a great misfortune
had befallen them. But, long before this, Sancho
had vanished, and no one minded his indignant
howls as he was driven off in a covered cart.

“If he is lost I’ll never forgive you; never,
never, never!” and Ben found it impossible to resist
giving Bab several hard shakes which made her
yellow braids fly up and down like pump handles.

“I’m dreadful sorry. He’ll come back—you
said he always did,” pleaded Bab, quite crushed
by her own afflictions, and rather scared to see
Ben look so fierce, for he seldom lost his temper or
was rough with the little girls.

“If he doesn’t come back, don’t you speak to
me for a year. Now, I’m going home.” And,
feeling that words were powerless to express his
emotions, Ben walked away, looking as grim as a
small boy could.

A more unhappy little lass is seldom to be found
than Bab was, as she pattered after him, splashing
recklessly through the puddles, and getting as wet
and muddy as possible, as a sort of penance for her
sins. For a mile or two she trudged stoutly along,
while Ben marched before in solemn silence, which
soon became both impressive and oppressive because
so unusual, and such a proof of his deep displeasure.
Penitent Bab longed for just one word, one sign of
relenting; and when none came, she began to
wonder how she could possibly bear it if he kept
his dreadful threat and did not speak to her for a
whole year.

But presently her own discomfort absorbed her,
for her feet were wet and cold as well as very tired;
pop-corn and peanuts were not particularly nourishing
food, and hunger made her feel faint;
excitement was a new thing, and now that it was
over she longed to lie down and go to sleep; then
the long walk with a circus at the end seemed a
very different affair from the homeward trip with a
distracted mother awaiting her. The shower had
subsided into a dreary drizzle, a chilly east wind
blew up, the hilly road seemed to lengthen before
the weary feet, and the mute, blue flannel figure
going on so fast with never a look or sound, added
the last touch to Bab’s remorseful anguish.

Wagons passed, but all were full, and no one
offered a ride. Men and boys went by with rough
jokes on the forlorn pair, for rain soon made them
look like young tramps. But there was no brave
Sancho to resent the impertinence, and this fact
was sadly brought to both their minds by the
appearance of a great Newfoundland dog who
came trotting after a carriage. The good creature
stopped to say a friendly word in his dumb fashion,
looking up at Bab with benevolent eyes, and
poking his nose into Ben’s hand before he bounded
away with his plumy tail curled over his back.

Ben started as the cold nose touched his fingers,
gave the soft head a lingering pat, and watched
the dog out of sight through a thicker mist than
any the rain made. But Bab broke down; for the
wistful look of the creature’s eyes reminded her of
lost Sancho, and she sobbed quietly as she glanced
back longing to see the dear old fellow jogging
along in the rear.

Ben heard the piteous sound and took a sly peep
over his shoulder, seeing such a mournful spectacle
that he felt appeased, saying to himself as if to
excuse his late sternness:

“She is a naughty girl, but I guess she is about
sorry enough now. When we get to that sign-post [Page 528]
I’ll speak to her, only I wont forgive her till Sanch
comes back.”

But he was better than his word; for, just before
the post was reached, Bab, blinded by tears, tripped
over the root of a tree, and, rolling down the bank,
landed in a bed of wet nettles. Ben had her out in
a jiffy, and vainly tried to comfort her; but she was
past any consolation he could offer, and roared dismally
as she wrung her tingling hands, with great
drops running over her cheeks almost as fast as the
muddy little rills ran down the road.

“Oh dear, oh dear! I’m all stinged up, and I
want my supper; and my feet ache, and I’m cold,
and everything is so horrid!” wailed the poor child
lying on the grass, such a miserable little wet bunch
that the sternest parent would have melted at the
sight.

“Don’t cry so, Babby; I was real cross, and I’m
sorry. I’ll forgive you right away now, and never
shake you any more,” cried Ben, so full of pity for
her tribulations that he forgot his own, like a generous
little man.

“Shake me again, if you want to; I know I was
very bad to tag and lose Sanch. I never will any
more, and I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to do,”
answered Bab, completely bowed down by this
magnanimity.

“Never mind; you just wipe up your face and
come along, and we’ll tell Ma all about it, and
she’ll fix us as nice as can be. I shouldn’t wonder
if Sanch got home now before we did,” said Ben,
cheering himself as well as her by the fond hope.

“I don’t believe I ever shall, I’m so tired my
legs wont go, and the water in my boots makes
them feel dreadfully. I wish that boy would wheel
me a piece. Don’t you s’pose he would?” asked
Bab, wearily picking herself up as a tall lad trundling
a barrow came out of a yard near by.

“Hullo, Joslyn!” said Ben, recognizing the boy
as one of the “hill fellows” who come to town
Saturday nights for play or business.

“Hullo, Brown,” responded the other, arresting
his squeaking progress with signs of surprise at the
moist tableau before him.

“Where goin’?” asked Ben with masculine
brevity.

“Got to carry this home, hang the old thing!”

“Where to?”

“Batchelor’s, down yonder,” and the boy pointed
to a farm-house at the foot of the next hill.

“Goin’ that way, take it right along.”

“What for?” questioned the prudent youth,
distrusting such unusual neighborliness.

“She’s tired, wants a ride; I’ll leave it all right,
true as I live and breathe,” explained Ben, half
ashamed yet anxious to get his little responsibility
home as soon as possible, for mishaps seemed to
thicken.

“Ho, you couldn’t cart her all that way! she’s
most as heavy as a bag of meal,” jeered the taller
lad, amused at the proposition.

“I’m stronger than most fellers of my size.
Try, if I aint,” and Ben squared off in such scientific
style that Joslyn responded with sudden
amiability:

“All right, let’s see you do it.”

Bab huddled into her new equipage without
the least fear, and Ben trundled her off at a good
pace, while the boy retired to the shelter of the
barn to watch their progress, glad to be rid of an
irksome errand.

At first, all went well, for the way was down hill,
and the wheel squeaked briskly round and round;
Bab smiled gratefully upon her bearer, and Ben
“went in on his muscle with a will,” as he expressed
it. But presently the road grew sandy, began to
ascend, and the load seemed to grow heavier with
every step.

“I’ll get out now. It’s real nice, but I guess I
am too heavy,” said Bab, as the face before her got
redder and redder, and the breath began to come
in puffs.

“Sit still. He said I couldn’t. I’m not going
to give in with him looking on,” panted Ben, and
pushed gallantly up the rise, over the grassy lawn
to the side gate of the Batchelors’ door-yard, with
his head down, teeth set, and every muscle of his
slender body braced to the task.

“Did ever ye see the like of that now? Ah, ha!

‘The streets were so wide, and the lanes were so narry,
He brought his wife home on a little wheelbarry,'”

sung a voice with an accent which made Ben drop
his load and push back his hat, to see Pat’s red
head looking over the fence.

To have his enemy behold him then and there
was the last bitter drop in poor Ben’s cup of humiliation.
A shrill approving whistle from the hill
was some comfort, however, and gave him spirit to
help Bab out with composure, though his hands
were blistered and he had hardly breath enough to
issue the command:

“Go along home, and don’t mind him.”

“Nice childer, ye are, runnin’ off this way, settin’
the women disthracted, and me wastin’ me
time comin’ after ye when I’d be milkin’ airly so
I’d get a bit of pleasure the day,” grumbled Pat,
coming up to untie the Duke, whose Roman nose
Ben had already recognized, as well as the roomy
chaise standing before the door.

“Did Billy tell you about us?” asked Bab, gladly
following toward this welcome refuge.

“Faith he did, and the Squire sint me to fetch
ye home quiet and aisy. When ye found me, I’d jist[Page 529]
stopped here to borry a light for me pipe. Up wid
ye, b’y, and not be wastin’ me time stramashin’
afther a spalpeen that I’d like to lay me whip
over,” said Pat, gruffly, as Ben came along, having
left the barrow in the shed.

“Don’t you wish you could? You needn’t wait
for me; I’ll come when I’m ready,” answered Ben,
dodging round the chaise, bound not to mind Pat,
if he spent the night by the road-side in consequence.

“Bedad, and I wont then. It’s lively ye are;
but four legs is better than two, as ye’ll find this
night, me young mon!”

With that he whipped up and was off before Bab
could say a word to persuade Ben to humble himself
for the sake of a ride. She lamented and Pat
chuckled, both forgetting what an agile monkey
the boy was, and as neither looked back, they were
unaware that Master Ben was hanging on behind
among the straps and springs, making derisive
grimaces at his unconscious foe through the little
glass in the leathern back.

At the lodge gate Ben jumped down to run
before with whoops of naughty satisfaction, which
brought the anxious waiters to the door in a flock;
so Pat could only shake his fist at the exulting little
rascal as he drove away, leaving the wanderers to
be welcomed as warmly as if they were a pair of
model children.

Mrs. Moss had not been very much troubled
after all; for Cy had told her that Bab went after
Ben, and Billy had lately reported her safe arrival
among them, so, mother-like, she fed, dried,
and warmed the runaways, before she scolded
them.

Even then, the lecture was a mild one, for when
they tried to tell the adventures which to them
seemed so exciting, not to say tragical, the effect
astonished them immensely, as their audience went
into gales of laughter, especially at the wheelbarrow
episode, which Bab insisted on telling, with grateful
minuteness, to Ben’s confusion. Thorny shouted,
and even tender-hearted Betty forgot her tears
over the lost dog to join in the familiar melody
when Bab mimicked Pat’s quotation from Mother
Goose.

“We must not laugh any more, or these naughty
children will think they have done something very
clever in running away,” said Miss Celia, when the
fun subsided, adding soberly, “I am displeased,
but I will say nothing, for I think Ben is already
punished enough.”

“Guess I am,” muttered Ben, with a choke in
his voice as he glanced toward the empty mat
where a dear curly bunch used to lie with a bright
eye twinkling out of the middle of it.

CHAPTER XV.

BEN’S RIDE.

Great was the mourning for Sancho, because
his talents and virtues made him universally admired
and beloved. Miss Celia advertised, Thorny
offered rewards, and even surly Pat kept a sharp
look-out for poodle dogs when he went to market;
but no Sancho or any trace of him appeared. Ben
was inconsolable, and sternly said it served Bab
right when the dog-wood poison affected both face
and hands. Poor Bab thought so, too, and
dared ask no sympathy from him, though Thorny
eagerly prescribed plantain leaves, and Betty kept
her supplied with an endless succession of them
steeped in cream and pitying tears. This treatment
was so successful that the patient soon took
her place in society as well as ever, but for Ben’s
affliction there was no cure, and the boy really
suffered in his spirits.

“I don’t think it’s fair that I should have so
much trouble—first losing father and then Sanch.
If it wasn’t for Lita and Miss Celia, I don’t believe
I could stand it,” he said, one day, in a fit of
despair, about a week after the sad event.

“Oh, come now, don’t give up so, old fellow.
We’ll find him if he’s alive, and if he isn’t I’ll try
and get you another as good,” answered Thorny,
with a friendly slap on the shoulder, as Ben sat
disconsolately among the beans he had been[Page 530]
hoeing.

“As if there ever could be another half as good!”
cried Ben, indignant at the idea; “or as if I’d ever
try to fill his place with the best and biggest dog
that ever wagged a tail! No, sir, there’s only one
Sanch in all the world, and if I can’t have him I’ll
never have a dog again.”

“Try some other sort of a pet, then. You may
have any of mine you like. Have the peacocks; do
now,” urged Thorny, full of boyish sympathy and
good-will.

“They are dreadful pretty, but I don’t seem to
care about ’em, thank you,” replied the mourner.

“Have the rabbits, all of them,” which was a
handsome offer on Thorny’s part, for there were a
dozen at least.

“They don’t love a fellow as a dog does; all
they care for is stuff to eat and dirt to burrow in.
I’m sick of rabbits.” And well he might be, for
he had had the charge of them ever since they
came, and any boy who has ever kept bunnies
knows what a care they are.

“So am I! Guess we’ll have an auction and
sell out. Would Jack be a comfort to you? If he
will, you may have him. I’m so well now, I can
walk, or ride anything,” added Thorny, in a burst
of generosity.

“Jack couldn’t be with me always, as Sanch
was, and I couldn’t keep him if I had him.”

Ben tried to be grateful, but nothing short of
Lita would have healed his wounded heart, and
she was not Thorny’s to give, or he would probably
have offered her to his afflicted friend.

“Well, no, you couldn’t take Jack to bed with
you, or keep him up in your room, and I’m afraid
he would never learn to do anything clever. I do
wish I had something you wanted, I’d so love to
give it to you.”

He spoke so heartily and was so kind that Ben
looked up, feeling that he had given him one of
the sweetest things in the world—friendship; he
wanted to tell him so, but did not know how to do
it, so caught up his hoe and fell to work, saying, in
a tone Thorny understood better than words:

“You are real good to me—never mind, I wont
worry about it; only it seems extra hard coming so
soon after the other——”

He stopped there, and a bright drop fell on the
bean leaves, to shine like dew till Ben saw clearly
enough to bury it out of sight in a great hurry.

“By Jove! I’ll find that dog, if he is out of the
ground. Keep your spirits up, my lad, and we’ll
have the dear old fellow back yet.”

With which cheering prophecy Thorny went off
to rack his brains as to what could be done about
the matter.

Half an hour afterward, the sound of a hand-organ
in the avenue roused him from the brown
study into which he had fallen as he lay on the
newly mown grass of the lawn. Peeping over the
wall, Thorny reconnoitered, and, finding the organ
a good one, the man a pleasant-faced Italian, and
the monkey a lively animal, he ordered them all
in, as a delicate attention to Ben, for music and
monkey together might suggest soothing memories
of the past, and so be a comfort.

In they came by way of the Lodge, escorted by
Bab and Betty, full of glee, for hand-organs were
rare in those parts, and the children delighted in
them. Smiling till his white teeth shone and his
black eyes sparkled, the man played away while
the monkey made his pathetic little bows, and
picked up the pennies Thorny threw him.

“It is warm, and you look tired. Sit down and
I’ll get you some dinner,” said the young master,
pointing to the seat which now stood near the
great gate.

With thanks in broken English the man gladly
obeyed, and Ben begged to be allowed to make
Jacko equally comfortable, explaining that he knew
all about monkeys and what they liked. So
the poor thing was freed from his cocked hat and
uniform, fed with bread and milk, and allowed to
curl himself up in the cool grass for a nap, looking
so like a tired little old man in a fur coat that the
children were never weary of watching him.

Meantime, Miss Celia had come out, and was
talking Italian to Giacomo in a way that delighted
his homesick heart. She had been to Naples, and
could understand his longing for the lovely city of
his birth, so they had a little chat in the language
which is all music, and the good fellow was so
grateful that he played for the children to dance
till they were glad to stop, lingering afterward as
if he hated to set out again upon his lonely, dusty
walk.

“I’d rather like to tramp round with him for a
week or so. Could make enough to live on as easy
as not, if I only had Sanch to show off,” said Ben, as
he was coaxing Jacko into the suit which he detested.

“You go wid me, yes?” asked the man, nodding
and smiling, well pleased at the prospect of
company, for his quick eye and what the boys let
fall in their talk showed him that Ben was not one
of them.

“If I had my dog I’d love to,” and with sad
eagerness Ben told the tale of his loss, for the
thought of it was never long out of his mind.

“I tink I see droll dog like he, way off in New
York. He do leetle trick wid letter, and dance,
and go on he head, and many tings to make laugh,”
said the man, when he had listened to a list of
Sanch’s beauties and accomplishments.

“Who had him?” asked Thorny, full of interest[Page 531]
at once.

“A man I not know. Cross fellow what beat
him when he do letters bad.

“Did he spell his name?” cried Ben, breathlessly.

“No, that for why man beat him. He name
Generale, and he go spell Sancho all times, and
cry when whip fall on him. Ha! yes! that name
true one, not Generale?” and the man nodded,
waved his hands and showed his teeth, almost as
much excited as the boys.

“It’s Sanch! let’s go and get him, now, right
off!” cried Ben, in a fever to be gone.

“A hundred miles away, and no clue but this
man’s story? We must wait a little, Ben, and be
sure before we set out,” said Miss Celia, ready to do
almost anything, but not so certain as the boys.
“What sort of a dog was it? A large, curly,
white poodle, with a queer tail?” she asked of
Giacomo.

“No, Signorina mia, he no curly, no wite, he
black, smooth dog, littel tail, small, so,” and the
man held up one brown finger with a gesture which
suggested a short, wagging tail.

“There, you see how mistaken we were. Dogs
are often named Sancho, especially Spanish poodles,
for the original Sancho was a Spaniard, you know.
This dog is not ours, and I’m so sorry.”

The boys faces had fallen dismally as their hope
was destroyed; but Ben would not give up, for
him there was and could be only one Sancho in
the world, and his quick wits suggested an explanation
which no one else thought of.

“It may be my dog—they color ’em as we used
to paint over trick horses. I told you he was a
valuable chap, and those that stole him hide him
that way, else he’d be no use, don’t you see,
because we’d know him.”

“But the black dog had no tail,” began Thorny,
longing to be convinced, but still doubtful.

Ben shivered as if the mere thought hurt him, as
he said, in a grim tone:

“They might have cut Sanch’s off.”

“Oh, no! no! they mustn’t, they wouldn’t!”

“How could any one be so wicked?” cried Bab
and Betty, horrified at the suggestion.

“You don’t know what such fellows would do to
make all safe, so they could use a dog to earn their
living for ’em,” said Ben, with mysterious significance,
quite forgetting in his wrath that he had
just proposed to get his own living in that way
himself.

“He no your dog? Sorry I not find him for
you. Addio, signorina! Grazia, signor! Buon
giorno, buon giorno,” and, kissing his hand, the
Italian shouldered organ and monkey, ready to go.

Miss Celia detained him long enough to give him
her address, and beg him to let her know if he met
poor Sanch in any of his wanderings, for such
itinerant showmen often cross each other’s paths.
Ben and Thorny walked to the school-corner with
him, getting more exact information about the
black dog and his owner, for they had no intention
of giving it up so soon.

That very evening, Thorny wrote to a boy cousin
in New York giving all the particulars of the case,
and begging him to hunt up the man, investigate
the dog, and see that the police made sure that
everything was right. Much relieved by this performance,
the boys waited anxiously for a reply,
and when it came found little comfort in it. Cousin
Horace had done his duty like a man, but regretted
that he could only report a failure. The owner of
the black poodle was a suspicious character, but
told a straight story, how he had bought the dog
from a stranger, and exhibited him with success
till he was stolen. Knew nothing of his history and
was very sorry to lose him, for he was a remarkably
clever beast.

“I told my dog man to look about for him, but
he says he has probably been killed, with ever so
many more, so there is an end of it, and I call it a
mean shame.”

“Good for Horace! I told you he’d do it up
thoroughly and see the end of it,” said Thorny, as
he read that paragraph in the deeply interesting
letter.

“May be the end of that dog, but not of mine.
I’ll bet he ran away, and if it was Sanch he’ll
come home. You see if he doesn’t,” cried Ben,
refusing to believe that all was over.

“A hundred miles off? Oh, he couldn’t find
you without help, smart as he is,” answered Thorny,
incredulously.

Ben looked discouraged, but Miss Celia cheered
him up again by saying:

“Yes, he could. My father had a friend who
kept a little dog in Paris, and the creature found
her in Milan and died of fatigue next day. That
was very wonderful, but true, and I’ve no doubt
that if Sanch is alive he will come home. Let us
hope so, and be happy while we wait.”

“We will!” said the boys, and day after day
looked for the wanderer’s return, kept a bone ready
in the old place if he should arrive at night, and
shook his mat to keep it soft for his weary bones
when he came. But weeks passed, and still no
Sanch.

Something else happened, however, so absorbing
that he was almost forgotten for a time, and Ben
found a way to repay a part of all he owed his best
friend.

Miss Celia went off for a ride one afternoon, and
an hour afterward, as Ben sat in the porch reading,[Page 532]
Lita dashed into the yard with the reins dangling
about her legs, the saddle turned round, and one
side covered with black mud, showing that she had
been down. For a minute, Ben’s heart stood still,
then he flung away his book, ran to the horse, and
saw at once by her heaving flanks, dilated nostrils
and wet coat, that she must have come a long
way and at full speed.

“She has had a fall, but isn’t hurt or frightened,”
thought the boy, as the pretty creature rubbed her
nose against his shoulder, pawed the ground and
champed her bit, as if she tried to tell him all
about the disaster, whatever it was.

“Lita, where’s Miss Celia?” he asked, looking
straight into the intelligent eyes, which were
troubled but not wild.

Lita threw up her head and neighed loud and
clear as if she called her mistress, and turning,
would have gone again if Ben had not caught the
reins and held her.

“All right, we’ll find her;” and, pulling off the
broken saddle, kicking away his shoes, and ramming
his hat firmly on, Ben was up like a flash,
tingling all over with a sense of power as he felt
the bare back between his knees, and caught the
roll of Lita’s eye as she looked round with an air of
satisfaction.

“Hi, there! Mrs. Moss! Something has happened
to Miss Celia, and I’m going to find her.
Thorny is asleep; tell him easy, and I’ll come
back as soon as I can.”

Then, giving Lita her head, he was off before the
startled woman had time to do more than wring
her hands and cry out:

“Go for the Squire! Oh, what shall we do?”

As if she knew exacty what was wanted of her,
Lita went back the way she had come, as Ben
could see by the fresh, irregular tracks that cut up
the road where she had galloped for help. For a
mile or more they went, then she paused at a
pair of bars which were let down to allow the carts
to pass into the wide hay-fields beyond. On she
went again cantering across the new-mown turf
toward a brook, across which she had evidently
taken a leap before; for, on the further side, at a
place where cattle went to drink, the mud showed
signs of a fall.

“You were a fool to try there, but where is Miss
Celia?” said Ben, who talked to animals as if they
were people, and was understood much better than
any one not used to their companionship would
imagine.

BEN AND LITA AT THE BROOK.

Now Lita seemed at a loss, and put her head
down as if she expected to find her mistress where
she had left her, somewhere on the ground. Ben
called, but there was no answer, and he rode
slowly along the brook-side, looking far and wide
with anxious eyes.

“May be she wasn’t hurt, and has gone to that
house to wait,” thought the boy, pausing for a last
survey of the great, sunny field, which had no
place of shelter in it but one rock on the other side
of the little stream. As his eye wandered over it,
something dark seemed to blow out from behind
it, as if the wind played in the folds of a skirt, or a
human limb moved. Away went Lita, and in a
moment Ben had found Miss Celia, lying in the
shadow of the rock, so white and motionless he
feared that she was dead. He leaped down,
touched her, spoke to her, and receiving no answer,
rushed away to bring a little water in his leaky hat
to sprinkle in her face, as he had seen them do
when any of the riders got a fall in the circus, or
fainted from exhaustion after they left the ring,
where “do or die” was the motto all adopted.

In a minute, the blue eyes opened, and she recognized
the anxious face bending over her, saying
faintly, as she touched it:

“My good little Ben, I knew you’d find me—I
sent Lita for you—I’m so hurt I couldn’t come.”

“Oh, where? What shall I do? Had I better
run up to the house?” asked Ben, overjoyed to
hear her speak, but much dismayed by her seeming
helplessness, for he had seen bad falls, and had
them, too.

“I feel bruised all over, and my arm is broken,
I’m afraid. Lita tried not to hurt me. She
slipped, and we went down. I came here into the
shade, and the pain made me faint, I suppose.
Call somebody, and get me home.”

Then, she shut her eyes, and looked so white that
Ben hurried away and burst upon old Mrs. Paine,
placidly knitting at the end door, so suddenly that,
as she afterward said, “it sca’t her like a clap o’
thunder.”

“Aint a man nowheres around. All down in
the big medder gettin’ in hay,” was her reply to
Ben’s breathless demand for “everybody to come
and see to Miss Celia.”

He turned to mount, for he had flung himself off
before Lita stopped, but the old lady caught his
jacket and asked half a dozen questions in a breath.

“Who’s your folks? What’s broke? How’d
she fall? Where is she? Why didn’t she come
right here? Is it a sunstroke?”

As fast as words could tumble out of his mouth
Ben answered, and then tried to free himself, but
the old lady held on while she gave her directions,
expressed her sympathy, and offered her hospitality
with incoherent warmth.

“Sakes alive! poor dear! Fetch her right in.
Liddy, get out the camphire, and Melissy, you
haul down a bed to lay her on. Falls is dretful
uncert’in things; shouldn’t wonder if her back was[Page 533]
broke. Father’s down yender, and he and Bijah
will see to her. You go call ’em, and I’ll blow the
horn to start ’em up. Tell her we’ll be pleased to
see her, and it wont make a mite of trouble.”

Ben heard no more, for as Mrs. Paine turned to
take down the tin horn he was up and away.

Several long and dismal toots sent Lita galloping
through the grassy path as the sound of the trumpet
excites a war-horse, and “father and Bijah,” alarmed
by the signal at that hour, leaned on their rakes to
survey with wonder the distracted-looking little
horseman approaching like a whirlwind.

“Guess likely grandpa’s had ‘nother stroke.
Told ’em to send over soon’s ever it come,” said
the farmer calmly.

“Shouldn’t wonder ef suthing was afire some’r’s,”
conjectured the hired man, surveying the horizon for
a cloud of smoke.

Instead of advancing to meet the messenger,
both stood like statues in blue overalls and red
flannel shirts, till the boy arrived and told his
tale.

“Sho, that’s bad,” said the farmer, anxiously.

“That brook always was the darndest place,”
added Bijah, then both men bestirred themselves
helpfully, the former hurrying to Miss Celia while
the latter brought up the cart and made a bed of
hay to lay her on.

“Now then, boy, you go for the doctor. My
women folks will see to the lady, and she’d better
keep quiet up yender till we see what the matter
is,” said the farmer, when the pale girl was lifted
in as carefully as four strong arms could do it.
“Hold on,” he added, as Ben made one leap to
Lita’s back. “You’ll have to go to Berryville.
Dr. Mills is a master hand for broken bones and old
Dr. Babcock aint. ‘Tisn’t but about three mile
from here to his house, and you’ll fetch him ‘fore
there’s any harm done waitin’.”

“Don’t kill Lita,” called Miss Celia from the cart,
as it began to move.

But Ben did not hear her, for he was off across
the fields, riding as if life and death depended upon
his speed.

“That boy will break his neck!” said Mr. Paine,
standing still to watch horse and rider go over the
wall as if bent on instant destruction.

“No fear for Ben, he can ride anything, and
Lita was trained to leap,” answered Miss Celia,
falling back on the hay with a groan, for she had
involuntarily raised her head to see her little squire
dash away in gallant style.

“I should hope so; regular jockey, that boy.
Never see anything like it out of a race-ground,”
and farmer Paine strode on, still following with his
eye the figures that went thundering over the
bridge, up the hill, out of sight, leaving a cloud of
dust behind.

Now that his mistress was safe, Ben enjoyed that
wild ride mightily, and so did the bay mare; for
Lita had good blood in her, and proved it that day
by doing her three miles in a wonderfully short
time. People jogging along in wagons and country
carry-alls, stared amazed as the reckless pair went
by. Women, placidly doing their afternoon sewing
at the front windows, dropped their needles to run
out with exclamations of alarm, sure some one
was being run away with; children playing by the
roadside scattered like chickens before a hawk, as
Ben passed with a warning whoop, and baby-carriages
were scrambled into door-yards with perilous
rapidity at his approach.

But when he clattered into town, intense interest
was felt in this bare-footed boy on the foaming
steed, and a dozen voices asked, “Who’s killed?”
as he pulled up at the doctor’s gate.

“Jest drove off that way; Mrs. Flynn’s baby’s
in a fit,” cried a stout lady from the piazza, never
ceasing to rock, though several passers-by paused
to hear the news, for she was a doctor’s wife, and
used to the arrival of excited messengers from all
quarters at all hours of the day and night.

Deigning no reply to any one, Ben rode away,
wishing he could leap a yawning gulf, scale a
precipice, or ford a raging torrent, to prove his
devotion to Miss Celia, and his skill in horsemanship.
But no dangers beset his path, and he found
the doctor pausing to water his tired horse at the
very trough where Bab and Sancho had been discovered
on that ever-memorable day. The story
was quickly told, and, promising to be there as
soon as possible, Dr. Mills drove on to relieve
baby Flynn’s inner man, a little disturbed by a
bit of soap and several buttons, upon which he had
privately lunched while his mamma was busy at
the wash-tub.

Ben thanked his stars, as he had already done
more than once, that he knew how to take care
for a horse; for he delayed by the watering-place
long enough to wash out Lita’s mouth with a handful
of wet grass, to let her have one swallow to
clear her dusty throat, and then went slowly back
over the breezy hills, patting and praising the
good creature for her intelligence and speed. She
knew well enough that she had been a clever
little mare, and tossed her head, arched her glossy
neck, and ambled daintily along, as conscious and
coquettish as a pretty woman, looking round at
her admiring rider to return his compliments by
glances of affection, and caressing sniffs of a velvet
nose at his bare feet.

Miss Celia had been laid comfortably in bed by
the farmer’s wife and daughters, and, when the
doctor arrived, bore the setting of her arm bravely.[Page 534]
No other serious damage appeared, and bruises
soon heal, so Ben was sent home to comfort Thorny
with a good report, and ask the squire to drive up
in his big carry-all for her the next day, if she was
able to be moved.

Mrs. Moss had been wise enough to say nothing,
but quietly made what preparations she could, and
waited for tidings. Bab and Betty were away
berrying, so no one had alarmed Thorny, and he
had his afternoon nap in peace,—an unusually long
one, owing to the stillness which prevailed in the
absence of the children; and when he awoke he lay
reading for a while before he began to wonder
where every one was. Lounging out to see, he
found Ben and Lita reposing side by side on the
fresh straw in the loose box, which had been made
for her in the coach-house. By the pails, sponges
and curry-combs lying about, it was evident that
she had been refreshed by a careful washing and
rubbing down, and my lady was now luxuriously
resting after her labors, with her devoted groom
half asleep close by.

“Well, of all queer boys you are the queerest,
to spend this hot afternoon fussing over Lita, just
for the fun of it!” cried Thorny, looking in at
them with much amusement.

“If you knew what we’d been doing you’d think
I ought to fuss over her, and both of us had a right
to rest!” answered Ben, rousing up as bright as a
button; for he longed to tell his thrilling tale, and
had with difficulty been restrained from bursting in
on Thorny as soon as he arrived.

He made short work of the story, but was quite
satisfied with the sensation it produced; for his
listener was startled, relieved, excited and charmed,
in such rapid succession, that he was obliged to sit
upon the meal chest and get his breath before he
could exclaim, with an emphatic demonstration of
his heels against the bin:

“Ben Brown, I’ll never forget what you’ve done
for Celia this day, or say ‘bow-legs’ again as long
as I live!”

“George! I felt as if I had six legs when we
were going the pace. We were all one piece, and
had a jolly spin, didn’t we, my beauty?” and Ben
chuckled as he took Lita’s head in his lap, while
she answered with a gusty sigh that nearly blew
him away.

“Like the fellow that brought the good news
from Ghent to Aix,” said Thorny, surveying the
recumbent pair with great admiration.

“What fellow?” asked Ben, wondering if he
didn’t mean Sheridan, of whose ride he had heard.

“Don’t you know that piece? I spoke it at
school. Give it to you now; see if it isn’t a rouser.”

And, glad to find a vent for his excitement,
Thorny mounted the meal-chest, to thunder out
that stirring ballad with such spirit that Lita pricked
up her ears, and Ben gave a shrill “Hooray!” as
the last verse ended,

“And all I remember is friends flocking round,
As I sat with his head ‘twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.”

(To be continued.)

MASTER MONTEZUMA.

(With Illustrations copied from Mexican Hieroglyphics.)

By C.C. Haskins.

[Note.—Montezuma II., the last of the Aztec (or native Mexican) emperors,
was born about 1480. He was taken prisoner by Hernando
Cortes, the commander of the Spanish army which conquered
Mexico, and, in the hope of quelling an insurrection which
had arisen among
his former subjects, he consented to address them from the
walls of his prison. Stung by the apparent desertion of their
leader to the
cause of the enemy, the Mexicans assaulted him with stones and
other missiles. He was struck on the temple by one of the stones,
and died from the effects in a few days. The illustrations are true
copies of old Mexican pictures, which appeared originally in the
“Collection of Mendoza,” a work frequently referred to by all writers
on ancient Mexico.—C.C.H.]

The Emperor Montezuma was a great man,
and historians have recorded much about him, but
of his earlier life, when he was plain Master Montezuma,
comparatively little is known of this rising
young gentleman.

Master M. commenced his earthly career as a
crying baby, in the year “one cane,” which, when
properly figured down according to the Gregorian
calendar, would be about the year of our Lord 1480.

No sooner had Master M. reached the fourth
day of his existence, than the nurse, under instructions
from his anxious mamma, took off what few
clothes the poor boy had on, and repairing to the
baptismal font in the yard, sprinkled cold water
upon his naked breast and lips, presented his credentials
in the shape of offerings to propitiate the
gods of war, agriculture, etc., whose names you
will find further along in this history, repeated a
prayer in which “the Lord was implored to wash
away the sin that was given him before the foundation
of the world, so that the child might be born
anew,” and told the three little boys who sat near
by, what Master M.’s name was to be. The three
little boys left off eating their parched corn, and
boiled beans, repeated the name, and the little
baby was christened.

Now, if Master M. had been a girl—which he
was not—the offerings would have been a mat, a
spinning machine and a broom, all of which would
have been buried under the metate, the stone where
corn was ground. As it was, the offerings were
implements of war, articles of metal, pottery, etc.,
and these were buried, as near as they could guess
at the location, where they either hoped or feared
there might some day be a battle with their
enemies.

When Master M. had eaten and slept and kicked
and cried for sixteen days longer, his parents took
him to the priest, and to the teacher, and promised
that he should be instructed by these worthy
gentlemen in war, politics, religion, and other
branches of general education. They promised
that he should be an Alfalqui, or priest, and should
also serve in the army as a soldier. In that little,
wiggling baby, that seemed all fists and mouth, it
was impossible to foresee the future Emperor of
Mexico, whose name has since become familiar to
the civilized world.

Young Master M. worried along pretty well, and
up to six years of age had done nothing remarkable.
At this age he was granted one and one-half rolls at
a meal, and commenced doing little errands and
picking up scattered beans and corn in the Tianquez,
which is what the Mexicans called the
market-place.

The restless spirit of a military chieftain now
began to show itself in the embryo warrior, and, by
the time he had reached his eighth year, discipline
became necessary to curb his growing inclination
to despotism. He was fast becoming one of that
class of boys who think “it’s too bad to be good
all the time.” In the second picture see the scalding
tears! Whether Master M. is sorry that he
has done wrong, or whether he only fears being
pricked with those terrible thorns of the aloe with
which he is threatened, or is crying because he is
cold, who shall tell? It is hard, sometimes, to tell
what eight-year-old boys are crying for, whether
they live in the United States or in Mexico.

Master M. may have been better than most
boys, and it may be that his father was a better
driver than leader for his little ones. Some fathers
are. In any event, when Master M. was ten years
old there came another opportunity for weeping
and wailing, and Master M. was submitted to the
mortification of lying on the damp ground all day
while he listened to a parental lecture; and this,
too, after he was twelve years old!

Then Master M. reformed, and became an industrious,
faithful boy. I have sometimes questioned
whether he wasn’t hungry, and if he had
been better fed whether he would not have done
better. At fourteen years of age they gave him two
rolls at a meal, and he was instructed in the art of
fishing with a net. You can tell how old the boy
is by the number of round marks in the picture,
and the person who is speaking is denoted by a
tongue in front of the mouth.

When his fifteenth year came, Master M. found
he would have plenty to do. After this, old Mr.
M. had no trouble with him. It is curious—the[Page 536]
more we have to do, the less liable we are to do
something we should not, and—let us all study on
that half an hour, some day, and see what we can
make of it.

MASTER MONTEZUMA’S PARENTS TAKE HIM TO THE PRIEST AND THE TEACHER.

He had two teachers, the priest and the military
professor. It seemed as if everything was to be
learned. There was arithmetic, he learned to
make figures. A round, blue dot stands for one.

Five of them make five, and ooooo-o (five and one)
is six, and in that way it runs up to ten. If he
wanted to say “twenty” he made a flag, and for
forty he made two flags.

Just imagine such a multiplication table as this:
Five times four is one flag. Flag times flag is one
plume. Flag times plume is one purse! Let’s
see; a purse, then, would equal 8,000. Yes, and
if he wanted to write 4,000 he would draw only
half a purse. All the examples in their arithmetic
were worked by such tables as these.

Then there were lessons in time. He had to
learn that five days make a week, four weeks make
a month, and eighteen months make a year; and
as all that footed up only three hundred and sixty
days, they threw in what they called the five unlucky
days that belonged to no month, to fill up
before they commenced a new year. And then
he found another arrangement for doing what we
do with our leap-year, for, once in fifty-two years
they put in twelve and one-half extra days, which
is something like setting the clock ahead when
you find it is too slow by the town bell or the fire
alarm.

MASTER MONTEZUMA MUST BE PUNISHED.

He learned that this kind of calendar had been
in use a long time, and was the result of careful
study and calculation by the wise priests of the
olden time; and, when he wanted to know how
long, he counted up the bundles of reeds which
represented centuries, and found that it had been
in use over four hundred years. And all this, you
must remember, was before San Salvador was discovered[Page 537]
by Columbus. Then he had to study all about
the naming of the years and the cycles.
How, if this year was “one rabbit,”
next year would be “two cane,” the
third “three flint,” the next “four
house,” and these four elements, representing
air, water, fire, earth, would be
thus repeated up to thirteen, and then
they would commence at one again,
so that the fourteenth year would be
“one cane,” etc., and in four of these
cycles of thirteen they would reach a
cycle of fifty-two years, or, as they
called it, a “bundle,” and as the
twelve and one-half days additional
would end one cycle of fifty-two years
at midday, and the next at midnight,
they bundled two of these together
and called it “an old age.”

MASTER MONTEZUMA IS TAUGHT HOW TO FISH.

The number
fifty-two was an unlucky number, and these
old Mexicans believed that at the end of a cycle
of that number of years, at some time, the world
would be depopulated, the sun put out, and, after
death and darkness had reigned awhile, it would
all begin afresh with a new race of people.

So, when a cycle or bundle was completed, all
fires were extinguished and not rekindled during
the five unlucky days. Household goods which
could no longer be of any service, dishes, household
articles, etc., were broken; every one gave up
all hope, and abandoned himself to despair while
awaiting the expected ruin.

On the evening of the fifth day of sorrow, the
priests gathered the people together in a procession
and marched to a temple, about two leagues from
the city.

MASTER MONTEZUMA IS TALKED TO BY HIS FATHER.

Here they would sit like bumps on a log
until midnight, and then, when the constellation
which we call the Pleiades came exactly overhead,
the danger was over. Two sticks were rubbed
together over the breast of a captive who had been
selected for the sacrifice, until fire was produced
by the friction, the funeral pile was lighted, the
body burned, and messengers, many of whom could
run long distances, at the rate of seven or eight
miles an hour, would light their torches and spread
the joyful news of danger averted, while carrying
the “new fire” into all parts of the empire. Then
would follow a regular old-fashioned frolic, something
like a centennial,—a jollification few had ever
seen and most would see but once in a life-time.
There must be no drunkenness, however; that was
a high crime, in some instances punished by death.
If the intemperate party, man or woman, was over
seventy years of age, however, no notice was taken
of it,—they were old, and had rights and privileges
not granted to younger members of the community.

Master M. had much to learn about deities. At
the head of these stood one, infinite, supreme ruler,
“the unknown God,” and next beneath him came[Page 538]
Tezcatlipoca, the “son of the world,” supposed to
be the creator of the earth.

CARRYING THE BRIDE.

Huitzilopotchli was
the god of war, a sort of Mars, but with very much
more name. Then there was the god of air, Quetzatcoatl,
who controlled vegetation, metals, and the
politics of the country. Here is something Master
M. was taught to believe of him:

When this god, whom we will call Q, was on
earth, vegetation was so wonderfully prolific that
a single ear of corn was all a man could carry.
Everything the people needed grew spontaneously.
Cotton grew more beautifully tinted than the dyers
of the present time could color it. Richest perfumes
loaded temperate breezes, and everywhere
the gaudiest-colored birds filled the air with most
entrancing harmonies. Q had some little difficulty,
however, with the rest of the gods, and was obliged
to leave his little paradise. When he embarked in
his wizard snake-skin canoe on the shore of the
gulf, he told his friends that his descendents would
one day return and bless the land as he had done,
and that they would be like him,—tall, fine looking,
with dark hair, white skins, and flowing beards.
Alas! this belief was in no small degree the cause
of their ruin; for the invading Spaniards quite
nearly answered this description of Q’s descendants.

THE WEDDING OF MONTEZUMA.

There were thirteen of the principal deities, as
Master M. learned, each of whom required sacrifices
more or less horrible. For instance, there was the
“soul of the world,” I forget his other name. He
must be propitiated now and then. A year before
the fatal day, a tall, beautiful, well-formed, unblemished
captive was selected to play the part of this
god for one year. He must have all these qualifications
to make the resemblance as perfect as
possible. He was now treated as a god. Everything
he could wish, everything it was thought
could possibly conduce to his pleasure, comfort, or
happiness, was furnished without stint. He slept
on the softest of couches in the most gorgeous of
chambers; his raiment was profuse and expensive,
and the whole surroundings were, as far as possible,
in keeping with his high and holy estate. Birds
and music, flowers and rare perfumes pleased every
sense, and everything, save liberty, was his. This
happy-go-lucky sort of life continued until the day
fixed for the sacrifice. Then joy gave way to sadness,
pain, death! Stripped of his costly raiment,
he was taken by a procession of priests to a royal
barge, thence across a lake to a temple about a
league from the city, where, as he mounted the
weary steps of the huge edifice, he flung aside the
garlands of flowers and broke the musical instruments
which had been a joy to him in his past days.
At the summit of the temple, in full view of the
assembled multitude below, he was barbarously put
to death by a priest, in order to propitiate the
cruel god to whom the temple was dedicated. And
Master M. was taught that the moral of all this
savagery was, that human joys are transitory, and
the partition between sorrow and happiness is a[Page 539]
very thin one, or words to that effect.

Master M. learned that there were many other
inferior gods, each of which had festivals, sacrifices,
etc., proportioned to his rank and power; that
nearly every hour of the day was dedicated to some
god or other; but I cannot tell you all he learned
of these strange deities.

A PEACE-OFFERING IN THE YEAR ONE RABBIT.

He studied the history of the temples, and learned
why they were four or five stories high with the
stairs on the outside, and why he had to go entirely
round the temple to find the next flight of stairs as
he went up or down; and why each story was
smaller than the next lower, and learned that some
of these buildings were over one hundred feet
square and as many feet high, and had towers forty
or fifty feet high on their summits; and all about
the everlasting fire which burned on the tops of
these temples, and that there were so many of these
that the whole country for miles around was always
brilliantly illuminated.

I must pass over a long period in the life of
Master M. with the mere remark that he graduated
in both his military and religious classes with the
highest honors, and acquitted himself to the most
perfect satisfaction of both the alfalquis, or priests,
and the teachcauhs, which is nearly the same as
our word teachers.

Master M. had, for a long time, cherished a hope
that some day he might press the throne as king
of Mexico. So, like the Yorkshire lad who begged
salt of a stranger eating eggs near him, so as to
have the salt ready in case any one should ask him
to accept an egg, he prepared himself fully for the
possible emergency, and became not only a military
general, but a leading alfalqui.

And then he married. I have not room to give
you the whole picture, but here is the way it was
done.

A lady whose position in society required her to
negotiate the match, having previously made all
the necessary arrangements, one evening, hoisted
the happy damsel on her back, and accompanied
by four young women (I have drawn only one) each
bearing a torch, headed the joyous procession and
marched to the house of Master M., where she
dropped her cargo of precious humanity. Then
the alfalqui asked them if they were mutually
agreed on matrimony, and of course, they said
“yes,” when he proceeded to tie their clothes
together. Then two old patriarchs and two good
old grandmothers (one of each of which I have
copied for you) delivered little sermons suited to
the occasion. The new couple walked seven times
round a blazing fire, partook of a feast with their
friends, heard a final sort of a “ninety-ninthly
and to conclude” parting word from the four old
people, and then, just as all married people do,
went to housekeeping, and having their own way
as much as possible. One thing they could not do.
There was no law of divorce to appeal to then;
death was the only judge who could entertain the
question of separation.

PROTECTING THE GRAIN FROM RATS, IN THE YEAR ONE RABBIT.

Master M. will now disappear, to re-appear as
the Emperor. In the year “ten rabbits,” or A.D.
1502, the monarch died, and the electoral college
selected Master M. to supply his place. In the
household of each monarch there was an electoral
board of four nobles, whose duty it was, on the
death of the ruler, to elect his successor from
among the sons and nephews of the crown. Having[Page 540]
done this, and so notified the successor, they
selected four nobles to fill their own places, and
vacated their electoral chairs. Master M. when
waited upon to be notified of his election to fill his
uncle’s place, was very busy
sweeping down the stairs in
the great temple dedicated
to the god of war!

Four years after becoming
emperor, Montezuma,
to appease the gods, made
a sacrifice of a young gentleman
captive by transfixing
him with arrows. This, you
see, was in the year “one rabbit.” It is recorded that in this year
the rats overran the country so completely that
the inhabitants had to stand guard at night with
blazing torches to prevent their devouring the
grain sown in the fields.

With the last picture, I
take pleasure in introducing
to you Master M. in his
new position as Emperor of
Mexico, seated in the royal
halls.

For further particulars,
read “The Conquest of
Mexico,” by Prescott.

THE EMPEROR MONTEZUMA, SEATED IN THE ROYAL HALLS.

A LONG JOURNEY.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

“We sail to-day,” said the captain gay,
As he stepped on board the boat that lay
So high and dry, “Come now, be spry;
We’ll land, at Jerusalem by and by!”

Away they sailed, and each craft they hailed;
While down in the cabin they bailed and bailed;
For the sea was rough, and they had to luff
And tack, till the captain cried out “Enough!”

They stopped at Peru, this jolly crew,
And went to Paris and Timbuctoo;
And after a while they found the Nile,
And watched the sports of the crocodile.

They called on the Shah, and the mighty Czar,
And on all the crowned heads near and far;
Shook hands with the Cid—they really did!
And lunched on top of the pyramid!

To Afric’s strand, or northern land,
They steer as the captain gives command;
And fly so fast that the slender mast
Goes quivering, shivering in the blast!

Then on to the ground with a sudden bound,
Leaps Jack—’t was a mercy he wasn’t drowned!
The sail is furled, the anchor hurled,
“We’ve been,” cry the children, “all round the world!”

By billows tossed, by tempests crossed,
Yet never a soul on board was lost!
Though the boat be a sieve, I do not grieve,
They sail on the ocean of “Make-believe.”

THE LITTLE RED CANAL-BOAT.

BY M.A. EDWARDS.

The morning sun had not mounted high enough
in the sky to send his rays into Greta’s room, when
she was awakened by a noise. She listened. It
was the sound of a boat grating against the side of
the canal. Who could be coming to their back
door so early? She sprang out of bed, and ran
quickly to the open window. A disappointment
awaited her. It was only her father’s boat, which
the maid-servant Charlotte was pushing along,
slowly making her way to the landing-stairs.

“Where have you been so early, Charlotte?”
called out Greta.

“Are you there, youngsters?” said Charlotte,
looking up at the two bright faces at the window;
for the little Amelia had been roused by her sister’s
wild jump from the bed, and had also run to the
window.

“Bad Charlotte, to wake us so early!” cried
Amelia.

Charlotte laughed. “You wouldn’t think me
bad, Minchen, if you knew all the good things I’ve
been buying at market. Have you forgotten your
cousins are coming to-day, all the way from over
the sea? I’m sure they’ll be hungry enough.”

“What you got?” asked Amelia (usually called
Minchen).

“Fine Beemster cheese, sweet butter, fresh
salad, and plenty of fruit. And there are lots of
good things at the bottom of the basket. I’ll leave
you to find out what they are.” And Charlotte
made the boat fast, and carried the heavy basket
into the house.

It was not necessary for Charlotte to remind
these little girls of the cousins who lived in the city
of New York, in the far-off land of America. For
the last month little else had been talked of in the
Van Schaick mansion besides the expected visit of
the Chester family. Mrs. Van Schaick and Mrs.
Chester were sisters, and this was but the second
visit the latter had paid her old Holland home since
her marriage. On the first visit her children were
not with her; but now Mr. Chester was coming,
and the two boys. Many were the wild speculations
the girls indulged in with regard to Americans,—what
they would look like, and what they
would say and do.

Great, then, was their surprise, when the travelers
arrived, to find that their aunt Chester was
very like their mother in appearance and dress.
Mr. Chester did not in the least resemble their
father, but he was not unlike many other men they
had seen, and he did not dress in wild-beast skins.
As for the boys, Greta poured her tale of woe into
the ears of the sympathizing Charlotte. “They
are just like English boys!” she said, contemptuously.
Greta had often seen English boys, and
there was nothing uncommon about them.

This was soon forgotten, however, when Greta
discovered what pleasant companions the boys
were, and that they could put the Dutch words
together almost as correctly as Greta herself. Will
Chester, who had reached the dignified age of thirteen,
had felt much troubled at the thought that he
would have “only girls” to play with at Zaandam,
especially as Greta was a year younger than himself.
But when the two girls, instead of bringing
forward their dolls and tea-sets with which to entertain
their visitors, produced from their treasures
two good-sized toy canal-boats, fully equipped with
everything a canal-boat needed, he admitted to
himself that girls who liked to sail boats might be
good for something.

Secretly, however, he thought that a canal-boat
was a poor kind of vessel to have, and wished his
cousins owned such beautiful ships as he and Martin
had; for among the last things bought before
leaving New York were two little sailing-vessels—the
“America” and the “Columbus.” Mr. Chester
said Holland was full of water, and these were
proper toys to take there.

The two canal-boats, being precisely alike, were
distinguished from each other only by their names.
Greta’s had “Wilhelmina” painted on the side in
black letters, while Minchen’s had “Gouda” in red
letters. They were similar to American canal-boats
in shape, and of a dark red-brown color.
Will thought them stumpy and heavy-looking;
and he did not admire the red sails with crooked
gaffs, and smiled at the blue pennants, stretched
out on stiff frames that turned with the wind. But
when Greta showed him a tiny windlass on the
deck, by means of which she easily raised and
lowered the mast, he came to the conclusion that a
Dutch canal-boat was not to be despised.

“I do this when we pass under bridges,” she
explained.

“Where are your mules for drawing your boat?”

“My boat sails!” she said, proudly. “If there
is no wind, I drag it along myself. That is the
way we do in our country.”

“CHARLOTTE WAS PUSHING THE BOAT ALONG, MAKING HER WAY TO THE LANDING-STAIRS.”

The American vessels were now unpacked and
displayed. When the girls saw these sharp-prowed,
graceful ships, with their tapering masts and pretty[Page 542]
sails, their eyes glistened, and they declared that
never before had they seen anything so lovely.
Their, pride in their canal-boats suffered a woful
downfall. The boys proposed to try all the vessels
on the canal at the back of the house, but Greta
objected.

“Mother never lets us go there to sail our boats,”
she said. “It is a dirty place, and she is afraid we
will fall in. But there is a beautiful stream by the
mill where we are going to-morrow, and there we
can try our boats, and see which goes the fastest.”

“Let us take a walk, then,” said Martin. “I
want to look at this queer place.”

The Van Shaicks lived in Zaandam, and it is
indeed a queer place to American eyes. It is a
large town, with but two streets, one on each side[Page 543]
of the Zaan River; but these two extend for a long
distance, and are crossed at frequent intervals by
canals, so that Martin soon got tired counting the
little bridges the children passed over in their walk.
Will was not quite sure whether the brick-paved
street was all road-way or all sidewalk.

“I don’t see any carriages,” he said, after studying
this matter for some time.

“People don’t ride much here,” said Greta.
“There are plenty of carriages in Amsterdam.”

“How do you get about, then?”

“On our feet and in boats. Look at our fine
river, and there are ever so many canals! What
do we want with carriages?”

“It must be jolly going everywhere in boats,”
said Will. “I should like that!”

“We have some very pretty boats,” said Greta,
much pleased. “Oh! wouldn’t you like to go
fishing? I’ll ask father to take us some day soon.
I saw a net in the market-boat this morning.”

“Well, if that isn’t funny!” cried Martin, with
a burst of laughter. Will joined in the laugh,
and Greta looked around in vain to discover the
cause of their merriment.

“Looking-glasses on the outside of the houses!”
explained Martin, pointing to one opposite. “I
guess they’re put there for the girls to look in as
they walk along,” he added, mischievously. “They
can’t wait to get home to admire themselves.”

Sure enough, there was a mirror outside the window,
set at such an angle that the persons inside
the house could see who was passing up and down
the street. And there was a mirror on the next
house, and the next.

“Why, they are on all the houses!” said Will.

“To be sure!” said Greta. “What is there
funny in that? And the girls don’t look in them
any more than the boys, Mr. Martin. Don’t you
ever want to know what is going on in the street?”

“Of course I do.”

“How are you going to do it without the looking-glass
to tell you?”

“Use my own eyes, to be sure!”

“Whose eyes do you use when you look in a
glass?” said Greta.

Martin looked puzzled, and had no reply ready;
and Will thought his cousin Greta very clever,
although she was a girl, and a year younger than
himself.

But Martin soon recovered his composure.

“What lots of flowers!” was his next comment.
“They are everywhere, except in this brick pavement,
and nothing could grow here, it is so clean.”

“And such pretty houses in the gardens!” said
Will.

“But they are so small,” said Martin, “It
would take a dozen of them to make a New York
house.”

“My goodness!” said Greta, turning her head
back as far as she could, and looking at the sky.
“How do you ever see up to their roofs?”

“Divide Martin’s twelve by four, and you will
come nearer the truth,” said Will, laughing. “But,
at any rate, the houses are pretty—painted green
and yellow, with red-tiled roofs.”

The next thing the boys observed was the loneliness
of the streets. In America a town of twelve
thousand inhabitants would have more of an air of
bustle, they said. Will liked the quiet, “for a
change,” as he expressed it, and because it made
him feel, somehow, as if he owned the place.
Martin declared it to be his opinion that the people
kept out of the streets for fear that their shoes
would soil them, and that accounted for the almost
spotless cleanliness everywhere.

The streets were not deserted, however; for, at
intervals, there were row-boat ferries across the
river, and occasionally a man or woman would be
seen in one of these boats.

There were also a number of children, and some
women, in the streets. These apparently belonged
to the poorer classes. Hats and bonnets were
scarce among them, though all the women, and
many of the little girls, had on close-fitting muslin
caps. They wore short, loose sacques, and short
dress skirts, made up without trimmings. The
boys were dressed in jackets and baggy trousers.
All wore clumsy wooden shoes.

The Van Schaick family followed the French
fashions, as we do in America; the difference
between the two countries being that here every
one attempts to follow the prevailing style, while in
Holland this change of fashion is confined to the
wealthy; the middle and lower classes preserving
the same style of costume from generation to
generation.

A good many of the children in the street were
carrying painted iron or stone buckets, with a tea-kettle
on the top. After proceeding some distance
up the street, Will and Martin saw some of them
coming out of a basement door-way, still with the
buckets in their hands; but clouds of steam were
issuing from the tea-kettle spouts!

“What place is that?” asked Will.

“It is the fire-woman’s,” said Greta.

“And who and what may she be? I have heard
of water-women, sometimes called mermaids, but
never before did I hear of a fire-woman.”

“She don’t live in fire,” said Greta; “she sells
it. What do the poor people in your country do
in summer without a fire-woman? Come and
look in.”

AT THE FIRE-WOMAN’S.

By this time they had reached the place. Over
the door was the sign “Water en vuur te koop.”¹ [Page 544]
It was not necessary for the children to go inside.
They could see the whole apartment through the
wide-open door-way. An old woman stood by a
stove, or great oven, with a pair of tongs, taking
up pieces of burning peat and dropping them into
the buckets of the children, and then filling their
tea-kettles with boiling water from great copper
tanks on the stove. For this each child paid her
a Dutch cent, which is less than half of one of
ours.

“I understand it,” said Will, after they had
stood at the door some time, amused at the scene.
“This saves poor people the expense of a fire in
the summer-time. They send here for hot water
to make their tea.”

“Yes,” said Greta, “and for the burning peat
which cooks the potatoes and the sausage for their
supper.”

“Why don’t they use coal?” asked Martin. “It
is ever so much better.”

“No, the peat answers their purpose much
better,” said Will. “It burns slowly, and gives
out a good deal of heat for a long time.”

“And the smell of it is so delicious,” added
Greta.

A little further on; the children came out on an
open space, which gave them a good view of the
surrounding flat country, and of the wind-mills that
stand about Zaandam—a forest of towers. It was
a marvelous sight. Hundreds of giant arms were
beating the air, as if guarding the town from
invisible enemies.

Greta was proud and pleased that her cousins
were so impressed with the great numbers of towers
and the myriads of gigantic whirling spokes.

“My father says there is nothing grander than
this in all Holland,” she said. “There are four
hundred of them, and more, but you can’t see
them all from here. Do you see that mill over
yonder? That is my father’s, and we are going
there to-morrow.”

The boys could not distinguish one tower from
another at that distance.

“What kind of mill is it?” asked Will.[Page 545]

“A flour-mill.”

“Are all these flour-mills?”

“Oh no! There are saw-mills, colza-oil mills,
mustard-mills, flax-mills, and other kinds I don’t
remember.”

It was now nearly supper-time, and the little
group returned home.

The next morning, the whole party—four grown-up
people, four youngsters, and four boats (the
“Wilhelmina,” the “Gouda,” the “America,” and
the “Columbus”)—were all taken up the Zaan
River in a row-boat for about three miles, and then
up a small stream to the mill where they were to
spend the day.

The first thing in order was the inspection of the
mill, which was unlike anything they had ever seen
in America. The tower was of brick. It was three
stories high, over a basement. In the basement
were the stables and wagon-house; over this was
the granary, and flour and meal store; above this
were the bolting-rooms, the ground wheat running
through spouts to the store-rooms below. On the
next floor above were the mill-stones, and the
simple machinery that turned them. And, above
all, at the very top of the tower, was the main shaft
of the great wings outside. These wings caught
the winds, and compelled them to work the machinery
with such force as to make the strong tower
tremble. There were balconies around the first
and third stories of the mill. It was quite a picturesque
object standing among low trees on a
pretty, quiet stream, the banks of which were
higher and more uneven than was usual in that
part of the country.

The miller lived in a small house near the mill
with his wife and his little daughter Hildegarde,
the latter of whom was near Greta’s age.

The boys did not take as much interest in the
miller’s house as their parents took; but when they
were shown into a large outer room, and were told
it was the cow-stable, they had no words with which
to express their astonishment. They would have
said it was the show-room of the place. There was
not a speck on the whitewashed walls; the pine
ceiling was so clean it fairly glistened; there were
crisp, white muslin curtains at the windows. The
raised earthen floor was covered with pure white
sand, arranged in fancy designs. There were some
small round tables standing about, and on them
were ornaments of china and silver, and a variety
of knick-knacks.

During the summer the cows were in the pasture
day and night, but in the winter they occupied this
room. Then the tables were removed, but the
place was kept very neatly. This was necessary,
for the stable adjoined the house, and the party
passed into the barn through a door in the cow-stable.

All except the two boys. Will hung back and
motioned to Martin not to go into the barn.

“I am tired of this sort of thing,” he said. “Let
us go and sail our boats.”

“Very well,” said Martin, “I’ll call the girls.”

“No,” said Will; “there are too many of them.
They’ll only be in the way. They’ll have a good
time together, and we’ll have some fun by ourselves.”

Martin seldom dissented from Will’s decisions, so
the two boys went back into the house to get their
ships, and passed out of another door to the bridge
and across the stream. They had gone but a short
distance when Martin, who had seemed very
thoughtful, stopped opposite the mill.

“There is a man in the balcony,” he said. “I’ll
ask him to call to the girls to come. It isn’t fair
to go without them. You know Greta thought so
much of sailing her boat with ours.”

“Nonsense,” said Will. “She has got other
company now. I don’t believe they know how to
manage their boats, and we will have to help them.
Girls always have to be taken care of.”

“But,” persisted Martin, “you said that Greta
was real smart and a first-rate fellow—girl, I mean.”

“She is well enough for girls’ plays; but what
can she know about boats? Come along!”

Martin said no more, and the boys proceeded for
some distance up the stream.

“If we go around that bend,” said Will, “we
will be out of sight of the mill, and can have our
own fun.”

Around the bend they found a bridge, and a little
way above this the stream widened into a large
pool, the banks of which were shaded by willows.
There they launched the schooner “America”
and the sloop “Columbus” with appropriate ceremonies.
The sails and the rudders were properly
set for a trip across the pool. The ships bent
gracefully to the breeze, and went steadily on their
course, the little flags waving triumphantly from
the mast-heads. They moved so gracefully and
behaved so beautifully that Martin expressed his
sorrow that the girls were not there to see them.
Will made no reply, but he felt a twinge of remorse
as he remembered how Greta had looked forward
to this sail as a great event. He tried to quiet his
conscience with the consideration that it was much
better for her not to be there; for she would certainly
have felt mortified at the contrast between
their pretty vessels and the poor canal-boats.

The boys crossed the bridge, and were ready for
the arrival of their vessels in the foreign port.
Then they started them on the return voyage and
recrossed the bridge to receive them at home.

This was done several times, but at last there was[Page 546]
an accident. Will’s schooner, the “America,” from
some unknown cause, took a wrong tack when near
the middle of the pool, and going too far up, got
aground upon a tiny, grassy island. She swayed
about for a minute, and the boys hoped she would
float off, but soon the masts ceased to quiver. The
“America” had quietly moored herself on the
island as if she intended to remain there forever.
What was to be done? The longest pole to be
found would not reach the island from either bank,
or from the bridge, and the pool was deep. Will
began to think it was a pretty bad case.

THE BOYS WITH THEIR BOATS.

“What a beauty!” “Isn’t it just lovely!”
“Pretty! pretty! pretty!”

These exclamations came respectively from Greta,
Hildegarde, and Minchen, and had reference to the
“Columbus,” which was gliding up to the bank
where the boys stood, with its sails gleaming in the
sunshine, while it dipped and courtesied on the little
waves. The girls were coming around the bend.
Greta and Minchen had their canal-boats, and
Hildegarde carried a great square of gingerbread.

“That’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw!”
cried Greta. In her admiration of the vessel, she
had forgotten her wounded dignity. For she had
arranged with Hildegarde that, after giving the[Page 547]
boys their share of gingerbread, they should walk
proudly and silently away.

As Greta had broken the compact by speaking,
Hildegarde entered upon an explanation: “We
have been down the stream looking for you—”
But here she was interrupted by a frown from
Greta, who suddenly recollected the slight that had
been put upon them.

“Naughty boys to run away!” said little Minchen.
“You sha’n’t see my boat sail!”

“My ship is aground on that island,” said Will,
willing to change the subject. “I have no way of
getting her off. I wonder if the boat we came in
is too large to be got up here.”

“The boat was taken back to Zaandam,” said
Hildegarde, “and our boat is away, too.”

“The ‘America’ will have to stay where she
is, then,” said Will, trying to speak cheerfully.

“Pretty ship is lost! Too bad!” said Minchen,
pityingly. Then brightly: “I’ll give you mine!-may
be,” she added in a doubtful tone, as her glance
fell lovingly upon the boat she was hugging under
her arm.

Meantime, Greta had been studying the situation.
She now turned to Will. “I can get your ship
off,” she said. “Take care of my boat till I come
back, and don’t sail her on any account. I wont
be gone long.”

She handed her boat to Will, and was around
the bend in an instant; and it was not very long
before the anxious group heard the sound of her
rapid footsteps returning. Will thought she had
gone to the mill to get some one to help them, but
she came back alone, and all she brought with her
was a large ball of cord.

Martin and Minchen asked her twenty questions
while she made her preparations, but she would
not reveal her plans, although it was evident from
the way she went to work that she had a very clear
idea of what she intended to accomplish.

In the first place, she said the whole party must
go further up the bank, so as to get above the
“America,” which was on the lower edge of the little
island. When they had gone far enough, she tied
one end of the cord to the rudder-post of her canal-boat.
Then she turned the cunning little windlass,
and slowly up went the mast to its full height. The
next thing was to unfurl the sail, set it properly,
and set the rudder,—all of which she did deftly
and correctly, making Will feel ashamed of what
he had said about the ignorance of girls.

She placed the boat on the water. The sail
filled, and off went the “Wilhelmina” with a slow,
true, steady motion, her red sail glowing in the
sunshine, and her stiff little pennant standing
straight out in the wind. As the boat crossed the
pool, Greta played out the cord carefully, so as
not to impede its motion. When it reached the
other side and had gently grounded on the shelving
shore, Greta gave the line into Will’s hand.

“If you will hold this,” she said, “I will go
across the bridge.”

“Don’t trouble yourself to do that,” said Will,
“I will go over.”

“No,” said Greta, “I wish to go. I am captain
of my own craft, and I know how to manage my
‘Wilhelmina.'”

“I had no idea she was so pretty,” said Will.
“She is a true, stanch little sailer.”

“She don’t show off until she is on the water,”
said Greta, smiling, “and then she sails like a real
boat. Do you know what I am going to do when I
get to the other side?”

“I can guess. You will send your boat back to
me from below the island while I hold this end of
the cord. That will bring the line around my ship
and pull her off.”

“I thought of that, but it is too risky. If anything
should go wrong with my boat, the line might
get tangled; or there might be too great a strain,
and the ship would come off with a jerk and be
tumbled bottom upward into the water. I intend
to untie the cord from the boat, and you and I must
walk slowly down toward the ‘America,’—I on
that side, and you on this. We must hold the cord
low so as to catch the mast under the sail, if we
can.”

“All right,” said Will.

Greta walked quickly down the bank, across the
bridge, and up the other side until she reached the
“Wilhelmina.” Placing the boat on the bank for
safety, she took the cord off, and, holding it firmly,
walked slowly down toward the island. Will did
the same on his side of the pool. The cord went
skimming over the surface of the water, then it
passed above the tops of the long grass on the
island. This brought the line on a level with the
top-sail. This would not do; for a pressure up
there might capsize the schooner. Both of the
workers saw that they must slacken the line a little
to get it into the proper place. Now was the critical
time; if the line was too much slackened it might
slip under the vessel and upset it that way. Gently
they lowered it until it lay against the mainmast
below the sail.

“Take care!” screamed Will to Greta.

“Go slow!” screamed Greta to Will.

Gently they pulled against the schooner, and,
inch by inch, she floated off into the open water.

“Hurrah!” shouted Will, as the “America”
gave herself a little shake, and, catching the wind,
sailed slowly and somewhat unsteadily for the home
port, which, however, she reached in safety.
“Wind up the cord!” shouted Greta, just in[Page 548]
time to prevent Will’s throwing it aside. He wondered
what further use she had for the cord. It
might go to the bottom of the pool for aught he
cared, now that the ship was safe. But he wound
it up as directed. It would have been quite a grief
to the thrifty little Dutch girl if so much fine cord
had been wasted.

Thus ignominiously came in the stately ship
“America,” which Will had set afloat with such
pride! And it is doubtful whether she would have
come in at all, but for the stanch Dutch canal-boat
that he had regarded with a good deal of
disdain.

If Will had been a girl, he would have exhausted
the complimentary adjectives of the Dutch language
in praise of his cousin; but being a boy, he only
said, “Thank you, Greta.”

The children remained at the pool until called to
dinner; and after that meal, they went back again
and stayed until it was time to return to Zaandam,
so fascinated were they with sailing their vessels.
These changed hands so often that it was sometimes
difficult to tell who had charge of any particular
boat, and a good deal of confusion was the
result. In justice to the “America,” it must be
stated that she cut no more capers, and was the
admiration of all.

Will had his faults, and one of these was the
very high estimate he placed on his own opinions.
But he was generous-hearted, and he admitted to
himself that Greta had shown more cleverness than
he in the “America” affair. “She was quicker,
anyway,” he thought. “It is likely that plan
would have occurred to me after a time, but she
thought of it first. And it was good of her to help
me; for she knew that I went away so as not to
play with her.” It was not pleasant to him to know
that a girl had shown herself superior to him in
anything he considered his province; but he magnanimously
forgave her for this, and he said to
Martin, after they were in bed that night:

“I’ve pretty much made up my mind to give my
schooner to Greta. I believe she thinks it the
prettiest thing ever made.”

“If you do that,” said Martin, “I’ll give my
sloop to Minchen.”

This plan was carried out, and the girls were
more delighted than if they had had presents of
diamonds. But they insisted that the boys should
accept their canal-boats in exchange, the result of
which was that the Chesters, on their return to
America, produced quite a sensation among their
schoolmates. For American-built vessels could be
bought in many stores in New York, but a Dutch
canal-boat, with a red sail, and a mast that was
raised and lowered by a windlass, was not to be
found in all the city.

Footnote 1: “Water and fire to sell.”

THE BUTTERFLY CHASE

BY ELLIS GRAY.

Dear little butterfly,
Lightly you flutter by,
        On golden wing.
Drops of sweet honey sip,
Deep from the clover tip,
        Then upward spring.

Over the meadow grass
Swift as a fairy pass,
        Blithesome and gay;
Toy with the golden-rod,
Make the blue asters nod—
        Off and away!

Butterfly’s dozing now,
Golden wings closing now,—
        Softly he swings.
Tiny hands fold him fast,
Gently unclose at last,—
        Fly, golden wings!

Quick! for he’s after you,
With joyous laughter new,—
        Mischievous boy!
Swift you must flutter by;
He wants you, butterfly,
        For a new toy!

HOW TO MAKE A TELEPHONE.

BY M.F.

What is a telephone?

Up go a hundred hands of the brightest and
sharpest of the readers of ST. NICHOLAS, and a
hundred confident voices reply:

“An instrument to convey sounds by means of
electricity.”

Good. That shows you have some definite idea
of it; but, after all, that answer is not the right
one. The telephone does not convey sound.

“What does its name mean, then?” do you ask?

Simply, that it is a far-sounder; but that does
not necessarily imply that it carries sounds afar.
Strictly speaking, the telephone only changes sound-waves
into waves of electricity and back again.
When two telephones are connected by means of a
wire, they act in this way,—the first telephone
changes the sound-waves it receives into electric
impulses which travel along the wire until they
reach the second telephone, here they are changed
back to sound-waves exactly like those received by
the first telephone. Accordingly, the listener in
New York seems to hear the very tones of his
friend who is speaking at the other end of the line,
say, in Boston.

Still you don’t see how.

It is not surprising, for in this description several
scientific facts and principles are involved; and all
boys and girls cannot be expected to know much
about the laws of sound and electricity. Perhaps
a little explanation may make it clearer.

The most of you probably know that sound is
produced by rapid motion. Put your finger on a
piano wire that is sounding, and you will feel the
motion, or touch your front tooth with a tuning-fork
that is singing; in the last case you will feel
very distinctly the raps made by the vibrating fork.
Now, a sounding body will not only jar another
body which touches it, but it will also give its
motion to the air that touches it; and when the
air-motions or air-waves strike the sensitive drums
of our ears, these vibrate, and we hear the sound.

You all have heard the windows rattle when it
thunders loudly, or when cannons have been fired
near-by. The sound waves in the air fairly shake
the windows; and, sometimes, when the windows
are closed, so that the air-waves cannot pass readily,
the windows are shattered by the shock. Fainter
sounds act less violently, yet similarly. Every time
you speak, your voice sets everything around you
vibrating in unison, though ever so faintly.

Thus, from your every-day experience you have
proof of two important facts,—first, sound is caused
by rapid motion; second, sound-waves give rise to
corresponding motion. Both these facts are involved
in the speaking telephone, which performs
a twofold office,—that of the ear on the one hand,
that of our vocal organs on the other.

To serve as an ear, the telephone must be able
to take up quickly and nicely the sound-waves of
the air. A tightened drum-head will do that; or
better, a strip of goldbeaters’-skin drawn tightly
over a ring or the end of a tube. But these would
not help Professor Bell, the inventor of the telephone
we shall describe, since he wanted an ear
that would translate the waves of sound into waves
of electricity, which would travel farther and faster
than sound-waves could.

Just when Mr. Bell was thinking how he could
make the instrument he wanted, an important discovery
in magnetism was made known to him—a
discovery that helped him wonderfully. You know
that if you hold a piece of iron close to a magnet
the magnet will pull it, and the closer the iron
comes to the magnet the harder it is pulled. Now,
some one experimenting with a magnet having a
coil of silk-covered wire around it, found that when
a piece of iron was moved in front of the magnet
and close to it without touching, the motion would
give rise to electric waves in the coil of wire, which[Page 550]
waves could be transmitted to considerable distances.

This was just what Mr. Bell wanted. He said to
himself, “The sound of my voice will give motion
to a thin plate of iron as well as to a sheet of goldbeaters’-skin;
and if I bring this vibrating plate of
iron close to a magnet, the motion will set up in it
waves of electricity answering exactly to the sound-waves
which move the iron plate.”

So far, good. But something more was wanted.
The instrument must not only translate sound-waves
into electric impulses, but change these back
again into sound-waves; it must not only hear,
but also speak!

You remember our first fact in regard to sound:
it is caused by motion. All that is needed to make
anything speak is to cause it to move so as to give
rise to just such air-waves as the voice makes.
Mr. Bell’s idea was to make the iron plate of his
sound-receiver speak.

He reasoned in this way: From the nature of the
magnet it follows that when waves of electricity are
passed through the wire coil around the magnet,
the strength of the magnet must vary with the
force of the electric impulses. Its pull on the plate
of iron near it must vary in the same manner. The
varying pull on the plate must make it move, and
this movement must set the air against the plate in
motion in sound-waves corresponding exactly with
the motion setting up the electric waves in the first
place; in other words, the sound-motion in one
telephone must be exactly reproduced as sound-waves
in a similar instrument joined to it by wire.

Experiment proved the reasoning correct; and
thus the speaking-telephone was invented. But it
took a long time to find the simplest and best way
to make it. At last, however, Mr. Bell’s telephone
was perfected in the form illustrated below. Fig. 1
shows the inner structure of the instrument. A is
the spool carrying the coil of wire; B, the magnet;
C, the diaphragm; E, the case; F, F, the wires leading
from the coil, and connecting at the end of the
handle with the ground and line wires. Fig. 2
shows how a telephone looks on the outside.

BELL’S TELEPHONE.

So much for description. You will understand
it better, perhaps, if you experiment a little. You
can easily make a pair for yourself, rude and imperfect,
it is true, but good enough for all the tests
you may want to apply.

For each you will want: (1) a straight magnet;
(2) a coil of silk-covered copper wire; (3) a thin
plate of soft iron; (4) a box to hold the first three
articles. You will also want as much wire as you
can afford, to connect the instruments, and two
short pieces of wire to connect your telephones with
the ground. (Two wires between the instruments
would make the ground-wires unnecessary, but this
would use up too much wire.) The magnet and
the coil you will have to buy from some dealer in
electrical apparatus. They need not cost much.[Page 551]
A small cigar-box will answer for the case.

A ‘CIGAR-BOX’ TELEPHONE.

In one end of the box cut a round hole, say,
three inches across. Against this hole fasten a
disk of thin sheet-iron for the vibrator or “diaphragm.”
For a mouth-piece use a small can,
such as ground spices come in, or even a round
paper box.

Now, on the inside of the box, place the magnet,
the end carrying the coil almost touching the middle
of the diaphragm, and fix it firmly. Then, to
the ends of the copper wire of the main coil fasten
two wires,—one for the line, the other for the
“ground-wire.”

This done, you will have an instrument (or
rather two of them) very much like Fig. 3. A is
the mouth-piece; B, the diaphragm; C, the coil;
D, the magnet; E, E, the wires.

The receiving and sending instruments are precisely
alike, each answers for both purposes; but
there must be two, since one must always be hearing
while the other is speaking.

When you speak into the mouth-piece of one
telephone, the sound of your voice causes the
“diaphragm” to vibrate in front of the magnet.
The vibrations cause the magnet’s pull upon the
diaphragm to vary in force, which variation is
answered by electrical waves in the coil and over
the wires connected with it. At the other end of
the wire the pull of the magnet of the speaking
telephone is varied exactly in proportion to the
strength of the electric impulses that come over
the wire; the varying pull of the magnet sets the
diaphragm in motion, and that sets the air in motion
in waves precisely like those of the distant voice.
When those waves strike the listener’s ear, he seems
to hear the speaker’s exact tones, and so, substantially,
he does hear them. The circumstance that
electric waves, and not sound-waves, travel over the
wires, does not change the quality of the resulting
sound in the least.

I think you now understand Bell’s telephone.

The telephones of Edison, Gray, and others, involve
different principles and are differently constructed.

One invention very often leads to another, and
the telephone already has an offspring not less
wonderful than itself. It is called the speaking-phonograph.
It was invented by Mr. Edison, one
of the gentlemen, just mentioned.

Evidently, Mr. Edison said to himself: “The
telephone hears and speaks; why not make it write
in its own way; then its record could be kept, and
any time after, the instrument might read aloud its
own writing.” Like a great genius as he is, Mr.
Edison went to work in the simplest way to make
the sound-recorder he wanted. You know how the
diaphragm of the telephone vibrates when spoken
to? Mr. Edison took away from the telephone
all except the mouth-piece and the diaphragm,
fastened a point of metal, which we will call a
“style,” to the center of the diaphragm, and then
contrived a simple arrangement for making a sheet
of tin-foil pass in front of the style. When the
diaphragm is still, the style simply scratches a
straight line along the foil. When a sound is
made, however, and the diaphragm set to vibrating,
the mark of the style is not a simple scratch, but
an impression varying in depth according to the
diaphragm’s vibration. And that is how the phonograph
writes. To the naked eye, the record of the
sound appears to be simply a line of pin points or
dots, more or less close to each other; but, under
a magnifier, it is seen to be far more complicated.

Now for the reading. The impression on the
foil exactly records the vibrations of the diaphragm,
and those vibrations exactly measure the sound-waves
which caused the vibrations. The reading
simply reverses all this. The strip of foil is passed
again before the diaphragm, the point of the style
follows the groove it made at first, and the diaphragm
follows the style in all its motions. The
original vibrations are thus exactly reproduced,
setting up sound-waves in the air precisely like those
which first set the machine in motion. Consequently,
the listener hears a minutely exact echo of
what the instrument heard; it might have heard it
a minute, or an hour, or a year, or a thousand years
before, had the phonograph been in use so long.

What a wonderful result is that! As yet, the
phonograph has not been put to any practical use;
indeed, it is scarcely in operation yet, and a great
deal must be done to increase the delicacy of its
hearing and the strength of its voice. It mimics
any and every sort of sound with marvelous fidelity,
but weakly. Its speech is like that of a person a
long way off, or in another room. But its possibilities
are almost infinite.

ONLY A DOLL!

BY SARAH O. JEWETT.

Polly, my dolly! why don’t you grow?
        Are you a dwarf, my Polly?
I’m taller and taller every day;
    How high the grass is!—do you see that?
The flowers are growing like weeds, they say;
    The kitten is growing into a cat!
        Why don’t you grow, my dolly?

Here is a mark upon the wall.
        Look for yourself, my Polly!
I made it a year ago, I think.
    I’ve measured you very often, dear,
But, though you’ve plenty to eat and drink,
    You haven’t grown a bit for a year.
        Why don’t you grow, my dolly?

Are you never going to try to talk?
        You’re such a silent Polly!
Are you never going to say a word?
    It isn’t hard; and oh! don’t you see
The parrot is only a little bird,
    But he can chatter so easily.
        You’re quite a dunce, my dolly!

Let’s go and play by the baby-house:
        You are my dearest Polly!
There are other things that do not grow;
    Kittens can’t talk, and why should you?
You are the prettiest doll I know;
    You are a darling—that is true!
        Just as you are, my dolly!

DAB KINZER: A STORY OF A GROWING BOY.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Between the village and the inlet, and half a mile
from the great “bay,” lay the Kinzer farm.
Beyond the bay was a sand-bar, and beyond that
the Atlantic Ocean; for all this was on the southerly
shore of Long Island.

The Kinzer farm had lain right there—acre for
acre, no more, no less—on the day when Hendrik
Hudson, long ago, sailed the good ship “Half-Moon”
into New York Bay. But it was not then
known to any one as the Kinzer farm. Neither
was there then, as now, any bright and growing
village crowding up on one side of it, with a railway
station and a post-office. Nor was there, at
that time, any great and busy city of New York,
only a few hours’ ride away, over on the island
of Manhattan. The Kinzers themselves were not
there then; but the bay and the inlet, with the fish
and the crabs, and the ebbing and flowing tides,
were there, very much the same, before Hendrik
Hudson and his brave Dutchmen knew anything
whatever about that corner of the world.

The Kinzer farm had always been a reasonably
“fat” one, both as to size and quality, and the
good people who lived on it had generally been of
a somewhat similar description. It was, therefore,
every way correct and becoming for Dabney Kinzer’s
widowed mother and his sisters to be the
plump and hearty beings they were, and all the
more discouraging to poor Dabney that no amount
of regular and faithful eating seemed to make him
resemble them at all in that respect.

Mrs. Kinzer excused his thinness to her neighbors,
to be sure, on the ground that he was “such
a growing boy;” but, for all that, he caught himself
wondering, now and then, if he would never
be done with that part of his trials. For rapid
growth has its trials.

“The fact is,” he said to himself, one day, as he
leaned over the north fence, “I’m more like Ham
Morris’s farm than I am like ours. His farm is
bigger than ours, all ’round; but it’s too big for
its fences, just as I’m too big for my clothes.
Ham’s house is three times as large as ours, but it
looks as if it had grown too fast. It hasn’t any
paint, to speak of, nor any blinds. It looks a good
deal as if somebody’d just built it there and then
forgot it and gone off and left it out-of-doors.”

Dabney’s four sisters had all come into the world
before him, but he was as tall as any of them, and
was frequently taken by strangers for a good two
years older than he really was.

It was sometimes very hard for him, a boy of
fifteen, to live up to what was expected of those
two extra years.

Mrs. Kinzer still kept him in roundabouts; but
they did not seem to hinder his growth at all, if
that was her object in so doing.

There was no such thing, however, as keeping
the four girls in roundabouts, of any kind; and,
what between them and their mother, the pleasant
and tidy little Kinzer homestead, with its snug
parlor and its cozy bits of rooms and chambers,
seemed to nestle away, under the shadowing elms
and sycamores, smaller and smaller with every
year that came.

It was a terribly tight fit for such a family, anyway;
and, now that Dabney was growing at such
a rate, there was no telling what they would all
come to. But Mrs. Kinzer came, at last, to the
rescue, and she summoned her eldest daughter,
Miranda, to her aid.

A very notable woman was the widow. When
the new railway cut off part of the old farm, she
had split up the slice of land between the iron track
and the village into “town lots,” and had sold them
all off by the time the railway company paid her
for the “damage” it had done the property.

The whole Kinzer family gained visibly in plumpness
that year,—except, perhaps, Dabney.

Of course, the condition and requirements of
Ham Morris and his big farm, just over the north
fence, had not escaped such a pair of eyes as those
of the widow, and the very size of his great barn
of a house finally settled his fate for him.

A large, quiet, unambitious, but well brought up
and industrious young man was Hamilton Morris,
and he had not the least idea of the good in store
for him for several months after Mrs. Kinzer decided
to marry him to her daughter Miranda. But all
was soon settled. Dab, of course, had nothing to
do with the wedding arrangements, and Ham’s
share was somewhat contracted. Not but what he
was at the Kinzer house a good deal; nor did any
of the other girls tell Miranda how very much he
was in the way. He could talk, however, and one
morning, about a fortnight before the day appointed,
he said to Miranda and her mother:

“We can’t have so very much of a wedding;
your house is so small, and you’ve chocked it so
full of furniture. Right down nice furniture it is,
too; but there’s so much of it. I’m afraid the
minister’ll have to stand out in the front yard.”

“The house’ll do for this time,” replied Mrs.[Page 554]
Kinzer. “There ‘ll be room enough for everybody.
What puzzles me is Dab.”

“What about Dab?” asked Ham.

“Can’t find a thing to fit him,” said Dab’s
mother. “Seems as if he were all odd sizes, from
head to foot.”

“Fit him!” exclaimed Ham. “Oh, you mean
ready-made goods! Of course you can’t. He’ll
have to be measured by a tailor, and have his new
suit built for him.”

“Such extravagance!” emphatically remarked
Mrs. Kinzer.

“Not for rich people like you, and for a wedding,”
replied Ham; “and Dab’s a growing boy.
Where is he now? I’m going to the village, and
I’ll take him right along with me.”

There seemed to be no help for it; but that was
the first point relating to the wedding concerning
which Ham Morris was permitted to have exactly
his own way. His success made Dab Kinzer a fast
friend of his for life, and that was something.

There was also something new and wonderful to
Dabney himself in walking into a tailor’s shop,
picking out cloth to please himself, and being so
carefully measured all over. He stretched and
swelled himself in all directions, to make sure
nothing should turn out too small. At the end
of it all, Ham said to him:

“Now, Dab, my boy, this suit is to be a present
from me to you, on Miranda’s account.”

Dab colored and hesitated for a moment; but it
seemed all right, he thought, and so he came
frankly out with:

“Thank you, Ham. You always was a prime
good fellow. I’ll do as much for you some day.
Tell you what I’ll do, then. I’ll have another
suit made, right away, of this other cloth, and have
the bill for that one sent to our folks.”

“Do it!” exclaimed Ham. “Do it! You’ve
your mother’s orders for that. She’s nothing to
do with my gift.”

“Splendid!” almost shouted Dab. “Oh, but
don’t I hope they’ll fit!”

“Vit?” said the tailor. “Vill zay vit? I dell
you zay vit you like a knife. You vait und zee.”

Dab failed to get a very clear idea of what the fit
would be, but it made him almost hold his breath
to think of it.

After the triumphant visit to the tailor, there was
still a necessity for a call upon the shoe-maker, and
that was a matter of no small importance. Dab’s
feet had always been a mystery and a trial to him.
If his memory contained one record darker than
another, it was the endless history of his misadventures
with boots and shoes. He and leather
had been at war from the day he left his creeping
clothes until now. But now he was promised a
pair of shoes that would be sure to fit.

So the question of Dab’s personal appearance at
the wedding was all arranged between him and
Ham; and Miranda smiled more sweetly than ever
before upon the latter, after she had heard her
usually silent brother break out so enthusiastically
about him as he did that evening.

It was a good thing for that wedding that it took
place in fine summer weather, for neither kith, kin,
nor acquaintances had been slighted in the invitations,
and the Kinzers were one of the “oldest
families.”

To have gathered them all under the roof of that
house, without either stretching it out wider or boiling
the guests down, would have been out of the
question, and so the majority, with Dabney in his
new clothes to keep them countenance, stood or
sat in the cool shade of the grand old trees during
the ceremony, which was performed near the open
door, and were afterward served with the wedding
refreshments, in a style that spoke volumes for
Mrs. Kinzer’s good management, as well as for her
hospitality.

The only drawback to Dab’s happiness that day
was that his acquaintances hardly seemed to know
him. He had had almost the same trouble with
himself when he looked in the glass that morning.

Ordinarily, his wrists were several inches through
his coat sleeves, and his ankles made a perpetual
show of his stockings. His neck, too, seemed
usually to be holding his head as far as possible
from his coat collar, and his buttons had no favor
to ask of his button-holes.

Now, even as the tailor had promised, he had
received his “first fit.” He seemed to himself, to
tell the truth, to be covered up in a prodigal waste
of nice cloth. Would he ever, ever grow too big
for such a suit of clothes as that? It was a very
painful thought, and he did his best to put it away
from him.

Still, it was a little hard to have a young lady,
whom he had known before she began to walk,
remark to him: “Excuse me, sir, but can you tell
me if Mr. Dabney Kinzer is here?”

“No, Jenny Walters,” sharply responded Dab,
“he isn’t here.”

“Why, Dabney!” exclaimed the pretty Jenny,
“is that you? I declare, you’ve scared me out of
a year’s growth.”

“I wish you’d scare me, then,” said Dab.
“Then my clothes would stay fitted.”

Everything had been so well arranged beforehand,
thanks to Mrs. Kinzer, that the wedding had
no chance at all except to go off well. Ham Morris
was rejoiced to find how entirely he was relieved of
every responsibility.

“Don’t worry about your house, Hamilton,” the [Page 555]
widow said to him the night before. “We’ll go
over there as soon as you and Miranda get away,
and it’ll be all ready for you by the time you get
back.”

“All right,” said Ham. “I’ll be glad to have
you take the old place in hand. I’ve only tried to
live in a corner of it. You don’t know how much
room there is. I don’t, I must say.”

Dabney had longed to ask her if she meant to
have it moved over to the Kinzer side of the north
fence, but he had doubts as to the propriety of it,
and just then the boy came in from the tailor’s
with his bundle of new clothes.

CHAPTER II.

Hamilton Morris was a very promising young
man, of some thirty summers. He had been an
“orphan” for a dozen years, and the wonder was
that he should so long have lived alone in the big
square-built house his father left him. At all events,
Miranda Kinzer was just the wife for him.

Miranda’s mother had seen that at a glance, the
moment her mind was settled about the house.
As to that and his great, spreading, half-cultivated
farm, all either of them needed was ready money
and management.

These were blessings Ham was now made reasonably
sure of, on his return from his wedding trip,
and he was likely to appreciate them.

As for Dabney Kinzer, he was in no respect overcome
by the novelty and excitement of the wedding.
All the rest of the day he devoted himself
to such duties as were assigned him, with a new
and grand idea steadily taking shape in his mind.
He felt as if his brains, too, were growing. Some
of his mother’s older and more intimate friends
remained with her all day, probably to comfort her
for the loss of Miranda, and two or three of them,
Dab knew, would stay to tea, so that his services
would be in demand to see them safely home.

All day long, moreover, Samantha and Keziah
and Pamela seemed to find themselves wonderfully
busy, one way and another, so that they paid even
less attention than usual to any of the ins and outs
of their brother.

Dabney was therefore able, with little difficulty,
to take for himself whatever of odd time he might
require for putting his new idea into execution.

Mrs. Kinzer herself noticed the rare good sense
with which her son hurried through with his dinner
and slipped away, leaving her in undisturbed
possession of the table and her lady guests, and
neither she nor either of the girls had a thought
of following him.

If they had done so, they might have seen him
draw a good-sized bundle out from under the lilac-thicket
in the back yard, and hurry down through
the garden.

A few minutes more and Dabney appeared on
the fence of the old cross-road leading down to the
shore. There he sat, eying one passer-by after
another, till he suddenly sprang from his perch,
exclaiming: “That’s just the chap. Why, they’ll
fit him, and that’s more’n they ever did for me.”

Dab would probably have had to search along
the coast for miles before he could have found a
human being better suited to his present charitable
purposes than the boy who now came so lazily
down the road.

There was no doubt about his color, or that he
was all over of about the same shade of black.
His old tow trousers and calico shirt revealed the
shining fact in too many places to leave room for a
question, and shoes he had none.

“Dick,” said Dabney, “was you ever married?”

“Married!” exclaimed Dick, with a peal of very
musical laughter. “Is I married? No! Is you?”

“No,” replied Dabney, “but I was mighty near
it, this morning.”

“Dat so?” asked Dick, with another show of
his white teeth. “Done ye good, den. Nebber
seen ye look so nice afore.”

“You’d look nicer’n I do, if you were only
dressed up,” said Dab. “Just you put on these.”

“Golly!” exclaimed the black boy. But he
seized the bundle Dab threw him, and he had it
open in a twinkling. “Anyt’ing in de pockets?”
he asked.

“Guess

“Say dar was!” exclaimed Dick. “But wont
dese t’ings be warm!”

It was quite likely, for the day was not a cool
one, and Dick never seemed to think of pulling off
what he had on before getting into his unexpected
present. Coat, vest, and trousers, they were all
pulled on with more quickness than Dab had ever
seen the young African display before.

“I’s much obleeged to ye, Mr. Kinzer,” said
Dick, very proudly, as he strutted across the road.
“On’y I dasn’t go back fru de village.”

“What’ll you do, then?” asked Dab.

“S’pose I’d better go a-fishin’,” said Dick.
“Will de fish bite?”

“Oh, the clothes wont make any odds to them,”
said Dabney. “I must go back to the house.”

And so he did, while Dick, on whom the cast-off
garments of his white friend were really a pretty
good fit, marched on down the road, feeling grander
than he ever had before in all his life.

“That’ll be a good thing to tell Ham Morris
when he and Miranda come home again,” muttered
Dab, as he re-entered the house.

Late that evening, when Dabney returned from [Page 556]
his final duties as escort to his mother’s guests, she
rewarded him with more than he could remember
ever receiving of motherly commendation.

“I’ve been really quite proud of you, Dabney,”
she said to him, as she laid her plump hand on the
collar of his new coat and kissed him. “You’ve
behaved like a perfect gentleman.”

“Only, mother,” exclaimed Keziah, “he spent
too much of his time with that sharp-tongued little
Jenny Walters.”

“Never mind, Kezi,” said Dab. “She didn’t
know who I was till I told her. I’m going
to wear a label with my name on it, when I
go over to the village, to-morrow.”

“And then you’ll put on your other suit in
the morning,” said Mrs. Kinzer, “You must
keep this for Sundays and great occasions.”

When the morning came, Dabney Kinzer
was a more than usually early riser, for he
felt that he had waked up to a very important
day.

“Dabney,” exclaimed his mother, when
he came in to breakfast, “did I not tell you
to put on your other suit?”

“So I have, mother,” replied Dab; “this
is my other suit.”

“That!” exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer.

“So it is!” cried Keziah.

“So it isn’t,” added Samantha. “Mother,
that’s not what he had on yesterday.”

“He’s been trading again,” mildly suggested
Pamela.

“Dabney,” said Mrs. Kinzer, “what does
this mean?”

“Mean!” replied Dabney, “Why, these
are the clothes you told me to buy. The
lot I wore yesterday were a present from
Ham Morris. He’s a splendid fellow. I’m
glad he got the best of the girls.”

That was a bad thing for Dabney to say, just
then, for it was resented vigorously by the remaining
three. As soon as quiet was restored, however,
Mrs, Kinzer remarked:

“I think Hamilton should have consulted me
about it; but it’s too late now. Anyhow, you may
go and put on your other clothes.”

“My wedding suit?” asked Dab.

“No, indeed! I mean your old ones; those
you took off night before last.”

“Dunno where they are,” slowly responded Dab.

“Don’t know where they are?” repeated a
chorus of four voices.

“No,” said Dab. “Bill Lee’s black boy had
’em on all yesterday afternoon, and I reckon he’s
gone a-fishing again to-day. They fit him a good
sight better’n they ever did me.”

If Dabney had expected a storm to come from
his mother’s end of the table, he was pleasantly
mistaken, and his sisters had it all to themselves
for a moment. Then, with an admiring glance at
her son, the thoughtful matron remarked:

“Just like his father, for all the world. It’s no
use, girls. Dabney’s a growing boy in more ways
than one. Dabney, I shall want you to go over to
the Morris house with me after breakfast. Then
you may hitch up the ponies, and we’ll do some
errands around the village.”

DAB GIVES DICK HIS OLD CLOTHES.

Dab Kinzer’s sisters looked at one another in
blank astonishment, and Samantha would have left
the table if she had only finished her breakfast.

Pamela, as being nearest to Dab in age and
sympathy, gave a very admiring look at her
brother’s second “good fit,” and said nothing.

Even Keziah finally admitted, in her own mind,
that such a change in Dabney’s appearance might
have its advantages. But Samantha inwardly declared
war.

The young hero himself was hardly used to that
second suit as yet, and felt anything but easy in it.

“I wonder,” he said to himself, “what Jenny
Walters would think of me now? Wonder if she’d
know me?”

Not a doubt of it. But, after he had finished his
breakfast and gone out, his mother remarked:

“It’s really all right, girls. I almost fear I’ve
been neglecting Dabney. He isn’t a little boy [Page 557]
any more.”

“He isn’t a man yet,” exclaimed Samantha,
“and he talks slang dreadfully.”

“But then he does grow so!” remarked Keziah.

“Mother,” said Pamela, “couldn’t you get Dab
to give Dick the slang, along with the old clothes?”

“We’ll see about it,” replied Mrs. Kinzer.

It was very plain that Dabney’s mother had
begun to take in a new idea about her son. It was
not the least bit in the world unpleasant to find out
that he was “growing in more ways than one,”
and it was quite likely that she had indeed kept
him too long in roundabouts.

CHAPTER III.

Dick Lee had been more than half right about
the village being a dangerous place for him with
such an unusual amount of clothing over his ordinary
uniform.

The very dogs, every one of whom was an old
acquaintance, barked at him on his way home
that night; and, proud as were his ebony father
and mother, they yielded to his earnest entreaties,
first, that he might wear his present all the next
day, and, second, that he might betake himself to
the “bay,” early in the morning, and so keep out
of sight “till he got used to it.”

The fault with Dab Kinzer’s old suit, after all,
had lain mainly in its size rather than its materials,
for Mrs. Kinzer was too good a manager to be
really stingy.

Dick succeeded in reaching the boat-landing
without falling in with any one who seemed disposed
to laugh at him; but there, right on the
wharf, was a white boy of about his own age, and
he felt a good deal like backing out.

“Nebber seen him afore, either,” said Dick to
himself. “Den I guess I aint afeard ob him.”

The stranger was a somewhat short and thick-set
but bright and active-looking boy, with a pair of
very keen, greenish-gray eyes. But, after all, the
first word he spoke to poor Dick was:

“Hullo, clothes! where are you going with all
that boy?”

“I knowed it! I knowed it!” groaned Dick.
But he answered, as sharply as he knew how:
“I’s goin’ a-fishin’. Any ob youah business?”

“Where’d you learn to fish?” the stranger
asked. “Down South? Didn’t know they had
any there.”

“Nebbah was down Souf,” was the surly reply.

“Father run away, did he?”

“He nebber was down dar, nudder.”

“Nor his father?”

“‘T aint no business o’ your’n,” said Dick;
“but we’s allers lived right heah on dis bay.”

“Guess not,” replied the white boy, knowingly.

But Dick was right, for his people had been
slaves among the very earliest Dutch settlers, and
had never “lived South” at all. He was now
busily getting one of the boats ready to push off;
but his white tormentor went at him again with—

“Well, then, if you’ve lived here so long, you
must know everybody.”

“Reckon I do.”

“Are there any nice fellows around here? Any
like me?”

“De nicest young genelman ’round dis bay,”
replied Dick, “is Mr. Dab Kinzer. But he aint
like you. Not nuff to hurt ‘im.”

“Dab Kinzer!” exclaimed the stranger. “Where
did he get his name?”

“In de bay, I spect,” said Dick, as he shoved
his boat off. “Caught ‘im wid a hook.”

“Anyhow,” said the strange boy to himself,
“that’s probably the sort of fellow my father
would wish me to associate with. Only it’s likely
he’s very ignorant.”

And he walked away toward the village with the
air of a man who had forgotten more than the rest
of his race were ever likely to find out.

At all events, Dick Lee had managed to say a
good word for his benefactor, little as he could
guess what might be the consequences.

Meantime, Dab Kinzer, when he went out from
breakfast, had strolled away to the north fence, for
a good look at the house which was thenceforth to
be the home of his favorite sister. He had seen it
before, every day since he could remember; but it
seemed to have a fresh and almost mournful interest
for him just now.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, as he leaned against
the fence. “Putting up ladders? Oh yes, I see!
That’s old Tommy McGrew, the house-painter.
Well, Ham’s house needs a new coat as badly as I
did. Sure it’ll fit, too. Only it aint used to it
any more’n I am.”

“Dabney!”

It was his mother’s voice, and Dab felt like
“minding” very promptly that morning.

“Dabney, my boy, come here to the gate.”

“Ham’s having his house painted,” he remarked,
as he joined his mother.

“Is he?” she said. “We’ll go and see about it.”

As they drew nearer, however, Dabney discovered
that carpenters as well as painters were plying their
trade in and about the old homestead. There were
window-sashes piled here and blinds there, a new
door or so ready for use, with bundles of shingles,
and other signs of approaching “renovation.”

“Going to fix it all over,” remarked Dab.

“Yes,” replied his mother; “it’ll be as good as
new. It was well built, and will bear mending.”

When they entered the house, it became more [Page 558]
and more evident that the “shabby” days of the
Morris mansion were numbered. There were men
at work in almost every room.

Ham’s wedding trip would surely give plenty of
time, at that rate, and his house would be “all
ready for him” on his return.

There was nothing wonderful to Dabney in the
fact that his mother went about inspecting work
and giving directions. He had never seen her do
anything else, and he had the greatest confidence
in her knowledge and ability.

Dabney noticed, too, before they left the place,
that all the customary farm-work was going ahead
with even more regularity and energy than if the
owner himself had been present.

“Ham’s farm’ll look like ours, one of these
days, at this rate,” he said to his mother.

“I mean it shall,” she replied, somewhat sharply.
“Now go and get out the ponies, and we’ll do the
rest of our errands.”

If they had only known it, at that very moment
Ham and his blooming bride were setting out for a
drive at the fashionable watering-place where they
had made the first stop in their wedding tour.

“Ham?” said Miranda, “it seems to me as if we
were a thousand miles from home.”

“We shall be further before we get nearer,” said
Ham.

“But I wonder what they are doing there,—mother
and the girls and dear little Dabney?”

“Little Dabney!” exclaimed Ham. “Why,
Miranda, do you think Dab is a baby yet?”

“No, not a baby. But———”

“Well, he’s a boy, that’s a fact; but he’ll be
as tall as I am in three years.”

“Will he ever be fat?”

“Not till after he gets his full length,” said Ham.
“We must have him at our house a good deal,
and feed him up. I’ve taken a liking to Dab.”

“Feed him up!” said Miranda, with some indignation.
“Do you think we starve him?”

“No; but how many meals a day does he get?”

“Three, of course, like the rest of us; and he
never misses one of them.”

“I suppose not,” said Ham, “I never miss a
meal myself, if I can help it. But don’t you think
three meals a day is rather short allowance for a
boy like Dab?”

Miranda thought a moment, but then she answered,
positively: “No, I don’t. Not if he does
as well at each one of them as Dab is sure to.”

“Well,” said Ham, “that was in his old clothes,
that were too tight for him. Now he’s got a good
loose fit, with plenty of room, you don’t know how
much more he may need. No, Miranda, I’m going
to have an eye on Dabney.”

“You’re a dear, good fellow, anyway,” said
Miranda, “and I hope mother’ll have the house
all ready for us when we get back.”

“She will,” replied Ham. “I shall hardly be
easy till I see what she has done with it.”

CHAPTER IV.

“That’s him!”

Dab was standing by the ponies, in front of a
store in the village. His mother was making some
purchases in the store, and Dab was thinking how
the Morris house would look when it was finished,
and it was at him the old farmer was pointing in
answer to a question which had just been asked.

The questioner was the sharp-eyed boy who had
bothered poor Dick Lee that morning.

At that moment, however, a young lady—quite
young—came tripping along the sidewalk, and
was stopped by Dab Kinzer with:

“There, Jenny Walters, I forgot my label!”

“Why, Dabney, is that you? How you startled
me! Forgot your label?”

“Yes,” said Dab; “I’m in another new suit to-day,
and I want to have a label with my name on
it. You’d have known me, then.”

“But I know you now,” exclaimed Jenny.
“Why, I saw you yesterday.”

“Yes, and I told you it was me. Can you read,
Jenny?”

“Why, what a question!”

“Because, if you can’t, it wont do me any good
to wear a label.”

“Dabney Kinzer,” exclaimed Jenny. “There’s
another thing you ought to get?”

“What’s that?”

“Some good manners,” said the little lady,
snappishly. “Think, of your stopping me in the
street to tell me I can’t read.”

“Then you mustn’t forget me so quick,” said
Dab. “If you meet my old clothes anywhere you
must call ’em Dick Lee. They’ve had a change
of name.”

“So, he’s in them, is he? I don’t doubt they
look better than they ever did before.”

And Jenny walked proudly away, leaving her old
playmate feeling as if he had had a little the worst
of it. That was often the way with people who
stopped to talk with Jenny Walters, and she was
not as much of a favorite as she otherwise might
have been.

Hardly had she disappeared before Dab was
confronted by the strange boy.

“Is your name Dabney Kinzer?” said he.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Well, I’m Mr. Ford Foster, of New York.”

“Come over here to buy goods?” suggested
Dab. “Or to get something to eat?”

Ford Foster was apparently of about Dab’s age,[Page 559]
but a full head less in height, so that there was
more point in the question than there seemed to
be, but he treated it as not worthy of notice, and
asked: “Do you know of a house to let anywhere
about here?”

“House to let?” suddenly exclaimed the voice
of Mrs. Kinzer, behind him, much to Dab’s surprise.
“Are you asking about a house? Whom for?”

If Ford Foster had been ready to “chaff” Dick
Lee, or even Dab Kinzer, he knew enough to speak
respectfully to the portly and business-like lady
now before him.

“IS YOUR NAME DABNEY KINZER?”

“Yes, madam,” he said, with a ceremonious
bow. “I wish to report to my father that I’ve
found an acceptable house in this vicinity.”

“You do!”

Mrs. Kinzer was reading the young gentleman
through and through as she spoke, but she followed
her exclamation with a dozen questions, and then
wound up with:

“Go right home, then, and tell your father the
only good house to let in this neighborhood will be
ready for him next week, and he’d better see me
at once. Get into the buggy, Dabney.”

“A very remarkable woman!” muttered Ford
Foster to himself as they drove away. “I must
make some more inquiries.”

“Mother,” said Dabney, “you wouldn’t let ’em
have Ham’s house?”

“No, indeed; but I don’t mean to have our
own stand empty.” And, with that, a great deal
of light began to break in on Dabney’s mind.

“That’s it, is it?” he said to himself, as he
touched up the ponies. “Well, there’ll be room
enough for all of us there, and no mistake. But
what’ll Ham say?”

It was not till late the next day, however, that
Ford Foster completed his inquiries. He took the
afternoon train for the city, satisfied that, much as
he knew before he came, he had actually learned
a good deal more which was valuable.

He was almost the only person in the car.
Trains going toward the city were apt to be thinly
peopled at that time of day, but the empty cars
had to be taken along all the same, for the benefit
of the crowds who would be coming out, later in
the afternoon and in the evening. The railway
company would have made more money with full
loads both ways, but it was well they did not have
one on that precise train. Ford had turned over
the seat in front of him, and stretched himself out
with his feet on it. It was almost like lying down[Page 560]
for a boy of his length, but it was the very best
position he could have taken if he had known what
was coming.

Known what was coming?

Yes, there was a pig coming.

That was all, but it was quite enough, considering
what that pig was about to do. He was going
where he chose, just then, and he chose not to turn
out for the railway train.

“What a whistle!” Ford Foster had just exclaimed.
“It sounds more like the squeal of an
iron pig than anything else. I——”

But at that instant there came a great jolt and a
shock, and Ford found himself suddenly tumbled,
all in a heap, on the seat where his feet had been.
Then came bounce after bounce and the sound of
breaking glass, and then a crash.

“Off the track!” shouted Ford, as he sprang to
his feet. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,
but I do hope nobody’s killed.”

In the tremendous excitement of the moment he
could hardly have told how he got out of that car,
but it did not seem ten seconds till he was standing
beside the conductor and engineer, looking at the
battered engine as it lay on its side in a deep ditch.
The baggage car, just behind it, was broken all to
pieces, but the passenger cars did not seem to have
suffered very much, and nobody was badly hurt, as
the engineer and fireman had jumped off in time.

“This train’ll never get in on time,” said Ford
to the conductor, a little later. “How’ll I get to
the city?”

“Well,” replied the railway man, who was not
in the best of humors, “I don’t suppose the city
could do without you overnight. The junction
with the main road is only two miles ahead, and if
you’re a good walker you may catch a train there.”

Some of the other passengers, none of whom were
very much hurt, had made the same discovery, and
in a few minutes more there was a long, straggling
procession of uncomfortable people marching by
the side of the railway track, under the hot sun,
The conductor was right, however, and nearly all
of them managed to make the two miles to the
junction in time.

Mr. Ford Foster was among the very first to
arrive, and he was likely to reach home in very fair
season in spite of the pig.

As for his danger, he had hardly thought of that,
and he would not have missed so important an
adventure for anything he could think of, just then.

It was to a great, pompous, stylish, crowded,
“up-town boarding-house,” that Ford’s return was
to take him. There was no wonder at all that wise
people should wish to get out of such a place in
such hot weather. Still, it was the sort of a home
Ford Foster had been best acquainted with all his
life, and it was partly owing to that that he had
become so prematurely “knowing.”

He knew too much, in fact, and was only too
well aware of it. He had filled his head with an
unlimited stock of boarding-house information, as
well as with a firm persuasion that there was little
more to be had,—unless, indeed, it might be scraps
of such outside, knowledge as he had now been
picking up over on Long Island.

In one of the great “parlor chambers” of the
boarding-house, at about eight o’clock that evening,
a middle-aged gentleman and lady, with a fair,
sweet-faced girl of about nineteen, were sitting near
an open window, very much as if they were waiting
for somebody.

Such a kindly, motherly lady! She was one of
those whom no one can help liking, after seeing
her smile once, or hearing her speak. Whatever
may have been his faults or short-comings, Ford
Foster could not have put in words what he thought
about his mother. And yet he had no difficulty
in expressing his respect for his father, or his unbounded
admiration for his pretty sister Annie.

“Oh, husband!” exclaimed Mrs. Foster, “are
you sure none of them were injured?”

“So the telegraphic report said. Not a bone
broken of anybody but the pig that got in the way.”

“But how I wish he would come!” groaned
Annie. “Have you any idea, papa, how he can
get home?”

“Not clearly,” said her father, “but you can
trust Ford not to miss any opportunity. He’s just
the boy to look out for himself in an emergency.”

Ford Foster’s father took very strongly after the
son in whose ability he expressed so much confidence.
He had just such a square, active, bustling
sort of body, several sizes larger, with just such
keen, penetrating, greenish-gray eyes. Anybody
would have picked him out, at a glance, for a lawyer,
and a good one.

That was exactly what he was, and if any one
had become acquainted with either son or father,
there would have been no difficulty afterward in
identifying the other.

It required a good deal more than the telegraphic
report of the accident or even her husband’s assurances,
to relieve the motherly anxiety of good Mrs.
Foster, or even to drive away the shadows from the
face of Annie.

No doubt if Ford himself had known the state of
affairs, they would have been relieved earlier; for
even while they were talking about him he was
already in the house. It had not so much as occurred
to him that his mother would hear of the
accident to the pig and the railway train until he
himself should tell her, and so, he had made sure
of his supper down-stairs, before reporting himself.[Page 561]
He might not have done it, perhaps, but he had
come in through the lower way, by the area door,
and that of the dining-room had stood temptingly
wide open with some very eatable things ready on
the table.

That had been too much for Ford, after his
car-ride and his smash-up and his long walk. But
now, at last, up he came, brimful of new and
wonderful experiences, to be more than a little
astonished by the manner and enthusiasm of his
welcome.

“Why, mother!” he exclaimed, when he got a
chance for a word, “you and Annie couldn’t have
said much more if I’d been the pig himself.”

“The pig?” said Annie.

“Yes, the pig that stopped us. He and the
engine wont go home to their families to-night.”

“Don’t make fun of it, Ford,” said his mother,
gently; “it’s too serious a matter.”

Just then his father broke in, almost impatiently,
with, “Well, Ford, my boy, have you done your
errand, or shall I have to see about it myself?
You’ve been gone two days.”

“Thirty-seven hours and a half, father,” replied
Ford, taking out his watch. “I’ve kept an exact
account of my expenses. We’ve saved the cost of
advertising.”

“And spent it on railroading,” said his father,
with a laugh.

“But, Ford,” asked Annie, “did you find a
house?—a good one?”

“Yes,” added Mrs. Foster, “now I’m sure
you’re safe, I do want to hear about the house.”

“It’s all right, mother,” said Ford, confidently.
“The very house you told me to hunt for. Neither
too large nor too small, and it’s in apple-pie order.”

There were plenty of questions to answer now,
but Ford was every way equal to the occasion. His
report, in fact, compelled his father to look at him
with an expression of face which very clearly meant,
“That boy resembles me. I was just like him at
his age. He’ll be just like me at mine.”

There was really very good reason to approve
of the manner in which the young gentleman had
performed his errand in the country, and Mr.
Foster promptly decided to go over, in a day or
two, and settle matters with Mrs Kinzer.

(To be continued.)

MAKING READY FOR A CRUISE.

HOW WILLY WOLLY WENT A-FISHING.

BY S.C. STONE.

One day, on going fishing
    Was Willy Wolly bent;
And, as it chanced a holiday,
    Why, Willy Wolly went.

Now, Willy Wolly planned, you see,
    To catch a speckled trout;
But caught a very different fish
    From what he had laid out!

In view of all the fishes,—
    Who much enjoyed the joke,
With many a joyous wriggle
    And finny punch and poke,—

Young Willy Wolly, leaping[Page 563]
    A fence with dire design,
Had carelessly left swinging
    His fishing-hook and line.

How Willy Wolly did it,
    He really could not tell,
But instantly he had his fish
    Exceeding fast and well!

He hooked the struggling monster
    Securely in the sleeve;
And, all at once, he found it time
    His pleasant sport to leave;—

‘T was not a very gamy fish[Page 564]
    For one so large and strong,
That Willy Wolly, blubbering,
    Helped carefully along.

The giggling fishes crowded to
    The river bank to look,
As Willy Wolly, captive, led
    Himself with line and hook!

When Willy Wolly went, you see,
    To catch a speckled trout,
Why, Willy Wolly caught himself!
    And so the joke is out.

His mother saved that barbèd hook,
    And sternly bid him now
No more to dare a-fishing go,
    Until he has learned how!

CRUMBS FROM OLDER READING.

BY JULIA E. SARGENT.

III.—THOMAS CARLYLE.

“Shakespeare says we are creatures that look
before and after. The more surprising, then, that
we do not look around a little, and see what is
passing under our very eyes.”

So writes Thomas Carlyle.

Although he politely says “we,” when speaking
of people in general, that part of the “we” known
as Thomas Carlyle certainly keeps his eyes wide
open. So wide, indeed, that much that is disagreeable
comes under his notice, as always will
be the case with those who choose to see everything.

I once watched the round, red sun as it crimsoned
the sparkling waters in which it seemed
already sinking. When, at last, I turned my
dazzled eyes away, all over lake and sky I saw
dancing black suns. Perhaps it is through dwelling
long on one idea that Carlyle sees only spots
of blackness on what others call clear sky. The
great want of that foggy, smoky city where he lives
is pure, health-giving light, and this we also miss
in his writings, which, like London, have not
enough sunshine.

But, whatever people may say, when Carlyle
speaks the world is quite ready to listen.

Who is Thomas Carlyle?

He is a Scotchman, a philosopher, an essayist,
an historian, a biographer, and an octogenarian.

What has he done to be so famous?

He has written twenty books. But you might
live to be an octogenarian yourself without meeting
twenty persons who would have read them all. It
would not be a hard matter, though, to find those
who have read one of his books twenty times;
perhaps this very green-covered book with “Sartor
Resartus” on the back.

What does it mean, and what is it all about?

It means “The Tailor Re-tailored,” and Carlyle
says it is a book about clothes. But you need not
look for fashion-plates; there are none there. You
will hear nothing about new costumes; for this
book is full of Carryle’s own thoughts, clothed in
such words that you will surely enjoy the book.

Hear how he tells us that nothing that we do is
really “of no matter,” as we so often think:

“I say, there is not a red Indian hunting by
Lake Winnepeg can quarrel with his squaw but the
whole world must smart for it: will not the price
of beaver rise?”

You think it would not make much difference if
the price of beaver should rise? Let us look at
the matter. First, Mr. B. Woods, the trader, must
pay a larger price for his beaver, and therefore
must sell for more to the firm of Bylow & Selhi.
These shrewd gentlemen do not intend to lose on
their purchase, so they pay a less sum to Mr.
Maycup, the manufacturer. This reduction in his
income causes Mr. Maycup to curtail family expenses.
So his subscription to ST. NICHOLAS is
discontinued, and the youthful Maycups are overwhelmed
with grief, because of that unfortunate
quarrel which raised the price of beaver.

But why should the price change because of that?

Really, Mr. Carlyle should answer you. Perhaps
the Indian in his quarrel forgets to set his traps, or
the whole neighborhood may become so interested
in the little affair that beavers are forgotten.

“Were it not miraculous could I stretch forth
my hand and clutch the sun? Yet thou seest me
daily stretch forth my hand and clutch many a
thing and swing it hither and thither. Art thou a
grown baby, then, to fancy that the miracle lies in
miles of distance, or in pounds avoirdupois of
weight; and not to see that the true miracle lies
in this, that I can stretch forth my hand at all?”

What is it that Carlyle thinks so wonderful?
See how quietly my hand rests on this table. Why
should it move any more than the table on which
it rests? Is not Carlyle right when he calls every
movement of my hand a wonder? You never
thought of it before? That is as Carlyle says:
“We do not look around a little and see what is
passing under our very eyes.”

It was this great old man whose hand brushed
the clinging mud from a crust of bread, and placed
it on the curbstone, for some dog or pigeon, saying,
“My mother taught me never to waste anything.”

Here is a word for those who are always planning
what great things they will do—who think so much
about doing that no time is left for the doing:

“The end of man is an action, and not a
thought, though it were the noblest.”

Now, for our final crumb, comes a well-clothed
thought that I like better than quarreling Indians
or familiar wonders. It is the reason why selfish
people are never really happy. Carlyle thinks they
have only themselves to blame, for he says:

“Always there is a black spot in our sunshine;
it is even, as I said, the shadow of ourselves.”

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Hurrah for June!—bright, rosy June! “Joy
rises in me like a summer’s morn!” as one of
those pleasant people, the poets, has said.

Let everybody be glad! But most of all, you,
my youngsters! The month properly belongs to
you. Don’t I know? Wasn’t it set apart by
Romulus, ages and ages ago, especially for the
young people, or “Juniores,” as they then were
called? And hasn’t their name stuck to it ever
since? Yes, indeed! So, be as merry as you can,
my chicks; but, with all your fun and frolic, be
thankful, and make June weather all about you.
June time—any time—is full of joy when hearts,
brimming over with thankfulness, carry cheer to
other hearts, making

“A noise like of a hidden brook
    In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
    Singeth a quiet tune,”—

like the little stream that bubbles by the foot of
our meadow.

Now to business. First comes a letter about

A ROPE OF EGGS.

Brooklyn, N.Y.
My Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: I know about a rope of eggs,
and I will tell you. It is in Japan. The eggs are plaited and twisted
into ropes made from straw, and so it is safe and easy to handle them.
Just think how queer it would seem to buy eggs by the yard!
AMY M.

CONVERSATION BY FISTICUFFS.

After being flurried by clouds of paragrams
about sphygmographs, and phonographs, and
pneumatic telegraphs, and scores of other extraordinary
scientific ways of communication, I’m not
in the least surprised to learn that ants converse
by one tapping another’s head.

I’m told that an Englishman named Jesse once
put a small caterpillar near an ants’ nest, and
watched. Soon an ant seized it; but the caterpillar
was too heavy to be moved by one ant alone, so
away he ran until he met another ant. They
stopped for a few moments, during which each
tapped the other’s head with his feelers in a very
lively manner. Then they both hurried off to the
caterpillar, and together dragged it home.

A HORSE THAT LOVED TEA.

Roxbury, Mass.

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: This is a true story of Mary’s horse.
He was just as black as a coal all over, except a pretty white star on
his forehead.

Once in two or three weeks Mary had him take tea with her and
her little brother and sisters. She went to the stable where he lived
with Kate and Nell, two pretty twin ponies, and said to him:

“Come, Jack! Don’t you want some, tea?”

At that, he came right up to her, and found out the buttons on her
dress, and tried to pull them off, and then untied her apron strings.

“Now, Jack,” Mary said, “tea is all ready. Come along!”—and
he followed her along the walk to the back door and up the three
steps into the house.

What a clatter his iron shoes made along the entry to the
dining-room!

Harry and Annie and Fanny rushed out, crying:

“Oh, mamma! Here’s Jack coming to tea!”

Then mamma filled a large bowl with tea, put in plenty of milk
and three or four pieces of white sugar (for Jack had a sweet tooth),
and cut a slice of bread into pieces, and put them on a plate, with a
doughnut or piece of gingerbread. And Mary said:

“Now, Jack, come up to the table!”

You see, he was too big to sit in a chair; but he came close up to
the table and stood there, and drank his tea without slopping any
over, and ate up his bread and cake. And when he had done, what
do you think he did? Why, he went up to the piano that stood in a
corner of the room and smelled the keys, and looked round at Mary.
That was to ask her to play him a tune before he went home.

Then she said, “Oh, you dear Jack! I know what you want!”
And she sat down and played some merry tune, while he pricked up
his ears and put his nose down close to her fingers, he was so pleased.
Then he rubbed her shoulder with his nose, and Mary played another
tune for him.

“Now, Jack,” mamma said, “you’ve had a nice time; but you
must go back to your stable. Kate and Nell will miss you if you
stay longer.”

Then Mary opened the dining-room door, and Jack followed her
down the long entry and out to the stable, just like a dog.—Yours
truly, B.P.

TONGUES WHICH CARRY TEETH.

You’ve heard of folks with biting tongues, I
dare say, and very disagreeable they are, no doubt,
though, of course, they do not actually bite with
their tongues. However, there really is an unpleasant
fellow whose tongue carries twenty-six
thousand eight hundred teeth! A capital one for
biting, you’d suppose. He is nothing but a slug,
though, and his army of teeth only scrape, not bite,
I’m told. Then, too, there is a sort of cousin of
his, a periwinkle, who has a long ribbon-like
tongue, armed with six hundred crosswise rows of
hooks, about seven in a row.

You can make sure of these surprising facts, my
dears, with the aid of patience and a microscope.

DIZZY DISTANCES.

The other day, one of the school-children said
to a chum, “The Little Schoolma’am told us this
morning that some parts of the ocean are more
than four miles deep!”

That’s easy to say, thought I, but try to think
it, my dear! Fix on a place four miles away from
you, and then imagine every bit of that distance
stretching down under you, instead of straight
before you. Perhaps in this way you may gain an
idea of the depth of the ocean; but just consider
the height of the air—which, I’m told, is a sort of
envelope about the earth—more than nine times
the depth of the ocean! Yet, what a wee bit of a[Page 567]
way toward the moon would those thirty-six miles
take us! And from the earth to the moon is only
a very little step on the long way to the sun.

Oh dear! Let’s stop and take a breath! Why
did I begin talking of such dizzy distances?

LAND THAT INCREASES IN HEIGHT.

Here is a letter in answer to the Little School-ma’am’s
question which I passed over to you in
April, and it raises such startling ideas, that, may
be, you’d do well to look farther into the matter:

DEAR JACK: We suppose that the Little Schoolma’am and her
writers on Greenland will concede its accidental discovery by Gunnbjorn,
as narrated by Cyrus Martin, Jr., in his “Vikings in America”
[ST. NICHOLAS, Vol. III., page 586]. We have always thought
Iceland appropriately named, and Greenland the reverse.

And now about that question of temperature. If portions of
Greenland are colder than formerly, may it not be because less heat
comes through its crust from subterranean fires, as well as because
the surface is constantly gaining in height, as some report?—Very
truly yours, NED AND WILL WHITFORD.

THE ANGERED GOOSE.

The picture of which you here have an engraving
formed at first a kind of panel of a wall,
and occupied a space beneath one of the cartoons
of Raphael, the great Italian painter, whose grand
picture of “The Transfiguration” is thought to be
his chief work. This panel-picture, also, was
painted by Raphael, as some say, though others
think it may be the work of one of his pupils.

“THE ANGERED GOOSE.”

A curious thing about the picture is this: the
goose is so excited, and scolding its tortoise so
angrily for going slowly, that it has forgotten its
own wings, when, if it would only use them, it
could fly to its journey’s end long before the tortoise
could crawl there. Now, there are other
two-legged geese who let themselves get angered
and excited easily, and so lose many chances of
serving others and helping themselves. Perhaps
you may know some of them.

That is what the Deacon says; but, for my part,
I never knew a goose that hadn’t two legs.

A CITY UNDER THE WATER.

In past ages, as the Deacon once told some of his
older boys in my hearing, the people of some parts
of Europe used to live above the surfaces of lakes,
in huts built on spiles driven into the water.

Well, now I hear that some one has found, under
the water of Lake Geneva, a whole town, with
about two hundred stone houses, a large public
square, and a high tower; and, from the looks of
the town, the shape of the houses, and the way the
stones are cut, some say that the place must have
been built more than two thousand years ago!

Now, I can understand how men were able to
live in the way the Deacon described, but it strikes
me that this other story has something in it that’s
harder to swallow than water.

Who ever heard of men living in cities under the
water, as if they were fishes?

REFLECTION.

The Red School-house.

MY DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Many thanks for putting into
your April sermon the picture and letter which I sent to you. Now,
I must let you know about the explanations that some of your bright
chicks have given.

Arnold Guyot Cameron, S.E.S., O.C. Turner, Louise G. Hinsdale,
and the partners E.K.S. and M.G.V. guessed the right word,
which is “Reflection”; and, of course, it needed some “reflection”
to find it out. The lady in the picture is absorbed in “reflection”
upon something she has been reading in her book; but, besides this,
the water is represented as sending back a “reflection” of nearly
every other object in the picture.

Several others of your youngsters wrote, but they were not so
fortunate in their attempts. “Mignon” suggests the word “Heads,”
for the reason that the guessing has given employment to many
heads. John F. Wyatt thinks that “Beautiful” is the word. Alfred
Whitman, C.H. Payne, and Nellie Emerson, though writing from
three places far apart, agree in giving the word “Reverie” as their
notion of the right one. George A. Mitchell thinks it is “Study”;
Arthur W. James guesses “Meditation”; and Hallie quietly hints
“Calm.” “P.,” however, believes that the word is “Misrepresented,”
which he inclines to write, “Miss represented.” But
Nathalie B. Conkling puts forward the exclamation “Alas!” as the
proper solution, spelling it “A lass.”

Now, puns are not always good wit, and these two are not puns of
the best kind; but they, as well as the other guesses, show that your
chicks have lively minds, able to see a thing from more than one
point of view, even although their conjectures do not hit the very
center of the mark in every instance. I am much obliged to them
all for their letters, and to you, dear Jack, for your
kindness.—Sincerely
your friend, THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA’AM.

“FIDDLE-DIDDLE-DEE!”

Little Davie ran through the garden,—a great slice of bread and butter
in one hand, and his spelling-book in the other. He was going to study
his lesson for to-morrow.

You could not imagine a prettier spot than Davie’s “study,” as he called
it. It was under a great oak-tree, that
stood at the edge of a small wood. The
little boy sat down on one of the roots
and opened his book.

“But first,” thought he, “I’ll finish
my bread and butter.”

So he let his book drop, and, as he
ate, he began to sing a little song with
which his mother sometimes put the
baby to sleep. This is the way the song began:

“I bought a bird, and my bird pleased me;
I tied my bird behind a tree;
Bird said——”

“Fiddle-diddle-dee!” sang something, or somebody, behind the oak.
Davie looked a little frightened, for that was just what he was about to
sing in his song. But he jumped up and ran around to the other side
of the tree. And there was a little brown wren, and it had a little golden
thread around its neck, and the thread was tied to a root of the big tree.

“Hello!” said Davie, “was that you?”

Now, of course Davie had not expected the wren to answer him. But
the bird turned her head on one side, and, looking up at Davie, said:

“Yes, of course it was me! Who
else did you suppose it could be?”

“Oh yes!” said Davie, very much
astonished. “Oh yes, of course! But
I thought you only did it in the song!”

“Well,” said the wren, “were not you
singing the song, and am not I in the
song, and what else could I do?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Davie.

“Well, go, then,” said the wren, “and don’t bother me.”

Davie felt very queer. He stopped a moment, but soon thought that
he must do as he was bid, and he began[Page 569]
to sing again:

“I bought a hen, and my hen pleased me;
I tied my hen behind a tree;
Hen said——”

“Shinny-shack! shinny-shack!” interrupted
another voice, so loudly that
Davie’s heart gave a great thump, as he
turned around. There, behind the wren, stood a little Bantam hen, and
around her neck was a little golden cord that fastened her to the wren’s leg.

“I suppose that was you?” said Davie.

“Yes, indeed,” replied the hen. “I know when my time comes in, in
a song. But it was provoking for you to call me away from my chicks.”

“I?” cried Davie. “I didn’t call you!”

“Oh, indeed!” said the Bantam. “It wasn’t you, then, who were singing
‘Tied my hen,’ just now! Oh no, not you!”

“I’m sorry,” said Davie. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Well, go on, then,” said the little hen, “and don’t bother.”

Davie was so full of wonder that he did not know what to think of it
all. He went back to his seat, and sang again:

“I had a guinea, and my guinea pleased me;
I tied my guinea behind a tree——”

But here he stopped, with his mouth wide open; for up a tiny brown

path that led into the wood, came a little
red man about a foot high, dressed in
green, and leading by a long yellow
string a plump, speckled guinea-hen!
The little old man came whistling along
until he reached the Bantam, when he
fastened the yellow string to her leg,
and went back again down the path,
and disappeared among the trees.

Davie looked and wondered. Presently, the guinea stretched out her
neck and called to him in a funny voice:

“Why in the world don’t you go on? Do you think I want to wait
all day for my turn to come?”

Davie began to sing again: “Guinea said——”

“Pot-rack! pot-rack!” instantly squeaked the speckled guinea-hen.

Davie jumped up. He was fairly[Page 570]
frightened now. But his courage soon
came back. “I’m not afraid,” he said
to himself; “I’ll see what the end of
this song will be!”—and he began to
sing again:

“I bought a duck, and my duck pleased me;
I tied my duck behind a tree;
Duck said——”

“Quack! quack!” came from around the oak. But Davie went on:

“I bought a dog, and the dog pleased me;
I tied my dog behind a tree;
Dog said——”

“Bow-wow!” said a little curly dog, as Davie came around the spreading
roots of the tree. There stood a little short-legged duck tied to the
guinea’s leg, and to the duck’s leg was fastened the wisest-looking Scotch
terrier, with spectacles on his nose and a walking-cane in his paw.

The whole group looked up at Davie, who now felt perfectly confident
He sat down on a stone close by, and continued his song:

“I had a horse, and my horse pleased me;
I tied my horse behind a tree.”

Davie stopped and looked down the little brown path. Then he clapped
his hands in great delight; for there came the little old man leading by a
golden bridle a snow-white pony, no bigger than Davie’s Newfoundland dog.

“Sure enough, it is a boy!” said the pony, as the old man tied his
bridle to the dog’s hind leg, and then hurried away. “I thought so!
Boys are always bothering people.”

“Who are you, and where did you
all come from?” asked delighted Davie.

“Why,” said the pony, “we belong
to the court of Her Majesty the Queen
of the Fairies. But, of course, when
the song in which any of the court
voices are wanted, is sung, they all
have to go.”

“I’m sure I’m very sorry,” said Davie. “But why haven’t I ever seen
you all before?”

“Because,” said the pony, “you have never sung the song down here
before.” And then he added: “Don’t you think, now that we are all here,[Page 571]
you’d better sing the song right end first, and be done with it?”

“Oh, certainly!” cried Davie, “certainly!” beginning to sing.

If you could but have heard that song! As Davie sang, each fowl
or animal took up its part, and sang it, with its own peculiar tone and
manner, until they all joined in.

“I had a horse, and my horse pleased me;
I tied my horse behind a tree.
Horse said, ‘Neigh! neigh!’
Dog said, ‘Bow-wow!’
Duck said, ‘Quack! quack!’
Guinea said, ‘Pot-rack! pot-rack!’
Hen said, ‘Shinny-shack! shinny-shack!’
Bird said, ‘Fiddle-diddle-dee!'”

Davie was overjoyed. He thought he would sing it all over again.
But just then he was sure that his mother called him.

“Wait a minute!” he said to his companions. “Wait a minute! I’m
coming back! Oh, it’s just like a fairy-tale!” he cried to himself, as he
bounded up the garden-walk. “I wonder what mother’ll think?”

But his mother said she had not called him, and so he ran back as
fast as his legs would carry him.

But they were all gone. His speller lay on the ground, open at the
page of his lesson; a crumb or two of bread was scattered about; but
not a sign of the white pony and the rest of the singers.

“Well,” said Davie, as he picked up his book, “I guess I wont sing it
again, for I bothered them so. But I wish they had stayed a little longer.”

THE LETTER-BOX.

A BRAVE GIRL.

One summer day, in Union square, New York City, a beautiful
deed was done, which our frontispiece tells so well as almost to leave
no need of words. A poor blind man started to cross the street just
as a car was rapidly approaching. He heard it coming, and, growing
confused, stood still—his poor, blind face turned helplessly,
pathetically up, as if imploring aid. Men looked on heedlessly,
regardless of his danger, or the voiceless appeal in his sightless eyes.

Suddenly, from among the passers-by, a young girl sprang to his
side, between him and the great horses which were so near they
almost touched her, laid her dainty hand on his, and led him safely
over the street, and with gentle words that brought a smile to his
withered old face, set him safely on his way.

It was a brave, kindly act, and one may be sure it was neither the
first nor the last, of the brave girl who did it.

If Charles Dudley Warner had never been a boy, it would have
been impossible for him to write the very interesting little volume he
calls “Being a Boy,” for it is evident that he knows well, from
experience, all that he writes about. It may be that many of our
young readers have seen this book, for it has already reached several
editions; but if there are any of them who have not read it, and who
take an interest in the life of boys who are born, and brought up, and
have fun, and drive oxen, and go fishing, and turn grindstones, and
eat pumpkin-pie, and catch wood-chucks, all on a New England
farm, they would do well to get the book and read it.

If any of those who read it are boys on a farm in New England,
they will see themselves, as if they looked in a mirror; and if any of
them are city boys or girls, or live in the South or West, or anywhere
in the world but in New England, they will see what sort of times
some of the smartest and brightest men in our country had, before
they grew up to be governors, book-writers, and other folks of importance.

There is a particular reason why readers of ST. NICHOLAS should
see this book, for in it they will meet with some old friends.

Williamsburgh, L.I.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I read in the May “Letter-Box” your
answer to Stella G. about long and short words. It reminded me of
what I read once about Count Von Moltke, the great German general.
The writer described him as “the wonderful silent man who
knows how to hold his tongue in eight different languages.”—Yours
truly,

WILLIE, M.D.

Santa Fé, N.M.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The donkeys here are called “burros.”
They are very tame, and do not get frightened at anything. A few
days ago, the boys in our school tied a bunch of fire crackers to the
tail of one, and fired them off. We all thought he would be very
frightened at the noise, but he just walked off and began eating grass.
My brother Barry had one of these little burros, when we were in
Texas, and every evening he would go to a lady’s house for something
to eat, although he had more than he could eat at home; and
if she did not come to the window soon, he would bray as loudly as
he could, and she would have to come out and give him something,
even if it was only a lump of sugur. Good-bye,—From, your affectionate
friend,

BESSIE HATCH.

Coldwater, N.Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Having read in the March number an account
of the “Great Eastern,” I thought perhaps your readers would
like to hear something of the history of her captain, which I read a
short time ago.

When he was a little boy, he went to sea. As he left home, his
mother said: “Wherever you are, Jamie, whether on sea or land,
remember to acknowledge your God. Promise me that you will kneel
down every morning and night and say your prayers, no matter
whether the sailors laugh at you or not.”

Jamie gave his promise, and soon he was on shipboard, bound for
India. They had a good captain; and, as several of the sailors were
religious men, no one laughed at the boy when he knelt down to pray.

On the return voyage, however, some of the former sailors having
run away, their places were filled by others, and one of these proved
to be a very bad fellow. When he saw little Jamie kneeling down,
this wicked sailor went up to him, and, giving him a sound box on
the ear, said, “None of that here, sir!”

Another seaman, who saw this, although he himself swore sometimes,
was indignant that the child should be so cruelly treated. He
told the man to come up on deck and he would give him a thrashing.
The challenge was accepted, and the well-deserved beating was duly
bestowed. Both then returned to the cabin, and the swearing man
said, “Now, Jamie, say your prayers, and if he dares to touch you,
I will give him another dressing.”

The next night, Jamie was tempted to say his prayers in his hammock.
The moment that the friendly sailor saw Jamie get into his
hammock without first saying his prayers, he hurried to the spot and,
dragging him out, said, “Kneel down at once, sir! Do you think I
am going to fight for you, and you not say your prayers, you young
rascal?” During the whole voyage back to London this same sailor
watched over the boy as if he were his father, and every night saw
that he said his prayers.

Jamie soon began to be industrious, and during his spare hours
studied his books; he learned all about ropes and rigging, and became
familiar with latitude and longitude. Some years after, he became
captain of the “Great Eastern.” On returning to England after a
successful voyage, Queen Victoria bestowed upon him the honor of
knighthood, and the world now knows him as Sir James Anderson.

MABEL R.

B.P.R.—Perhaps the little book called “Album Leaves,” by Mr.
George Houghton, published by Estes & Lauriat, will help you to
some verses suitable to be writen (sic) in autograph albums.

Mobile, Ala.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The “that” question in your recent numbers
brings to mind some “thats” I had when I went to school long
years ago, and which some of your young grammarians may never
have seen. I would like to have them, especially C.P.S., of Chicago,
parse them.

E.S.F.

Now that is a word which may often be joined,
For that that may be doubled is clear to the mind,
And that that that is right, is as plain to the view
As that that that that we use is rightly used too;
And that that that that that line has in it, is right,
And accords with good grammar, is plain in our sight.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you about my aunt Hattie.
She is only nine years older than I am, being twenty-one, and seems more
like a sister than an aunt. When she was about fifteen she
was thrown from her pony and hurt her spine, so that she hasn’t
taken a step since.

But in spite of her great suffering she is the brightest, happiest
one in the house, brimful and running over with fun and spirits.
Papa calls her our sunbeam, and no one can grumble when they see
how patiently and cheerfully she bears her pain. Her bright face
and merry laugh will cure the worst case of “blues.” She wants
me to tell you how much she enjoys ST. NICHOLAS. It is a great
comfort to her, and helps to pass away many an hour of pain and
loneliness when I am at school and mamma is busy. She says she
doesn’t know what she could do without it.

Auntie says you must make allowance for what I say of her as I
am a partial judge; but she is the dearest, best auntie in the world,
and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Everybody loves her, and
I shall be satisfied if I ever learn to be half as good and patient and
unselfish as she is. I don’t see how she can be so good and patient
and happy when she has to lie still year after year and suffer so
much, I should get cross and fret about it, for I can’t bear to be sick
a day. But she never thinks of her own troubles, but is so afraid
she will make us care or trouble. When the pain is very bad she
likes to hear music or poetry. It soothes her better than anything
else. Whittier’s poem on “Patience,” is a favorite with her, and
so is Mrs. Browning’s “Sleep.”—Ever your true friend,

ALLIE BERTRAM.

Salem, Mass.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you about my little turtle. I
got him up in the country last summer, and have had him about six
months. I keep him in a bowl of water, with a shell in it. In summer
I feed him with flies, and in winter I give him pieces of cooked
meat about the size of a fly. My turtle’s shell is nearly round, and
he is small enough to be put in a tumbler, and then he can turn
round as he likes. I named him “Two-forty” (a funny name),
because, when you put him down, he stands still, looks around a
minute, and then starts off on a run,—Your friend and reader,

JOHNNY P. WILLIS.

Camp Grant, Arizona.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Your coming every month fills us with
delight. We cannot wait to read you separately, so mamma reads
you aloud after the lamps are lighted, the first evening you are here.
Papa lays aside his pen to listen, just like any boy, and so we all
enjoy your pages at once. I have one little sister, but no brother.[Page 573]
We live in camp, in far-away Arizona; and, although the “buck-board”
brings the mail in every other day, it takes a long while for a
letter to come from the East.

There is a pet deer here. He comes out to “guard mounting” on
the parade-ground, and trots after the band when the guard passes in
review. Every one is kind to him; even the dogs know they must
not chase him.—Your true friend,

MOLLIE GORDON.

New Brunswick, N.J.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I would like to tell you of the nice times
that the country children have, although they have no parks. In
summer they can go on picnics, and they have a nice garden to play
in. And most of the children have little gardens of their own to plant
things in,—one for flowers and the other for vegetables. Then, in
the winter-time, they can go coasting, sliding and skating; then, last
but not least, sleigh-riding on the lovely, pure white snow.

I, for one, would not be a city child. If I lived in the city, I could
not have my old pet hen. Good-by, dear ST. NICHOLAS.—From
your friend—

MATHILDE WEYER.

P.S.—I have a cat by the name of Pussy Hiawatha.

Covington, Ohio.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Would you like to know how I came to get
you? I worked for you. My brother made a bank for me out of a
cigar-box, and said if I put ten cents into it every week, I could
begin taking you in November. That was in March. Sometimes, I
could not get the ten cents, but I made it up the next week, and
more, too, if I could; and before July, I had more than enough to
pay for you. After that, I saved nearly enough to buy me a suit of
clothes. I am working for you for another year. My age is twelve.
—From your constant reader,

W.H. PERRY.

The following is sent to us from Josie C.H., aged eleven years, as
her own composition:

SOME THINGS WHICH WE EXPECT IN YEARS TO COME.

Some boys, when they go to school, expect to learn. When they
are a little older, they expect to go to college; and then, to learn
trades and professions, and to become men. The farmer, when he
plants his seed in the spring, expects a harvest. The merchant, when
he buys his goods, expects to sell them at a profit. The student expects
to become a lawyer, minister, etc. All boys expect to become
men. We often expect things that never happen, but what we expect
we cannot always get; yet we can try for them, which is a good
rule to go by.

THE TRUE STORY OF “MARY’S LITTLE LAMB.”

Saratoga Springs, N.Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you what I read lately in a
newspaper about Mary and her lamb. Mary herself is now a delightful
old lady of threescore and ten, and this is her story:

“I was nine years old, and we lived on a farm. I used to go out
to the barn every morning with father, to see the cows and sheep.
One cold day, we found that during the night twin lambs had been
born. You know that sheep will often disown one of twins, and this
morning one poor little lamb was pushed out of the pen into the
yard. It was almost starved, and almost frozen, and father told me
I might have it if I could keep it alive. So I took it into the house,
wrapped it in a blanket, and fed it on peppermint and milk all day.
When night came, I could not bear to leave it, for fear it would die.
So mother made me up a little bed on the settle, and I nursed the
poor little thing all night, feeding it with a spoon, and by morning it
could stand. After this, we brought it up by hand, until it learned to
love me very much, and would stay with me wherever I went, unless
it was tied. I used, before going to school in the morning, to see
that the lamb was all right, and securely fastened for the day.

“Well, one morning, when my brother Nat and I were all ready,
the lamb could not be found, and, supposing that it had gone out to
pasture with the cows, we started on. I used to be very fond of singing,
and the lamb would follow the sound of my voice. This morning,
after we had gone some distance, I began to sing, and the lamb
hearing me, followed, and overtook us before we got to school. As it
happened, we were early; so I went in very quietly, and took the
lamb into my seat, where it went to sleep, and I covered it up with
my shawl. When the teacher and the rest of the scholars came, they
did not notice anything amiss, and all was quiet until my
spelling-class
was called. Hardly had I taken my place when the patter of
little hoofs was heard coming down the aisle, and the lamb stood beside
me ready for its word. Of course, the children all laughed, and the
teacher laughed too, and the poor creature had to be turned
out-of-doors.
But it kept coming back, and at last had to be tied in the
wood-shed until school was out. Now, that day, there was a young
man in the school, John Roulston by name, who had come as a spectator.
He was a Boston boy and son of a riding-school master, and
was fitting for Harvard College. He was very much pleased over
what he saw in our school, and a few days after gave us the first three
verses of the song. How or when it got into print, I don’t know.

“I took great care of my pet, and would curl its long wool over a
stick, Finally, it was killed by an angry cow. I have a pair of little
stockings, knitted of yarn spun from the lamb’s wool, the heels of
which have been raveled out and given away piecemeal as
mementoes.”—Yours
truly,

J.M.D.

Bolinas, Cal.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Were the “Arabian Nights” written by an
Englishman or translated from the Arabic? In either case can you
tell us the name of the author?—Yours sincerely,

ESTHER R. DE PERSE AND JIMMIE MOORE.

The “Arabian Nights” were collected and translated into English
by Edward William Lane, an Englishman; but no one ever has found
out where or by whom the tales were first told. On page 42 of ST.
NICHOLAS for November, 1874 (the first number), is an article on the
subject by Mr. Donald G. Mitchell, which you would do well to read.

Geneva, Switzerland.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Perhaps some of your American readers
have visited this far-away city, and even attended school here. Pupils
come here for schooling from all parts of the world,—from America,
Cuba, England, Germany, Russia, Greece, and even from Egypt.
But many of the ST. NICHOLAS children never have been here; so I
will tell them about the country and the people.

In the first place, Switzerland is a republic, with president and vice-president,
as in the United States, but chosen every year. Switzerland
is made up of twenty-two cantons, or states, each of which has
two representatives; and, besides these, there are 128 members of the
National Assembly, and seven members of the Federal Council, each
of which last is chosen once in three years. The country is only
one-third
as large as the State of New York, being 200 miles long and
156 broad; and two-thirds of it is composed of lofty mountains or
deep ravines. The people are apparently such lovers of law and
order as to need no rulers at all. I think there must be propriety in
the air they breathe. They have honest faces, and honesty beams
out of their clear blue eyes. The school-boy even, instead of stopping
to throw stones or climb fences or wrestle with another boy,
walks along to school, at eight o’clock in the morning, with his
square hair-covered satchel on his back, as orderly as if he were the
teacher setting an example to his pupils. The laborers, in
blouse-frocks
of blue or gray homespun, make no noise, no confusion. All
is done quietly, orderly and correctly; each one knows his duty and
does it.

Although Berne is the capital, Geneva is the largest city; and I
think if you could see it as it is, with grand snow-capped mountains
at both sides, the clear blue lake,—not always blue, for sometimes it
is green, and then the blue Rhone can be distinctly seen flowing
through it,—the pretty green parks and gardens, clean streets, and
oddly dressed people, you would think, as I do, that it is a very nice
place to be in.

There are several little steamers which ply on the lake, and
numberless
little sail and row boats, and beautiful white swans, with tiny
olive-colored cygnets, swimming and diving for food. On the banks
of the rapid river, which leaves the lake at the city, are the
wash-houses—a
great curiosity. But my letter is getting too long, so I
must stop.—Yours truly,

S.H. REDFIELD.

Easton, Pa.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I send you an acrostic which I have made,
and I hope you will print it.—Yours truly,

B.

ACROSTIC.

My first has a heart that has ne’er throbbed with pity;
    My next has strong arms, but ne’er strikes for the right;
My third has a head, but is not wise or witty;
My fourth, a neat foot, but in country or city
    Is never seen walking, by day or by night;
My fifth, with a mouth that is surely capacious
Enough for a lion, is never voracious.
Guess from these five initials my whole, if you can;
‘Tis a path ever used, yet untrodden by man.

Ans. Orbit. Oak, Reel, Barrel, Iambic, Tunnel.

CITY CHILDREN’S COUNTRY REST.

Brooklyn, E.D.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Here is news to do your heart good. Last
summer, a Brooklyn lady, who herself has been bed-ridden and in pain
for many years, felt very sorry for the children of the tenement houses,
who are unable to get relief or a chance to enjoy the fresh air and
bright sunlight of the country. She longed to help them, and said
so to Mr. P., a clergyman in northern Pennsylvania. He spoke of
it to his congregation, and asked them if they would invite some of
the poor city children to visit their farm-houses and cottages for a
week or so; and they gladly said they would, and told him he might
bring along as many as he could get to come. This generous reply[Page 574]
he told to the lady, and she let others know, and the result was that,
although late in the season, more than sixty children from the poorest
neighborhoods of Brooklyn—pale, deformed, city-worn, and
ill-fed—spent
a happy fortnight in the country.

The children were ferreted out, and their parents persuaded. They
were then taken to the railroad depot, and there given in charge of
Mr. P., who went with them, and sorted them among his people;
and, when the time was up, brought them back, and turned them
over to us at the depot. Then we took them to their homes. The
total expense of carrying all the children there and back in three lots
was about $180, and more money could have been had if it had been
wanted. In fact, the minute the subject was broached every hearer
wanted to help. The railroad company charged only half fares, and
the employés got to know Mr. P. and his batches of children, and
did all they could to make things easy and cheerful for them.

I can fancy how glad you would have been, dear old ST. NICHOLAS,
to see the happy, hearty, bright-eyed boys and girls that came home
in place of the pale-faced, dead-and-alive children that left two weeks
before! They talked of nothing but the good times they had had.
One little fellow, thinking to surprise us, said, “I seen a cow!” All
of them fared well, and particularly enjoyed the “good country
milk.” When they came back, many wore better clothes than they
had gone in, and all were laden with good things for the home folks.
One boy carried under each arm a “live” chicken,—special gifts for
his mother!

Now, if some of your readers in the country follow the example of
these Pennsylvania people, they will know what it is to be downright
happy; for every person who has had anything to do with this enterprise
feels happy about it, and longs to do it again, and more
besides.—Yours truly,

C.B.

ANSWERS TO MR. CRANCH’S POETICAL CHARADES, published on
page 406 of the April number, were received, before April 18, from
Neils E. Hansen, C.W.W., Arnold Guyot Cameron, Helen and
Frank Diller, “Sadie,” “Marshall,” Emma Lathers, Arthur W.
James, Louise G. Hinsdale, Ada C. Okell, E.K.S. and M.G.V.,
“Sunnyside Seminary,” “Persephone,” M.W.C., Genevieve Allis
and Kittie Brewster, Florence Stryker, “Cosey Club,” Mary and
Willie Johnson, and Jeanie A. Christie.

ERRATUM.—The answer to No. 23 in “Presidential Discoveries”
is “More” (Sir Thomas), not “William Henry,” as given in the
May number.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES in the April number were received, before
April 18, from R.H. Marr, Grace Sumner, “Prebo,” Marion Abbot,
Maxwell W. Turner, Willie W. Cooper, “Cosey Club,” Samuel J.
Holmes, “Three Sisters,” Charles G. Todd, W.M., M.E. Adams,
Mamie G.A., W. Thomas, Jeanie A. Christie, T. Bowdoin, Robert
M. Webb, Allie Bertram, Willie Wilkins, Maggie Simon, Kitty P.
Norton, M.W. Collet, Jay Benton, “Kaween,” Morris M. Turk,
Leonie Giraud, Catherine Cook, Willie B. Dess, Willie Cline, Frances
M. Griffitts, Nellie J. Towle, “Isola,” Mary C. Warren, Florence I.
Turrill, Charles Fritts, “Angeline,” Sam Cruse, John V.L. Pierson,
“Ollie;” Tillie Powles and May Roys; Tyler Redfield, Grace A.
Jarvis, Bennie Swift; Sarah Duffield and “No Name” and Constance
F. Grand-Pierre; “Romeo and Juliet,” “Jupiter,” O.C. Turner,
Jessie D. Worstell, Melly Woodward, R. Townsend McKeever,
Eleanor N. Hughes, Ben Merrill; Annie and Lucy Wollaston; William
Eichelberger and John Cress; “Clover-leaf and Pussy-willow,”
Alice Getty, Herbert D. Utley; Bertha and Carl Heferstein and
Estella Lohmeyer; C. Speiden and M.F. Speiden; Angeline O.,
May Filton, “Winnie,” Maggie J. Gemmill, Jennie McClure,
“X.Y.Z.,” Neils E. Hansen, Clara B. Dunster, Bessie L. Barnes,
Willie B. McLean, Bessie T., Lauretta V. Whyte, Hattie M. Heath;
Charles W. Hutchins and Abbie F. Hutchins; Belle Murray, Harry
A. Garfield; Helen and Frank Diller; Gertrude A. Pocock, Helena
W. Chamberlain, “Al Kihall,” Wm. F. Tort, “Lizzie and Anna,”
Kittie Tuers, Taylor Goshorn, Emma Lathers, “Marshall,” Arthur
W. James, Otto A. Dreier, “O.K.,” Ada B. Raymond, “Seymour-Ct.,”
“Three Cousins,” “Hallie,” Alice Lanigan, Alfred Whitman,
“Golden Eagle;” E.K.S. and M.G.V.; H.B. Ayers, Fred Chittenden;
William McKinley Cobb and Howell Cobb, Jr.; Katie Hackett
and Helen Titus; “35 E. 38th St.,” W.D. Utley, Mary Lewis
Darlington, Louisa L. Richards, James Barton Longacre, Nellie
Emerson, Chas. B. Ebert, Jennie A. Carr, W.H. Wetmore, Mattie
Olmsted; Arthur W. Hodgman, E.H. Hoeber, A.H. Peirce; Kittie
Brewster and Genevieve Allis; Fannie B. Bates, Louise Egleston,
Florence Stryker, Hattie H. Doyle, Mattie Doyle, Mabel Chester,
Alice N. Dunn. A.R., Mary F. Johnson, M. Alice Chase, Alice
Anderson, Bessie T. Hosmer, “Heath Hill Club,” Anna E, Mathewson,
I. Sturges, Addie B. Tiemann, Harriet A. Clark, Clarence H.
Young, B.P. Emery, Victor C. Sanborn, “Persephone,” Eddie Vultee;
“M.,” Staten Island; Fred M. Pease, Cyrus C. Clarke, Geo.
J. Fiske; and George H. Nisbett, of London, England.

Correct solutions of all the puzzles were received from Arnold Guyot
Cameron, “Bessie and her Cousin,” Louise G. Hinsdale, Lucy C.
Johnson; and L.M. and Eddie Waldo.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

EASY BEHEADINGS.

The whole, most animals possess; behead it, and transpose, and
there will appear an emblem of grief; behead again, and see what all
men have; behead and curtail, and find an article.
J.F.S.

ACCIDENTAL HIDINGS.

Find concealed in the following quotations three names for

METRICAL COMPOSITIONS.

“As hope and fear alternate chase
Our course through life’s uncertain race.”—Scott.

“Trained to the chase, his eagle eye
The ptarmigan in snow could spy.”—Scott.

          “Well-dressed, well-bred,
Well-equipaged, is ticket good enough.”—Cowper.

Find concealed in the following quotations three names for

PORTIONS OF TIME.

“From better habitations spurned,
Reluctant dost thou rove.”—Goldsmith.

“As ever ye heard the greenwood dell
On morn of June one warbled swell.”—Queen’s Wake.

“Each spire, each tower and cliff sublime,
Was hooded in the wreathy rime.”—Hogg.

MELANGE.

1. Behead a plant, and leave a friend. 2. Curtail the plant, and
give a pungent spice. 3. Syncopate the plant, and find an envelope.
4. Behead the spice, and leave affection. 5. Syncopate and transpose
the friend, and find learning. 6. Behead the envelope, and leave
above. 7. Syncopate and transpose the envelope, and give the inner
part. 8. Transpose above, and find to ramble. 9. Syncopate to
ramble, and leave a wild animal. ISOLA.

EASY CLASSICAL ACROSTIC.

My first is in deaf, but not in hear;
My second in doe, and also in deer;
My third is in May, but not in June;
My fourth is in song, but not in tune;
My fifth is in house, and also in shed;
My sixth is in cot, but not in bed;
My seventh is in chair, but not in stool;
My eighth is in lake, but not in pool;
My ninth is in pencil, and also in ink;
My tenth is in blue, but not in pink;
My eleventh is in dish, but not in pan;
My whole was a Greek and a well-spoken man.
ANNAN.

ENIGMA.

I am a common adage frequently used by good housewives, and
am composed of twenty-two letters.

My 9 15 3 8 16 22 is pertaining to the place of birth. My 10 20 19
14 are things used to cook with. My 6 1 5 is a domestic animal. My
11 21 is a preposition. My 18 17 13 12 is to appear. My 7 4 2 is a
pronoun.
BESSIE.

ANAGRAMS.

Each anagram is formed from a single word, and a clue to the
meaning of that word is given after its anagram.

1. A dry shop; rambling composition. 2. I clean rum; belonging
to number. 3. Poet in dread; the act of making inroads.
4. Oxen are set; clears from blame. 5. Gin danger; displacing.
CYRIL DEANE.

PICTORIAL PUZZLE

What animal, besides the dog and the cat, is to be found in the above picture?

EASY DIAMOND PUZZLE.

1. A vowel. 2. A fairy. 3. Change. 4. Not many. 5. A consonant.
WILLIE F.

CHARADE.

I.

My first, a god once worshiped, now fills a lowly place,
Though sometimes raised to favor by the wayward human race.

II.

My second, a bold captain, leads a goodly company,
Whose numbers march in columns, like knights of chivalry.
They serve us at our bidding, yet we are in their power,
And the weapons that they carry may wound us in an hour.
It grandly leads the ages, as their cycles onward roll,
But stoops to lend its presence to my shadowy, fearful whole.
It lives in ancient romance, it floats upon the air,
And flower-deck’d May without it would not be half so fair.

III.

My third holds humble office, a servant at your will,
But an instrument of torture if ’tis not used with skill.
Beauty before her mirror studies its use with care,
And deigns, perchance, to choose it an ornament to wear.

IV.

Consider, all ye people, what my strange whole may be;
‘Tis gloomy, dark and awful, and full of mystery.
Ponder the tales of ages, of human sin and woe,
Turn to historic pages, if you its name would know.
E’en kings their heads have rested, a-weary of the crown,
Upon its curious couches, though not of silk or down.
The stately seven-hilled city may boast her ancient birth,
But this was old and hoary ere she had place on earth.
Some tremble when they see it; some its secrets would explore,
And, peering through its shadows, they seek its mystic lore.
A.M.W.

NUMERICAL PUZZLE.

A boy named 1 2 3 4   5 6 7 8 9 10 thought it singular he should
become such a monster as a 1 2 3 4 6 7 8 9 10 by dropping the first
letter of his surname.
C.D.

FOUR-LETTER SQUARE-WORD.

The base is a title. Fill the blanks in the following sentence with
words which can be arranged in order, as they come, to form a
word-square:

The (1)—— made an (2)—— of his minstrel, and yet he himself
could not tell one (3)—— from another, or distinguish a dirge from a
(4)——.
B.

EASY CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.

1. In road, but not in street;
2. In hunger, not in eat;
3. In inn, but not in tavern;
4. In grot, but not in cavern.

The whole is the name of one of the United States.
R.L. M’D.

METAGRAM.

Whole, (1) I am to beat; change my head, and I become, in succession,
(2) stouter, (3) final, (4) substance, (5) to sprinkle, (6) to
rend, and (7) a terrier of a much prized kind.
A.C. CRETT.

EASY ACROSTIC.

My first is in can, but not in may;
My second in opera, not in play;
My third is in shine, but not in bright;
My fourth is in string, but not in kite;
My fifth is in tea, but not in coffee;
My sixth in candy, also in taffy;
My seventh is in rain, but not in hail;
My eighth is in bucket, but not in pail;
My ninth is in ice, but not in snow;
My tenth is in run, but not in go;
My eleventh is in hop, but not in run;
My twelfth in powder, but not in gun;
My thirteenth is in bell, but not in ring;
My fourteenth is in scream, but not in sing.
My whole is a noted city of Europe.
GOLD ELSIE.

BLANK WORD-SYNCOPATIONS.

Fill the first blank, in each sentence, with a certain word; the
second, with a word taken out of the word chosen for the first blank;
and the third with the letters of that word which remain after filling
the second blank.

1. On the —— we first played ——, and then we all began to ——.
2. While —— on the wharf, we saw a vessel come into ——, which
made us —— again.
3. The game of —— I will —— you play, if you will show me the
—— to the fair.
CYRIL DEANE.

CHARADE.

My first embodies all despair;
My second fain my first would flee,
Yet, flying to my whole, full oft
Flies but to life-long misery.
Still Holy Writ doth plainly show;
My whole, though causing, cureth woe.
M. O’B.D.

TRANSPOSITIONS OF PROPER NAMES.

1. At ——, Fla., may be obtained —— —— for washing purposes.
2. Are not the public —— small in the State of ——?
3. In —— you may not see —— —— ——, though you certainly
will see many in Pennsylvania.
4. Amid the mountains of —— there is doubtless many a —— ——.
5. Having occasion to visit the city of ——, to my surprise I ——
—— except a few worn-out —— ——.
6. If you wish to find or to —— —— -trees, you need not go to——.
7. When in —— City I saw an old —— ——, which was quite a relic.
8. In the city of —— the cooks surely know how to —— ——.
9. ——, my brother, —— the falsehood by giving it a flat ——.
10. My aunt —— planted a rose-bush —— —— —— allotted to
fruit trees.
W.

SQUARE-WORD.

1. Sour fruit. 2. Imaginary. 3. To immerse. 4. A large bird.
5. Unconscious rest.
B.

ADDITIONS.

1. Add some liquor to a spirit, and make to fix on a stake. 2. Add
something belonging to animals to the animals themselves, and make
a lantern. 3. Add sharp to a girl’s name, and make a kind of cloth.
4. Add an era to a vegetable, and make a boy-servant. 5. Add a
boy’s name to a cave, and make a foreign country. 6. Add anger to
a serpent, and make to long after.
CYRIL DEANE.

LABYRINTH.

“Trace a way to the center of this labyrinth without crossing a line.”

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN MAY NUMBER.

HOUR-GLASS PUZZLE.—Centrals: Greyhound. Across: Alligator.
2. Adoring. 3. Enemy. 4. Dye. 5. H. 6. Pop. 7. Elude.
8. Evangel. 9. Amendable.

BLANK APOCOPES.—1. Rafters, raft. 2. Rushlight, rush. 3. Larder,
lard. 4. Scarlet, scar.

FRAME PUZZLE.—

EASY BEHEADINGS.—1. Beat, eat. 2. Candy, Andy. 3. She, he;
your, our. 4. Table, able. 5. Pink, ink. 6. Scent, cent. 7. Brain,
rain. 8. Orange, range. 9. Skate, Kate. 10. Helm, elm. 11. Crow,
row. 12. Hash, ash. 13. Bowl, owl. 14. Scare, care. 15. Brush, rush.

EASY TRIPLE ACROSTIC.—Primals, Crow; centrals, Bear; finals,
Gnat, 1. ComBinG. 2. ReverbEratioN. 3. OmAhA. 4. WoRsT.

HIDDEN FRENCH SENTENCE.—Ma ville de pierre,—”My city of
stone,” or “My city of Peter;” i.e.. St. “Peter’s-burg.” [“Pierre”
means “Peter” as well as “stone.”]

PICTORIAL ANAGRAM PROVERB PUZZLE.—”It is good to be merry
and wise.”

THREE EASY SQUARE-WORDS.—

EASY ENIGMA.—Diamond.

REVERSIBLE DOUBLE DIAMOND AND CONCEALED WORD-SQUARE.
Perpendiculars, Revel; horizontals, Lever. Word-square: 1. Ten.
2. Eve. 3. Net.

EASY SYNCOPATIONS.—1. Brass, bass. 2. Bread, bead. 3. Chart,
cart. 4. Clove, cove. 5. Crane, cane. 6. Farce, face. 7. Heart, hart.
8. Horse, hose. 9. Mouse, muse. 10. Peony, pony.

PICTORIAL TRANSPOSTION PUZZLES.—1. Entitles (ten tiles).
Raja (ajar). 3. Palm (lamp). 4. Satyr (trays). 5. Causer (saucer).

EASY SQUARE-WORD.—1. Balm. 2. Aloe. 3. Lore. 4. Meek.

EASY DIAMOND.—1. W. 2. Nag. 3. Water. 4. Gem. 5. R.

[For the names of those who sent answers to puzzles in the April number, see the “Letter-Box,” page 574.]