The Pansy Magazine, Vol. 15, Dec. 1887
Date: 2015-09-20T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Sunday schools -- United States -- Periodicals; American literature -- 19th century -- Periodicals

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Pansy Magazine, Vol. 15, Dec. 1887

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Title: The Pansy Magazine, Vol. 15, Dec. 1887

Author: Various

Editor: Pansy

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PANSY MAGAZINE, VOL. 15, DEC. 1887 ***

The Pansy, December 1887

The Pansy

EDITED
BY
"PANSY"
MRS. G. R. ALDEN

Transcriber's Note: Many of the advertising images are linked to larger copies to enable the reading of the fine print and details.

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Volume 15, Number 5.        Copyright, 1887, by D. Lothrop Company        December 3, 1887.

THE PANSY.

CHARLIE IS DISCOURAGED.

A DARK EVENING.

HE was just discouraged, and that was the whole of it. He sat close to the stove, leaned his ragged elbow on his knee, and his cheek on a rather sooty hand, and gave himself up to troubled thought, the two books which had slipped from him, lying unheeded on the floor.

Let them lie there; what was the use in trying to study? Here was the third evening this week that he had been held, after hours, when he wanted to go to the night school and find out how to do that example! He might just as well give up first as last.

There was a loud stamping outside, and the door of the little flag station burst open, letting in a rush of spiteful winter air.

“Halloo!” said a boy of about fourteen, muffled to his eyes in fur.

“Halloo yourself,” said the boy by the stove, without changing his position more than was necessary to glance up.

“Has the six o’clock freight gone down yet?”

“Not as I know of; I wish she would be about it; I’ve been waiting on her now an hour after time.”

“Lucky for me she is behind, though; I guess I can catch a ride into town on her, can’t I? I’ve been out to Windmere, and missed the five o’clock mail; I set out to foot it, but it is rather rough walking against this wind; especially when you have to walk on ice. I’d rather be toted in on the freight, than to try it. Do you suppose they will give me a lift?”

“You can sit down and wait, and try for it, if you like,” and the boy glanced toward a three-legged stool.

“I’d give you this chair only it hasn’t any bottom,” he said, with a dreary attempt at a smile.

“The stool is all right. Do you have to wait every night for the freight?”

“No; not much oftener than every other night; it isn’t my business to wait at all, but as often as three times a week the fellow in charge wants me to do that, or something else, after I’m off duty.”

“So you fill up the time with reading; that’s a good idea. What have you here?”

The visitor stooped and picked up the fallen books.

“Arithmetic and History! You are studying, eh? Well, now, I call that industrious. Where do you go to school?”

“Nowhere. I pretend to go to the evening class at the Twenty-third Street Station, and sometimes I get there twice in the week, and sometimes only once. It’s a discouraging kind of studying. I’ve been after one example for two weeks and can’t get it.”

“Whereabouts are you? Ho! that old fellow; I remember him. I can show you about it, there’s just a mean little catch to it; but you’ve done well to get so far along.”

Then the two heads bent over the book, and over the row of figures on the margin of a freight bill; and presently the face of the discouraged boy lighted with a smile; he saw through the “catch.” Then there was a little talk between the two.

Ralph Westwood learned that the boy was an orphan; was working at the freight depot beyond his strength and on very small pay, because times were hard, and boys plenty; that he had a little sister in the Orphans’ Home, and the ambition of his life was to learn, and become a scholar, and earn money to support the little sister. He went to school regularly while mother lived, and worked between times to help support himself; and mother wanted him to be a scholar, and thought it was in him, but she had been dead for two years, and things were growing worse with him, and sometimes he was discouraged.

Then the freight came, and Ralph Westwood caught his ride into town, and had only time to say:—

“Don’t give it up, Charlie; who knows what may happen? Christmas is coming.”

“Christmas!” said Charlie to himself with a bitter smile; what could that bring to him but more work, because of an extra train, and late hours and scanty fare, and not even time to run up to the “Home” and see little Nell? Didn’t he remember how it was last Christmas?

As for Ralph Westwood he waited only to brush the snow from his clothes, and wash away the stains of soot from his hands, which must have been left when he shook hands with Charlie, then he sought a handsome library where a gentleman sat reading. Here he did not even wait to reply to the cordial “Good evening!” which greeted him, save as his polite bow was a reply, then he dashed into business. “Uncle Ralph! I have found your boy for you.”

“Indeed! that is quick work! Where did you find him?”

“I blundered on him; the very one. I didn’t know why I should have missed the five o’clock train, and he didn’t know why he should have to do overwork to-night. I hope we shall both have a glorious reason why it worked out before our eyes.”

Then he drew a low chair in front of the lovely grate fire, and told his story.

That was three weeks before Christmas. A great deal can be done in three weeks. Ralph Westwood and his Uncle Ralph did a great deal, and, at the end of the time, knew almost more about Charlie Watson than he knew of himself.

The end of it all, or, more properly speaking, the beginning of it all, came to Charlie on Christmas eve: an invitation to Dr. Westwood’s elegant home, to meet seven boys, all of whom were in the Sabbath-school class which Charlie had just joined.

I wish I had time to tell you about the dinner-table to which they all sat down. Roast turkey, of course, and cranberry sauce, and chicken-pie, and jellies and tarts, and all the elegancies of an elegant dinner, the like of which none of them had ever seen before. At each plate was a bouquet of roses. Think of roses at Christmas, for eight hard-working, homeless boys!

Some people might think they didn’t like those roses with all their hearts; but some people don’t understand some boys. Slipped into each bouquet was a slip of paper which said on it “Merry Christmas!” in beautiful writing, and then followed wonderful things. One paper was a receipt for a year’s house rent, for one of the boys who lived with his mother, and had hard work to meet the landlord’s agent each month. Another had an order on a certain tailor for a full suit of clothes, such as it could be plainly seen he very much needed: every one had something. When Charlie Watson read his, he turned red and pale by turns, and stammered and trembled, and knew not what to say.

It was longer than the others, and it took him some time to understand it all; but at last he made out that he was to enter the Fort Street Grammar School as a pupil, on the Tuesday after New Year’s, and that his home was to be at Dr. Westwood’s office, which he was expected to keep in order, in return for his board and clothes.

What an amazing chance had come to him! Do you wonder that he trembled and stammered?

But, after all, I don’t know that he was any happier than Ralph Westwood, who hovered about him in great satisfaction, and in one of the pauses of his duties as assistant host, found a chance to murmur, “I say, Charlie, aren’t you rather glad the six o’clock freight was late, that night?”

Pansy.

A HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU!

A  HAPPY Christmas to you!
For the Light of Life is born,
And his coming is the sunshine
Of the dark and wintry morn.
The grandest Orient glow must pale,
The loveliest Western gleam must fail,
But his great Light,
So full, so bright,
Ariseth for thy heart to-day,

His shadow-conquering beams shall never pass away.

A happy Christmas to you!

For the Prince of peace is come,

And his reign is full of blessings,

Their very crown and sum.

No earthly calm can ever last.

’Tis but the lull before the blast:

But his great peace

Shall still increase

In mighty, all rejoicing sway;

His kingdom in thy heart can never pass away.

Frances Ridley Havergal.

ARCHIE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

TWENTY-ONE, two, three, four and five!

Just a quarter, sure’s I’m alive!

And that will buy the funniest doll,

Rubber and worsted, for Baby Moll.

That takes all of my ready cash,
And breaks my bank all into smash;
You little tin bank, you’re never full;
I can’t work much nights after school.

ARCHIE.

These days are so short the light don’t last,
And Christmas is coming so fast, so fast!
I won’t ask father to give me a cent;
He works too hard for bread and rent,

But mother must have a Christmas gift;

O dear! who’ll give a fellow a lift?

Dear mamma! her hair is pretty and brown,

And her smile so sweet, with never a frown.

I’ll get her something, I will! I will!

But how’ll I get it’s the question still.

I know!—I’ve got such a splendid plan;

’Tis good enough for a grown-up man.

I think my present will be just grand;
’Tis this: I’ll write, in my nicest hand,
A pledge that liquor I’ll never drink;
That I’ll never swear—and then I think

I’ll write that tobacco I’ll never use,

In tobacco pipes or tobacco chews.

I’ll get an envelope, clean and white,

And on it mamma’s name I’ll write.

And I’ll copy it out so nice and fair,

And sign my name at the bottom there:

“Archibald Spinner!” O what a name!

But Grandpa wears it, and ’tis no shame.

“Archibald!” Mamma will like it so.

“Archie!” she says when I’m good, I know,

But I think ’twill please her—I know it will!

Her dear brown eyes with tears will fill,

But behind the tears there will be for me
The happy twinkle I love to see.
So, “Archibald Spinner,” the road is long,
You must make your mind up good and strong

Before you put down in black and white,

The pledge that the angels in Heaven will write.

Yes, I’m going to do it! I’ve counted the cost:

There is all to gain, and nothing lost.

Now Christmas may come—come slow, or come fast—

I’m ready to meet it, ready at last;

Who in this town has a finer show

Than “Archibald II.,” I’d like to know!

Emily Baker Smalle.

“WE TWELVE GIRLS.”

By Pansy.

The seed is the word of God.

The harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are the angels.

So shall it be at the end of the world: the angels shall come forth, and sever the wicked from among the just.

Morrisville, December, 1887.

Dear Girls:

I took that first verse for mine: not because it was short, but because the talk we had in Sunday-school kept me thinking about it. We were planning the next Sunday’s lesson, and one of the girls said she didn’t see how Bible verses could be called seeds: that set Mrs. Wheeler off into an explanation; she told some lovely stories about how Bible words dropped into human hearts had borne flowers and fruit; then she suggested that we girls try it, and see what fruit we could raise for Christmas.

As you may imagine, I liked the plan ever so much, for it made me think of you all; and I decided to take just that verse and see how many seeds I could sow. I had a half-dozen plans which, if I had carried them out, would have been splendid fruit, I am sure; and would have made a lovely letter to write you, but they were all spoiled, and all I can do is to tell you about it.

Last Tuesday was a lovely winter day, just the one for beginning some of my beautiful plans, and I had been wishing I could get Aunt Helen to go down town with me to help me do some shopping. I thought of asking her, but she is a rather new auntie, you know, and I didn’t quite like to.

Just after dinner mamma asked me if I didn’t want to take a basket of tea rolls to Grandma Dunlap. She isn’t my grandma, but a very nice old lady whom everybody calls grandma; she is quite poor and people send her things very often. I like to go there; the little house is so cunning, and everything as neat as wax, and old-fashioned.

I asked mamma if I must hurry back, and she said, “Just as you please; if you want to take a walk in this crisp air, there is nothing to hinder you from being gone for a couple of hours.”

Then up spoke Aunt Helen, “But if you should happen to come back in time to go out shopping with me, I have some Christmas errands which I think you might like to help about.”

Just think how glad I was! I said, “O Aunt Helen! that is just exactly what I want; and could you find time to give me a little Christmas advice?”

She laughed and said she was good for any amount of advice.

I put on one of my very prettiest dresses and my best hat, so as to be ready to go with Aunt Helen; and then I started for Grandma Dunlap’s as fast as I could; I said it would not take me over a half-hour to go there and back.

O girls, I had such lovely schemes. I wish I had time to tell you about them, but of what use would it be to tell now that they are fallen through? I had a five dollar gold piece of my very own, and I was going to lay it out for Christmas in what I hoped would be seeds, bearing fruit for Jesus. And don’t you think I didn’t do it at all! I found Grandma Dunlap in bed; she had a hoarse cold and a headache, and so much rheumatism that she could not even turn over in bed.

“I managed to keep up until after breakfast,” she said, “and then I went right back to bed, and this stiffness came on me, so that I haven’t been able to stir since.”

The cunning little kitchen hadn’t been swept that day; and there wasn’t any fire on the hearth. Grandma said it happened that nobody had been in to see her. Now of course you know, girls, what came to me right away; that I ought to sweep the room and make a fire and get her a cup of tea and something to eat. But I am ashamed to tell you that I said to myself: “Well, I can’t do it; Aunt Helen will be waiting for me, and besides I have my best dress on, and mamma does not like me to do housework in this dress. And besides all that, if I don’t buy some of those things right away, it will be too late to carry out my plans.” I told Grandma Dunlap I was sorry she was sick, and I would tell mamma, and have something done for her, and then I took my sun umbrella and turned toward the door; when up came that verse which I was working by, “The seed is the word,” and along with it came the verse, “Even Christ pleased not himself.” And another, “If Christ, so loved us, we ought also to love one another.” And then, piling on top of that, came the Golden Rule about doing to others as you would have them do to you; and, O dear! I don’t know how many more there were; seeds, you know, which had been dropped in my heart, and were trying as hard as they could to spring up and bear fruit and I was trying to choke them. I stopped short, with my hand on the door latch and turned around, and the queer little tile over grandma’s chimney which has painted on it in funny old-fashioned letters, “Polly, put the kettle on,” seemed to speak to me as plainly as though my name had been Polly, instead of Emmeline.

EMMELINE IS CONVINCED.

Grandma’s grandson painted the letters there; he was going to be an artist if he had lived; but he didn’t: and she hasn’t any relations in the world. At last I said, “Wouldn’t you like a cup of tea, Grandma?” How I did hope she would say she couldn’t think of drinking a drop of tea, nor eating a mouthful, and that all she wanted was to be left alone. But she didn’t; she smiled on me and said: “I do feel pretty faint, Emmie, and if you could give me a bite of your mother’s tea roll I’ll try to eat it, but I haven’t any tea in the house.”

Well, of course there wasn’t any use in standing there and trying to make believe that because I had on my best dress I ought not to work; I knew well enough that mamma would rather have the dress spoiled than to have Grandma Dunlap suffer, so I just told her that I would go out to the corner grocery and get a little tea and come back and make her a cup right away. I didn’t know people ever bought less than a pound of tea at a time, so I got a whole pound, and it cost a whole dollar. Did you know, girls, that good tea was so expensive? I never was so astonished in my life. Then I found out that there wasn’t any butter nor sugar; and I knew mamma cooked a fresh egg for people when they couldn’t eat much; and I bought a dozen at the grocery that the man said had just come from the country, and they were forty-five cents a dozen; it must cost a great deal of money to keep house; I had no idea what an expensive thing it was. Just the few things which I had to get for Grandma Dunlap, cost two dollars and sixty-seven cents! Butter, it seems, is very expensive stuff, too. The grocer sent the things right away, and I hurried back, and turned up the skirt of my dress, and put on a great gingham apron of Grandma’s and made the fire, and filled the little tea-kettle, and while it was making up its mind to boil, I swept and dusted the room; then I made Grandma just a lovely piece of toast, for mamma had sent a loaf of bread, as well as the tea rolls, and cooked her an egg, and made her a beautiful cup of tea; then I fed her, and she said she believed she never had had anything so good in her life before. Then I had to wash up the dishes, and put everything in order, and fix Grandma’s bed, and bring in some wood, and go over to Mrs. Barker’s to ask if Jane, when she came from the factory, would mind coming over and spending the night, and by the time I had reached home, Aunt Helen had been, and got back; just as I knew she would be; and mamma said: “Why, child, what in the world kept you so? I was beginning to be frightened.” They laughed at me a little, when I told my story, for buying a whole pound of tea, and two pounds of butter; but mamma said I did right, of course, not to think about my dress when there was work which ought to be done: and she sent word to papa to have our doctor go around and see Grandma, and said as soon as she could leave Baby in the morning, she would go herself.

And, girls, that’s the whole of the story; I have none of the beautiful things to tell, because I spent more than half my money, and I can’t do them now; and besides, Aunt Helen doesn’t go away down town shopping very often.

So my plans are all upset, but some way I don’t feel so very badly about it; though I would have liked ever so much to try how those seeds I had in mind, would grow; maybe I can try some of them some other time.

There is just a little bit more: at first I thought I wouldn’t tell you, but I believe I will. Grandma Dunlap said a very strange and sweet thing to me just as I was going away. She asked me to bend down so she could kiss me, and then she said, “You have given the Lord Jesus a beautiful supper to-night, Emmie.”

At first I was frightened; I thought she did not know what she was saying, but she looked at me with smiling eyes, and said: “You don’t know what I mean? Didn’t you know there was a lovely ‘inasmuch’ in his Book for you? Find it when you go home, Emmie.”

I found what I think she meant. Do you girls know the verse? “Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye did it unto me.” Not that Grandma Dunlap is one of the “least,” she is a dear, sweet old lady that anybody might be glad to help, but I am sure that was what she meant; and it made me not care very much about the rest. This isn’t much of a story; it is only to explain to you why I have no story to tell.

If I ever should do any of the nice things I planned, I’ll tell you about them. Until then, you must “take the will for the deed.”

Your loving schoolmate,
Emmeline Morrow.

“WHOSOEVER.”

THERE are children on the floor,

Conning Bible lessons o’er.

“Which word all the Bible through

Do you love best?” queried Sue.

“I like Faith the best,” said one;

“Jesus is my word alone.”

“I like Hope;” “and I like Love;”

“I like Heaven, our home above.”

One more smaller than the rest—

“I like Whosoever best;

“Whosoever, that means all—

Even me, who am so small.”

Whosoever! Ah! I see,

That’s the word for you and me.

“Whosoever will” may come—

Find a pardon and a home.

—Gleanings for the Young.

TELLING CHRISTMAS STORIES.

Volume 15, Number 6.        Copyright, 1887, by D. Lothrop Company        December 10, 1887.

THE PANSY.

IN THEIR OWN ROOM.—ARRANGING CHRISTMAS CARDS.

UP GARRET.
(More about A Sevenfold Trouble.)

CHAPTER I.

Mrs. C. M. Livingston.

THERE is no denying that it was very hard for Margaret Moore to give up spending the winter with Aunt Cornelia, and, instead, stay at home and wait on her step-mother through a tedious illness. When once she had made up her mind to it, she thought the battle of life was ended and all would hereafter go smoothly with her. Surely she could meet and conquer anything after that. And who can tell what she might not have done if she had kept close to Jesus? but young disciples—and old ones, too—wander from him and forget that it is he they are to trust, and not their own good resolutions.

Margaret forgot this, and so fell into many snares. In the first place, she began to feel she was very good. Instead of thinking about Jesus, what a wonderful Saviour he was, she thought about herself and wondered if everybody did not think she was a self-denying, noble girl to bear disappointments and perform disagreeable duties so patiently. She felt very strong and was sure she should never be cross or angry again. And indeed for a time everything went well. She was patient when waiting on her step-mother and kind to her brothers. Even Johnnie had not power to put her into a rage, although he put burs in her hair and untied her apron strings. There was one thing Margaret chafed under, and that was having Amelia Barrows, her step-mother’s sister, come to keep house for them. Her good resolutions in no wise extended to that person. She had made her mind up very hard that she should not call her “Aunt Amelia.” “She was not her aunt, and never could be,” and “she should not be under orders to her;” not that she would not treat her well, but she should be dignified and give her to understand that she was not such a very little girl. “Thirteen and a half was nearly fourteen—almost a young lady, she was.”

Amelia Barrows was a young woman with eyes and brows as black as Margaret’s own, and a will quite as positive. So it was to be expected that there would be some jarring.

The hardest part of it all to Margaret was that she was obliged to share her room with Amelia. It was a large old house, but there were not a great number of chambers, because they were all large except the hall bedroom. When the minister came Mrs. Moore gave that to him for his library. So there really was no other place for Amelia. Margaret knew it could not be helped, and yet it was so hard to feel that her room was not her very own private room any more. She prided herself greatly on it, and she really did deserve great credit for its cheerful prettiness.

It was only a plain, square room with white-washed walls and a straw matting on the floor, but there were two pleasant windows with cheap white muslin curtains, and the bed was daintily dressed in white and blue. The rocker was covered with blue cretonne, and there were blue mats on the bureau. A bright home-made rug on the floor, small pictures on the walls, and a set of shelves in the corner filled with books; then, in winter, there was always a pleasant sense of warmth because the stovepipe came through from the sitting-room. Altogether, it was quite a cosey place and Margaret was always glad to flee to it and shut herself in from all annoyances. She thought it the prettiest, pleasantest room in the world, and one reason was because it was always in order. Carefulness, when once learned, becomes a habit, and is easier than carelessness. Young as Margaret was when her mother died, she had been taught by her to sweep and dust her own little room, and to hang her clothes at night on hooks placed within her reach, and always to put a thing in its place after using it. She had, besides, inherited dainty tastes and neat ways from her mother, so it was not such a task for her to be orderly as it was for some others.

And so it was with a pang that she saw Amelia walk into her room and take possession with the air of one who had a right there.

It is not easy work to wait upon a sick person, so you must not suppose that Margaret had nothing to do but sit within call in her step-mother’s room handing her something occasionally. She had to take the place of a nurse, young as she was, in the best way she could, for Amelia had her hands full with the housekeeping. It was hard work, and Margaret was often very tired. There was the room to be put in order every morning, and Mrs. Moore was a very particular housekeeper; not a speck of dust, or spot on window or mirror, escaped her keen glance. There was much running up and down-stairs, too, for hot water and cold water; there was liniment and mustard and draughts to be applied by turns to the aching limbs, and sometimes nothing helped; the pain grew worse instead of better, and the patient was not patient, but let fall sharp words at Margaret’s blunders, whereupon poor Margaret blundered still more, and did not give soft answers. Some days, though, everything went well, and her step-mother felt that Margaret really was very different from what she used to be. She was gentle and patient and tried hard to please. The reason was plain; those were the days when she remembered to get her verse from the Bible and think about it, then asked Jesus to keep her, and remembered, too, when temptation came to call to Him to help her. But some mornings she forgot all about it, or she spent too much time curling her hair, or trifling in some way till it was too late, and she had to hurry down-stairs with all speed. There would be time for it after breakfast, she thought, but then it was put off from hour to hour, and perhaps she ended by not doing it at all. When this happened she was fretful and unhappy; nothing went right with her. God made the body so that it cannot go without food at regular times, and keep in order. He made the soul in the same way. It must get food from the Bible, and by thinking about God and speaking to him, or it cannot be a healthy soul. This poor little Christian knew she must eat her breakfast or she would feel faint and weak by ten o’clock, but she had not learned that she must not starve the other and better part of herself. So it was no wonder that she did not always do right.

One reason why it was particularly hard now was that two of her best friends were away. Elmer Newton’s older brother was obliged, from ill health, to spend the winter in the South, and wished to have Elmer with him. Mrs. Duncan felt anxious about her sick brother, and at the last decided to accompany them and remain a few weeks, which lengthened into months. This made a lonely, gloomy time for Margaret, she had come to depending so much upon their help and counsel. She felt as if there was nobody to go to with her troubles and doubts. Mr. Wakefield was always kind, but she stood in a little awe of him because he was the minister, and so, unless strongly excited, was too timid to talk freely with him.

When a girl of thirteen resolves to be dignified toward any body it means that she is going to make herself very disagreeable whether she knows it or not. Amelia Barrows was not an ill-natured young woman, and if Margaret had tried she might have made a friend of her. As it was, Margaret forgot that she was herself several years the younger. She assumed airs of importance, and found fault. She laid down laws about her room, and called Amelia to account if a brush or a chair was not in its exact place.

“See here, young woman!” Amelia said one day, losing all patience, “you’d better stop your high airs. A piece of this room belongs to me while I stay here, and I’m going to do exactly as I please in it. I don’t want to be in it, or in this house, either, but I’m here, and we’ve both got to stand it. I never wanted my sister to marry your father any more than you did,—not as I have anything against him,—but I told her she might as well put her head into a hornets’ nest as to try to manage three saucy young ones. No wonder she’s sick!”

There is no telling what Margaret would have said then if Amelia had not gone out and banged the door after her. She was angry enough to have said anything. To be called “a saucy young one” when she had borne everything, and was almost as tall as a woman; it was too much!

“O, dear!” she sighed, bursting into tears, “I wish she wasn’t here. She’s perfectly horrid!”

When she went down to the well-cooked dinner a couple of hours afterward she forgot to ask herself how they could possibly get along comfortably without Amelia.

There were afternoons when Amelia had leisure to stay with her sister and Margaret was at liberty. One day she went to take a walk, and was sauntering slowly along when Hester Andrews tapped on the window and beckoned her in. Margaret hesitated. She had not been going much with Hester of late, but she finally went into the house. “You poor thing!” Hester said, meeting her with a kiss, “I wonder if you have got out at last! It is just too bad for you to be shut up in the house all winter, waiting on somebody who’s nothing to you; all the neighbors say it’s a shame, and mother says that it is entirely too hard for you.”

SHE MUST BE ALONE SOMEWHERE.

Poor Margaret! She had been trying all day to get the better of her discontent and ugly feelings. Now, they sprang up anew. She looked about the pleasant parlor where Hester sat at her fancy work. Hester seemed to her to have everything she wanted, and to do just as she pleased. How different it was with her! How hard her life was! It had not occurred to her how hard till Hester put it into words.

“If it was your own mother, now,” Hester went on, “why of course you would expect to do all you could, but now, it’s just dreadful. I’d like to see my father put a step-mother over me if my mother was gone—and make a slave of me waiting on her! I’d go out and scrub for a living first.”

Margaret ought to have known, by this time, that Hester always did her harm and not good, and have had courage enough to shun her company. She went into that house in a good frame of mind; she came away feeling that she was a much-abused girl: one who had a bitter lot; and she pitied herself.

If Satan had hired Hester to do some ugly work for him, to spoil Margaret’s peace and draw her away from God, it could not have been better managed, for, besides all the wicked things she had said, she did something more. As Margaret was about to leave,—after having poured into Hester’s sympathizing ears a long story about Amelia and all she had to bear from her,—Hester said, “Wait a minute, Mag. I’ve got a perfectly splendid book, and I’ll let you take it, if you haven’t read it. You’ve got to have something to cheer you up or you’ll die.”

Margaret seized it eagerly. She saw at a glance it was a novel. She had read enough of them to spoil her taste for more solid reading, and to know that she liked them far better than anything else. She felt guilty in taking it, because she had promised Elmer when he went away to read only what would be of benefit. How did she know, though, she told herself, but there was something good in this book? She remembered, too, with a twinge of remorse, that she had not yet touched the books Mrs. Duncan left for her to read, except to look through them and pronounce them “dry.” She meant to read them before the lady returned, but just now she must have a real story to cheer her. Anybody who has read “Madam How and Lady Why,” “A Family Flight,” and “Harry’s Vacation,” knows of what delightful reading Margaret had deprived herself all this time.

The next morning when the room was in order and Mrs. Moore was taking a nap, Margaret brought her basket of work and drew up to the fire, planning for a good time, not with her mending, though. “The Deserted Wife”—Hester’s book—was in the bottom of the basket, well covered with stockings. The fact that it was so hidden, and that she drew a tall rocker between the bed and herself, proved that her conscience was not altogether clear. However, she was soon lost in her book. She did not raise her eyes or move a muscle, except to turn over the leaves for a long time; she even forgot to breathe except by irregular gasps; she read with feverish haste, because her step-mother might waken at any moment and require her help, and she must know what happened next.

If Hester had but placed a live coal in her hands instead of this book! She would have dropped that instantly and have burned only her fingers. This tale of sin and shame and crime might leave scars on her soul forever.

Mrs. Moore had an unusually long sleep, for two hours had passed away when Margaret was startled by her voice, saying,—

“Seems to me it is cold here. Has the fire gone out? Where are you, Margaret?”

Sure enough, the wood fire had burned to ashes, and the room was quite chilly. Margaret hid away her book and went for kindlings. They were wet, and the fire smoked and sulked, but did not burn for a long time. Her father came in to dinner before the chill was off the room. He noticed it, for it was a raw, windy day, and told Margaret, rather sharply, that her mother’s room ought not to become cold like that, and there was no need of it if she had attended to the fire as she should. Margaret could never bear to have her father speak sternly to her. She went off to her room in a tempest of tears, telling herself, amid sobs—as foolish girls do at such times—that there was nobody to love her.

This was only one of the many difficulties she brought herself into during the next few weeks. She plunged into a perfect whirlpool of novel reading. As fast as one book was devoured Hester provided another. She read “The Fatal Marriage,” “The Terrible Secret,” “A Bridge of Love,” “Lady Gwendoline’s Dream,” and “Lord Lynn’s Choice,” besides many more. She read while she was dressing, and snatched every moment through the day. She even sat up nights and pored over those fascinating books, when she should have been sleeping. Sometimes she stole out in the evening and walked up and down the street with Hester, and talked them over. So she constantly lived in another world. She was in a frenzy of eagerness to get through whatever she was doing, and drown all her senses in a book. As a natural consequence, nothing went well with her. She hated her lot and its duties. She longed to get away and live with the beautiful, unreal people she had read about.

Novel-readers are usually cross. Poor Margaret was very cross. She disputed constantly with Weston, and boxed Johnnie’s ears when he teased her. He turned everything into rhymes, so when he had succeeded in putting her into a rage, he would leave off singing,

“Aunt Ameliar,

She’s a pealer,”

and would dance about Margaret, shouting in her ears,

“Mag is mad,

And I am glad.”

This would make Margaret very angry, and sometimes the two had what Amelia called “a scuffle.” She would interfere at last and declare, as Johnnie ran off laughing, that Margaret was the “worst of the whole pack if she was a church member. She would rather be nothing than a hypocrite.”

And Margaret in these days was impertinent to her step-mother and jerked things about in a way that is very trying to a sick person. She left undone all she possibly could, allowed great holes to come in her stockings, and went about slip-shod, with the buttons nearly gone from her shoes, and did not take the “stitch in time” that “saves nine.” There were worse neglects, too.

Since this fatal disease of novel-reading had come upon her she did not read her Bible scarcely at all. On Sunday afternoons she held it a while and gazed out of the window, then went hurriedly through a chapter without knowing a word that was in it. As if the Bible would do one any more good than the geography unless its words were understood and treasured up.

It was the same with prayer. She forgot it entirely, or she murmured a sentence or two while she was running down-stairs in the morning or after she was in bed at night. It was mere form, and not true praying at all.

Mr. Wakefield had been sadly perplexed about Margaret. He felt sure, from what he saw and heard, that all was not well with her. She seemed to avoid him, and whenever he had an opportunity to speak with her she said as little as possible, and got away as soon as she could. What evil influence could be at work upon her? Not her step-mother’s. He felt sure that if Mrs. Moore but knew how, she would be glad to help the girl. One evening as he walked homeward he was thinking about Margaret, and wondering what he could do to help her. As he came near Mr. Andrews’ house somebody came out of their gate and ran down the street just in front of him. As she passed the lamp-post, and the light fell full upon her, he saw that it was Margaret. As she turned in at her own gate a book slipped from under her arm and fell to the ground, but she did not know it. She hurried up the steps and closed the door after her. Mr. Wakefield picked up the book, slipped it inside his coat, and went up to his own room; then he lighted the gas and sat down to see what sort of a book it was which would surely help or hinder this young Christian. He read enough to satisfy him that he had found the clue to Margaret’s difficulties. What soul could thrive on such mental food? “Satan is at the bottom of it!” he said, half-aloud, flinging the book from him. He sat a long time with his face between his hands, thinking.

The next evening, after tea, Mr. Wakefield lingered in the sitting-room and asked Margaret to try some of the pieces in the new Sabbath-school hymn-book. Margaret’s cabinet organ had been her mother’s, and was now a source of much pleasure to herself. She had learned to play sacred music nicely, so she and the minister often sang together. Johnnie sang a few minutes and then ran off. When they were left alone, Mr. Wakefield stepped into the hall and came back with the book he had picked up the night before.

“Margaret,” he said, “can you imagine to whom this belongs? I picked it up on the street last night.”

Now Margaret had been greatly troubled about the book all day; she knew Hester would be angry with her if it were lost, so it was with a sense of relief that she read the title, “Disinherited.”

“Oh! I’m so glad you found it,” she exclaimed, then stopped and blushed. She had a feeling that perhaps Mr. Wakefield would not quite approve of this sort of reading, and she had not meant to let him know that she ever read such books.

She felt very uncomfortable, and stood with her eyes on the carpet, waiting for him to lecture her severely, but he did nothing of the kind. When she looked up, his face and his tones were kind as he asked,—

“Do you love to read, Margaret?”

“Better than anything,” promptly answered Margaret.

“Do you like books of this sort—novels?” he continued.

She studied the pattern of the carpet a moment, and twisted one of her curls, then said, almost defiantly,—

“Yes, sir; I do.”

Mr. Wakefield forgot that he had meant to be very calm and gentle, and he said almost fiercely, as he walked back and forth,—

“O you poor child, I wish I could have saved you from this. Margaret, do you know what a horrible thing this novel-reading is; how the thirst for it is like the thirst for liquor? It drives out the love of Christ from the heart. It ruins souls! But there! I did not mean to frighten you,” he said, as the tears gathered in Margaret’s eyes. “Sit down and let us talk the matter over calmly. Let me tell you how near I came to being ruined by that trap of Satan’s myself.”

Just here the door-bell was heard, and Johnnie brought in Deacon Grey who had called to see the minister, while Margaret slipped out of the other door.

She flew, rather than ran, up-stairs. She tip-toed softly through the hall, for she did not wish any one to see her just then. As she went by a door which stood ajar, she heard her own name, and unconsciously paused. Her step-mother’s voice was saying:—

“We’ve got to make some different arrangements. Margaret gets worse every day. I’ve tried to be patient, but some days she acts like a little fury. Amelia says she sits up nights to read novels. I talked to her about it, and she just the same as told me it was not my affair. I thought it was all nonsense, her joining the church. What do such children know about it? I guess you had better send her to your aunt’s if she wants her. We can get along somehow.”

Then her father’s voice groaned out,—

“I’m sure I don’t know what is going to become of her.”

Margaret waited to hear no more. She turned to go into her own room, but Amelia was there; growing desperate, she went back into the dark hall and softly opening the door that led up garret, groped her way up the narrow stairs. She must be alone somewhere. It was a long, wide garret stretching over the whole house. This was the old homestead of the Moore family, and “take it up garret,” had been said of all the lame furniture and not-wanted articles for a whole generation. It was a cheerful place by daylight; a capital place for a romp; but to-night it looked “pokerish.” The tall chimneys reared themselves like grim giants at each end; old hats and coats hung from the rafters, and the moon, looking in at the gable window, made dancing shadows on the floor, of the long, bare branches of the elm-tree.

Margaret had never been up garret in the dark before. She would have been afraid if she had not been in such a tumult. She flung herself upon an old chest by the window, and cried out her mortification and anger in long, deep sobs. The moon beamed down in a kindly way, and the eye of God looked upon her in love and pity, but the poor child did not know it.

THE CONE.

YOU may plant the cone of a California Pine in a vase of earth, and cover it with a glass, and set it in your window to catch the sunbeams, and keeping the earth moist the pine will grow until it reaches the top of the glass, and it will search all around to find some way out of its prison, and will press with all its vital force toward Heaven. But the glass resists the pressure, and those little branches turn back to earth, the stunted pine soon withers to the very root.

But plant that cone in its native soil, and give it showers and sunshine, and it will lift its branches higher and higher, for thousands of years, until it forms the loftiest pile of verdure on the face of the earth. So a man may plant his hopes on a little spot of earth, and close himself in with the covering of earthly pleasures, and for awhile he may long to break through his prison walls and come forth to a freer life. But, in the end, if he keeps his covering on, his growth will be downward and dwarfed. But let him break forth from the contracted circle of a worldly life, let him cultivate hopes worthy his immortal destiny, let him look upon God as his Father, and himself as the heir of boundless creation, and he shall grow in greatness and in joy; “he shall be made a king and reign forever!”

“If thou cans’t plant a noble deed
And never flag till it succeed
Though in the strife thy heart shall bleed,
Go on, brave soul, thy hour will come—
Thou’lt win the prize, and reach the goal.”
—Selected.

LYING IN WAIT.

Volume 15, Number 7.        Copyright, 1887, by D. Lothrop Company        December 17, 1887.

THE PANSY.

OUR TIGER.

OUR TIGER.

NOW, dear children, do not expect a terrible story of a wild animal, for our Tiger was only a dog.

When Jennie and I were little, we teased our papa for a dog to play with, and one night our hearts were made glad by his bringing one home to us. It had been living in one of the large freight depots in Boston, and had been so teased by little urchins, that often lounge about such places, that he was fast getting to be very cross and snappish, so it was thought best to get rid of him.

He never outgrew his dislike for boys, and would not allow them to touch him at all, but would often chase them, and sometimes bite them if they came on the premises. This hatred extended even to the youngest children, and from a little boy baby he would walk away in disgust, while he would allow a little girl to pull him about without a word of complaint.

At one time we had an old cat which was determined to rear her three little kittens in the closet of mamma’s room. The kittens were repeatedly carried back to the cellar, and as often Mistress Puss would find some way to take her family back to the closet. Tiger had evidently been watching the whole operation, and decided to take affairs into his own hands, as you will see when I tell you what happened.

One day, Bridget, the cook, saw him go through the kitchen with something in his mouth. She followed carefully after him, and what do you think she found? You cannot guess, I know, so I will tell you. Tiger had brought down the kittens, one by one, in his mouth, and carried them into the back yard, where having dug a hole for each, they had been placed, and carefully covered with dirt. Bridget rushed into the house, and said to us, “Oh! do come out in the yard, Tiger has made a cat’s cemetery.” We hurried out to see what she could mean, and found her words were true. There stood Tiger looking at his work, seeming to feel very proud to think he had found such an effectual way of keeping the kittens out of mamma’s closet.

Tiger was not always so cruel as this, but sometimes showed great fondness for other animals. My papa kept many sheep, and one spring there were two little lambs born that were disowned by the mother sheep. Of course, it would not do to let the little things die for want of care, so they were brought to the woodshed, and put under my mamma’s protection. They were soon named Dicky and Biddy, and being fed often with warm milk from a bottle, they grew rapidly. From the first Tiger showed a great liking for the pet lambs, and would stretch himself out on the floor by the side of the basket, where he would remain for hours at a time.

One day after Dicky and Biddy had grown quite strong he got them out of the basket on to the floor. How this was accomplished we could never quite tell, but I am quite sure they had some way of making each other understand, so that he coaxed, persuaded and encouraged them to go beyond the narrow limits of the basket, and see more of the world. After a while they were not contented to roam about the shed, but extended their journeys to the yard, and sometimes away down the street.

This last habit would have proved a very troublesome one to us, if it had not been for Tiger’s assistance in bringing them back. We had but to say, “Tiger! Dicky and Biddy have run away. Go find them,” and away he would dash down the street after them. When he overtook them they would all stand for a few minutes as though there were an explanation of the case being given, and then he would turn around and run home with both lambs meekly following him. I have watched him many times, and I never knew him fail to bring them back.

My papa used to go to Boston every day and return at evening on the horse-cars, and Tiger could usually be found at the gate to meet him. Although these cars were constantly passing the house, Tiger never made the mistake of going to meet an earlier or a later train, but a few minutes before the customary time for my papa’s arrival, Tiger could be seen going leisurely down the walk to be in readiness for the expected greeting.

At last Tiger commenced to get old, and did not like the active sports of his youthful days, but much preferred to stay in the house and lie by the fire. Being fond of the company of the family, he would often creep into the sitting-room, and quietly settle himself on the hearth-rug, when mamma would sometimes say, “There is some one here whose room is better than his company.” Without another word Tiger would get up, and, with tail down, and a sidelong glance at mamma, he would sneak, in a crestfallen manner, to the door to be let out. Finally when he got to be quite old he was sick and died, and it was one of the sad days of my childhood, when we buried him under the apple-tree in the orchard.

Cora E. Dike.

GRANDFATHER.

“GRANDFATHER” is the name of an old parrot, owned by Mr. W. H. Seward, Jr., of New York. This parrot has been a great traveller in his day, but now lives quiet at his home on the Hudson River. His master is very fond of him, and so are all the family; and he is the pet of all visitors who go to the house.

Several years ago, when there was a dreadful war in our beloved country, Mr. Seward lived in Washington, where his father then held the office of Secretary of State.

At that time the “John Brown Song” was all the rage. The very boys in the street would sing, as they went along, “John Brown’s body lies moldering in the grave,” and other lines, ending with the chorus, “Glory, hallelujah!”

“Grandfather” would listen and try to sing it; but all he could learn was the “Glory, hallelujah!” which amused the family very much. After a while he seemed to forget even this, although he learned many new things.

Many years passed. Mr. Seward had gone to his own home on the Hudson River. The war was over, and the old campaign song of “John Brown” had passed out of the people’s minds.

The aunt of Mr. Seward, who had lived with him in Washington, and had not seen the parrot since, came to make the family a visit; and in asking after the health of all of them, said, “Don’t tell ‘Grandfather’ I’ve come; I want to see if he will remember me.” Then she went into the room where the parrot’s cage hung, and going up to it, said “Good-morning, ‘Grandfather.’ How do you do? Do you know me?”

“Glory, hallelujah!” said he.

—The Nursery.

THE POPLAR ST. PANSY SOCIETY.

By C. M. L.

CHAPTER II.

THE brave girl was now full of hope that a good day was about to dawn for the P. S. P. S. Uncle John was there. He had said as much; and what could not he do?

The members must each be visited and urged to attend the meeting and hear what Uncle John had to say.

She would undertake it. Of course they would be so glad to hear that the Society was now to be revived and go on finely again. So she thought.

With a light heart and face full of sunshine she started on her way.

The first ring brought a servant to the door, only to say that the children had just gone away for some days. The next door opened promptly as she still held the knob in her hand, but only to assure her that Carrie was not well—probably could not go out for weeks. The third call found no one at home.

A fourth was answered with, “My! I thought the P. S. P. S. was dead. But I’ll see what mamma says. Maybe she’ll let me come.”

A little further on Jennie met an old member and laid before her Uncle John’s plans for a meeting, and all about it, only to receive a stare and, “Who is your Uncle John?” And the inquirer, without waiting to be told, went skipping on her way.

Sometimes Jennie was told, “Don’t get me to any more P. S. P. S. poky meetings;” or, “Oh! I’m invited to a card-party the very night of your meeting. Of course I must go. And there’ll be dancing and ice-cream, and ever so much fun;” or, “Mamma says I can never attend any more,” etc., etc.

A sunny sky is sometimes overcast and the rain falls instead of beams of light.

Do not blame Jennie if she cried. It was such a sharp disappointment.

Thus far not one word of encouragement. Every one seemed to frown upon her, and all the laughing she met or saw on either side of the streets through which she passed, seemed to be at her expense. She was mistaken, but a heavy heart often feels a sting where there is really no stinger.

What shall she do?

“It’s no use, Jennie; I told you so,” came from one of the committee boys, who happened to follow her track and overhear some of the rebuffs received by Jennie, and who now came up by her side to put the last straw upon her breaking heart. “What’s the use?” he went on. “They say you are making yourself ridiculous, and—” and he was about to add another straw when they turned a corner and met Uncle John coming towards them. Without noticing her face, he took Jennie by the hand and turned up another street, leaving her companion to go his way.

Uncle John went on to say how he had thought of little else besides the Poplar Street Pansy Society and now he was all ready for the meeting.

SNOW HOUSES.

A little further on the other member of the committee was met, who reported that he had called upon some of the others, but no one had promised to attend the meeting.

But blessed Uncle John cheered Jennie by saying it was always darkest before the day and that no matter how matters had turned out this time, it might be just the contrary to-morrow.

So the tears were wiped away, and the young heart said, “I’ll try again, for Jesus’ sake.” That night she went and told Jesus. The next day there was joy in store for her. Not one laughed or mocked. Some said they would come and bring others.

Sure enough. Jennie must needs bring in twice as many chairs as were arranged for the meeting.

Everything being ready, Uncle John began:

“A long time ago there lived in one of our large cities a—Mr. Riddle. He was a banker. But no matter about him. I am now going to describe another member of the Riddle family, and if you will sharpen your wits and be wide-awake some of you good guessers can guess who or what he is, and I will promise you he will take you into copartnership and let you share his riches.”

At this point every eye began to open at the thought of suddenly growing rich.

“He was born before Methusaleh,” continued Uncle John, “and”—the eyes opened still wider—“he lives now;” at which not only were the eyes open to their utmost, but many mouths, and questions came thick and fast: “Born before Methusaleh?” “Lives now?” “Do you really mean it just so?” “How can it be?” “Who ever heard of such a thing?” “Is not it a conundrum, or a puzzle, or a riddle, or”—

“Yes,” from Uncle John; “and if you will listen closely and do some of the best thinking of your life you will surely guess my riddle.”

“And share the riches you spoke of?” asked one.

“And share the riches, just as I said.” And here Uncle John looked around, silent and amused at the perplexed faces of the young folks.

Then he continued: “This Mr. Riddle will probably live hundreds of years more. He was and he is a banker, richer than all other bankers, the Rothschilds thrown in to boot. There isn’t a place in all the world where he has not a bank. Some are hundreds of feet in the earth; some as high in the air; some, built of iron; some, of silver, tin, glass, paper, dirt, ice, clouds, coal and much more of which I may tell you more by and by. This is enough now. Don’t ask me any more questions to-night. We will sing a verse of a hymn, and have a short prayer, and then you must all go promptly home and to bed and be up early to-morrow morning and do all the sharp thinking you can get time for, and come again in the evening at seven o’clock, and I will tell you more about this puzzling banker, Mr. Riddle.”

Then Uncle John’s rich voice led, and, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” filled the room and swelled hearts with new and strange thoughts.

Then they all joined in “Our Father,” etc., and the meeting was out.

HOW BENNIE WAS TEMPTED.

BENNIE crawled out of his bed that morning with his mind full of the thought of apples.

“The harvests are getting mellow!” so Jack Burnes had announced the day before, and every boy knows just what that means to all the boys who are so unfortunate as to have no harvest apple-tree to climb and shake. After the climbing and shaking comes the scrambling down and the picking out of the fairest and best, and then comes the stuffing of pockets and the gradual, though not very slow, process of transferring from the pockets to the stomach. To all such unfortunates it means an indescribable longing, an unutterable desire to climb somebody else’s harvest apple-tree! It means an uncontrollable appetite which only harvest apples can satisfy. You all know how Bennie felt. There was no apple-tree in his father’s garden; how could there be when there was no garden! The place which Bennie called home had no advantages in that direction, being two or three rooms in a rickety old tenement house. Now Bennie went to Sunday-school, and he had learned the Lord’s Prayer, and he never forgot to repeat it as he lay down at night upon his not very luxurious bed; and I think that Bennie understood what it meant when he prayed “Give us this day our daily bread,” for he had sometimes known what it was to want for daily bread, but when he repeated “Lead us not into temptation,” his ideas of that for which he asked were rather vague. That morning he started out with hair uncombed, face unwashed; with a ragged coat and battered hat and walked directly towards temptation in the shape of Mr. Vinton’s harvest-tree with its loaded limbs hanging over the wall. To be sure he knew that trespassers were threatened with the constable and the jail, but then he thought maybe some apples will have dropped over the wall into the road in the night, and if I get there first why “I’ll have them if there are any. What’s in the road belongs to folks as finds ’em first!” And so he hastened along until he stood under the overhanging branches. There were no “finds” on the ground, and as Bennie looked up into the tree the thought of climbing up the wall and filling his pockets came to him. Why not? There were plenty of apples; the Squire would never miss a few; as for getting caught, it was too early for any of the family to be about. That sign was meant for boys who wanted to carry off a lot of apples; he meant to take only a few. And so reasoning, dallying with temptation, poor Bennie was overcome!

Not more than five minutes later Bennie lay helpless upon the ground, half-buried under the broken branch and the fallen sign.

“It is a wonder you weren’t killed outright!” said the Squire’s man who came to pick him up. “As it is I guess the harvest apples and the Astrachans and the pippins, too, are safe from you for this year! Where do you live, youngster?”

A broken arm and a sprained ankle! not long in the doing, but what a long, weary time was the undoing!

“The little rascal! serves him right!” said Mr. Vinton when told of the accident. “Send Dr. Grant down to set the arm, and tell him to attend to the boy, but don’t let May hear of it. She will be in a worry if she gets hold of it.”

But when was there a case of suffering among the poor, especially in her vicinity, that May Vinton did not get hold of sooner or later? It was not many days before Ellen appeared at Bennie’s poor home with a basket of necessaries and delicacies for the boy’s comfort, and asking if there was anything further needed. In the basket was a quantity of great mellow-looking, yellow harvest apples; but when Bennie saw them he turned his face away and said, “Take them away! I don’t want to see any harvests, ever! It was good of Miss Vinton to send them, but I can’t bear them! It seems just as if they had printed all over them ‘Thief! thief!’”

Poor Bennie, his sin had found him out!

Faye Huntington.

OH, dear December, hurry on,

Oh, please—oh, please come quick:

Bring snow so white,

Bring fires so bright,

And bring us good St. Nick!

—Selected.

THE COMPLAINT OF SANTA CLAUS.

THE snow lies deep on the frozen ground,
And the Christmas night is cold,
And I shine before the rime so hoar—
Can it be I am growing old?

Long years ago when the Christmas chimes

Made merry the midnight sky,

When the carolers’ call filled houses and hall,

And wassail and mirth ran high;

When the harlequin mummers reeled and danced,

And the great Yule log blazed bright;

When the walls were green with a summer sheen,

In holly and yew bedight;

When the faces of all, the young, the old,

Were brimming with sparkling cheer—

Aye, those were the times when Christmas chimes

Were the merriest sounds of the year!

I snapped my fingers in Jack Frost’s teeth,
While the snow was wavering down,
And the icicles hung from my beard I flung—
My beard that was then so brown!

And I wrapped myself in my grizzly coat,
And lit my pipe with a coal
From Hecla’s crest, where I stopped to rest,
On my way from the Northern Pole.

My reindeers—O, they were brisk and gay—

My sledge, it could stand a pull;

My pack, tho’ great, seemed a feather’s weight,

No matter how crammed and full!

My heart it was stout in those good old days,

And warm with an inward glee;

For I thought of the mirths of a thousand hearts,

Where the little ones watched for me.

So I gathered my sweets from far and near,

And I piled my cunningest toys

(Unheeding the swirls) for the innocent girls,

And the rollicking, roguish boys.

But the times have sobered and changed since then,

My merriment flags forlorn;
My beard is as white as on Christmas night
Of old was the Glaston thorn.

Tho’ my wrinkled-up lips still hold the pipe,
No longer the smoke-wreath curls;
But saddest to see, of sights for me—
My frolicsome boys and girls

Have grown so knowing, they dare to say—

Those protesters wise and small—

That all saints deceive, and they don’t believe

In a Santa Claus at all!

Ah, me! ’tis a fateful sound to hear;

’Tis gall in my wassail cup;

The darlings I’ve spoiled, so wrought for and toiled,

The children have given me up!

My heart is broken. I’ll break my pipe,
And my tinkling team may go,
And bury my sledge on the trackless edge
Of the wastes of the Lapland snow.

My useless pack I will fling away,
And in Germany’s forests hoar,
From an icy steep I will plunge leagues deep,
And never be heard of more.
Margaret J. Preston.

INTRODUCTIONS.

HIS name is Bobby Williams, and he is the boy who stands with smiling face, and hands in pockets, watching the huge snow ball being rolled to its place.

He has been doing something besides watch; not a boy in the crowd worked harder than he, until he was red in the face and quite out of breath, and two others came to take his place; then stood Bobby in the biting northeast wind, watching.

You should have seen that same boy at midnight, or a little later. Sitting bolt upright in the big chair in his mother’s room; a hurried fire burning in the grate; his feet in hot water up to his knees, his hands in hot water up to his elbows, spoonfuls of disgusting stuff being poked down his throat every few minutes, and his very wail in protest,—so hoarse that you would have been in danger of mistaking it for the voice of the big dog out in the back kitchen.

It seemed as though the doctor would never reach there, and when he came, as though he did nothing; and when something was really done, and Bobby was somewhat relieved, it seemed as though the weary night would never be gone.

But it was, at last; and Bobby, pale and limp, with flannel about his neck, and a smell of pork and oil in the air, was tucked into his mother’s bed, and listened to the merry jingle of the school bell.

Then said the tired mother: “Bobby, how was it all; did you get very warm yesterday, playing?”

“I guess I did!” replied Bobby hoarsely; “I never was so hot in my life! We was rolling a great big snow-ball; the biggest we ever made.”

“And when you stopped rolling, what did you do?”

“I stood still and watched the other fellows, four of them; it was as much as they could do to move it an inch.”

“Stood still in the sharp wind, all in a perspiration, I suppose! And did you have your overcoat on?”

“No, ma’am,” said Bobby hoarsely, his cheeks growing red for shame. “I forgot.”

“And don’t you remember, Bobby, how often I have told you not to stand still, out in a cold wind, when you are warm?”

Said Bobby, “I forgot.”

Now the truth is, that you are very well acquainted with Bobby, for that night’s work for father and mother, and grandma, and auntie, and the doctor and himself is a fair specimen of what Bobby can do for the discomfort of the world; and the words on his lips in excuse for all sorts of heedlessnesses, and even downright disobediences, are always “I forgot.”

Oh, me! What a “forgetter” has Bobby!

Pansy.

BOBBY WATCHES THE “OTHER FELLOWS.”

Volume 15, Number 8.        Copyright, 1887, by D. Lothrop Company        December 24, 1887.

THE PANSY.

AN AUSTRALIAN CHRISTMAS.

THE OLD BRIMMER PLACE.

By Margaret Sidney.

CHAPTER II.

“YES, dear.”

Mother Brimmer smiled and nodded, and Rosy ran off for a basket.

“What are you going to do?” cried Cornelius, seeing her turn over the turkey drumsticks in the platter, when the basket, lined neatly with brown paper, was all ready and waiting on a chair. So Mother Brimmer began to explain.

“Oh! now, I say that’s too bad,” cried Cornelius, “to give away a lot of things to those fellows who pitched into us in our shop, and egged me most to death, besides making me sprain my ankle. Don’t let her do it, ma,” he begged.

“But Mr. Plumtree made them sorry about fighting in the shop,” said Rosy, continuing her selection of pieces, “and they had to work awfully hard at the farmer’s where he bound them out; and now they’re all so poor, I don’t suppose they’ve had the least bit of a Thanksgiving dinner.”

“They don’t deserve any,” said Cornelius stoutly. Even Jack looked as if he thought Company’s sentiment wasted.

“I told her she might,” said Mrs. Brimmer quietly, the guests looking on with no words to offer.

“Look at her,—she’s putting in an awful lot,” shouted Cornelius, hanging over the turkey platter. “Rosy, don’t give ’em that.”

“That” was half of an apple tart, rich and red, and juicy.

“Probably the first they’ve ever tasted,” said the minister softly.

Jack rubbed the toe of his boot back and forth over the polished wooden floor, Miss Clorinda gave a mild sniff of disapproval of the way things were going on, but by pinching herself, she managed to keep still; Corny alone, keeping up the other side of the argument.

“It’s a perfect shame, when it’s the first time we’ve ever had a Thanksgiving,” he cried, with a red face and indignant eyes, “to pack off all those nice things to a lot of dirty, mean old Corner boys.”

Mother Brimmer still kept silent.

“Jack thinks so.” Corny whirled around and pointed to the senior partner triumphantly. “He knows; and you ought to do as he says, Rosy.”

Company’s little right hand dropped to the side of the basket, while her round face took on a pained expression as she looked at Jack.

The big boy flushed up to his dark hair, and he dropped his eyes to the floor to follow the working of his uneasy boot. He longed to say “I think it’s ridiculous, when we are all working so hard, to give away such things to those idle, good-for-nothing Corner boys,” but a verse from the Bible came ringing through his ears. For a moment, he thought the parson must be repeating it, and he glanced up quickly. No; there he sat in the high-backed chair looking at him silently. Then Jack remembered it was in church that very morning that he had heard the words “Do good to them that hate you.”

Here was the direct command from the Master. Jack in the past year of work and responsibility, had drawn very near to his Heavenly Father; at the last, glad to enroll himself as a member of the Church of Christ. And, yet, on this blessed day of thankfulness for the wealth of mercies that had been showered upon him, he was avariciously shutting his heart to the good impulse that would help some of God’s poor, needy ones, up into the range of human sympathy and love. They might be wicked; all the more reason that he should do what he could to bring them to love the good. Mean, contemptible fellow that he was to even look his disapproval to what Rosy was doing!

Jack threw back his head, and Cornelius gave a long breath of delight.

“Go on, Rose,” said the big boy of the family, “and I’ll help you.” Thereupon Jack sprang forward, and seized an orange and laid it in the basket, and followed with two or three handfuls of butternuts.

“Ow—ow!” cried Corny in despair.

“Come on, Corny,” cried Jack, his color deepening into a bloom to match that in Wild Rose’s cheeks, and his dark eyes dancing with delight, “if you want any hand in this basket; see, it’s almost full.”

And the next thing that Corny knew, he was tucking in the drumsticks of the chickens, that he had fondly hoped to pick clean on the morrow; and Jack had saved himself from being the one to pull down the sweet impulses of his younger brother and his little sister, into the mire where all was hateful and of evil growth.

“I suppose,” said the parson, when all the packing was done, even to the tying of the string across the cover, “that you don’t want my company on your walk over to the Corners—eh, Jack?”

“Don’t we, though,” cried the boy, never the least bit afraid of the minister; now, warmed up to self-forgetfulness, in a mood light-hearted enough for anything.

“Yes, sir, we do!” echoed Corny, whipping out his knife to cut off the string-end. “That’ll be just gay, if you’ll come.”

“Suppose we all accompany the basket party,” proposed Miss Peaseley slowly, and taking her feet away from the cheerful blaze of the snapping hickory; “that is, those who care to,” she added, with a thought in time for the widow and her daughter, and lame Joey Clark.

Joey looked wistfully across at his sister; but she shook her head, and he sat back obediently in the depths of his chair.

“Want to go, Joey?” asked Mr. Higginson.

“Yes, sir,” Joey’s thin cheek glowed at once, and his eyes sparkled.

“Now, I feel just like a ride on this cold afternoon,” declared Parson Higginson, jumping up, and swinging his arms. “I’m going over cross lots to ask Farmer Hooker to lend me his green wagon and Betty the mare. Want to go, Jack and Corny, and help harness?” Both boys signified without any hesitancy, that they did.

“Joey, you have the first invitation,” said the parson, nodding over at the lame boy; “get all bundled up in fine style,—and all you others,” waving his ministerial hands merrily toward the group; “follow suit, and we’ll pick you up in about ten minutes—oh! here’s my coat; thank you, Jack, and Rosy, for my hat. Come on, boys!”

And so, what was supposed to be rather a hard and unwelcome duty of trudging down to the Corners with a heavy basket containing some of the Thanksgiving goodies, turned out to be, under the minister’s management, the most royal frolic of the season, and one well suited to wind up a Thanksgiving party with.

And then came Christmas.

There was no party at the old Brimmer place, of course. Mother Brimmer would have held up her hands in amazement at such an idea. One festive occasion was quite enough to indulge in for a year, and the memory of it would follow each day of the twelvemonth, with inspiration to heartier work than ever.

“It’s Thanksgiving all the year,” said Corny one day, well along in December. “Didn’t we have a good time? I haven’t got the taste of those pies out of my mouth yet,” and he smacked his lips.

“Those were the most economical pies I ever made,” said Mrs. Brimmer, laughing, “they last so long.”

“I’m going to pretend,” said Corny, nailing away vigorously on his mother’s washboard, which a rainy day had allowed him to mend, “that we’re going to have some more on Christmas.”

“Better not,” said Mother Brimmer wisely, “for you’re not going to, and when the time comes you’ll be disappointed.”

“No, I sha’n’t, Mamsie,” said Cornelius decidedly, “’cause I know you aren’t going to make any. But I remember just how they tasted, and when I’m pretending we can have ’em all over again, it’s ’most as good as eating any.”

“It’s a very cheap way of getting a nice dish,” said Mrs. Brimmer, cutting up her meat for the stew, “but I don’t think sham pies are as good as the plain boiled dinner we’re going to have Christmas.”

Cornelius pounded away a few moments in silence; then he said, “I suppose we ought to do something for Christmas; that don’t take money, I mean,” with an anxious glance at his mother.

“Well, now, children,” said Mrs. Brimmer, neatly dividing an obdurate joint, “there, that’s done. I’ve been thinking about Christmas, and a plan has come to me.”

“Don’t tell till Jack comes,” cried Rosalie, over in the corner busy with her ironing holders. “O, Mamsie, do wait!” she begged in alarm.

“Jack knows about it,” said Mrs. Brimmer; “he and I talked it all over the night you two went to singing-school. And he wanted me to tell you both as soon as I could get a good chance. Now’s the time, I think, seeing Roly Poly is having her nap, and we three are all quiet together.”

“O, Mamsie! what is it?” cried Rosy breathlessly; and, dropping her sewing, she ran up to her mother’s side, Cornelius also deserting his washboard.

“Go right straight back,” said Mother Brimmer, clapping the potatoes into the kettle, “and pick up your work—dear me! can’t you hear just as well when your fingers are busy, pray tell?”

Thus reproved, they hurried back again. “Now tell, do, Mamsie,” they begged, once more in their places.

“Well,” said Mrs. Brimmer slowly, “it’s just this; Roly Poly must hang up her stocking the same as usual, of course.”

“But do let it be a better one this year,” cried Corny, “old turnip dolls, and such make-believe stuff as it was last Christmas!” he added contemptuously.

“Roly Poly had a beautiful time,” said Rosy, “she’s been talking of it most every day since. Don’t you remember what fun it was seeing her pull out the things?”

“And the doll, I’m sure, was a wonderful affair,” said Mother Brimmer, “and lasted much better than a store one would have done.”

“And when it wrinkled it looked just like an old woman,” said Corny, with a shout at the remembrance; “and how funny it was to hear Roly Poly call it her baby.”

“And wasn’t the molasses candy with the butternuts meats good,” observed Rosalie reflectively, “and the furniture you and Jack made for the dolly—oh! I think that was so pretty.”

“And the mittens Mamsie knit her; I forgot them,” said Corny. “Yes; it was pretty good, after all. But we’re richer now, and we ought to give her a better stocking this Christmas,” he added decidedly, with quite an air.

“I don’t know about being richer,” said Mother Brimmer cautiously, and giving a final stir to the several ingredients in the kettle, she put on the cover, took down her pans and set about moulding her bread; “our expenses increase every year as you children grow older; and it isn’t right to plan taking anything that isn’t actually necessary, out of the nest-egg. Roly Poly will need every bit we can give her toward her education by and by.”

“We aren’t being educated,” said Corny deliberately.

Mother Brimmer turned away from her bread-board, looked at him keenly, then sent a swift glance over to her one girl.

“And that’s just what I want to talk about this morning. You’re going to have a chance at it, if you both agree to the plan.”

It was impossible for the children to work now; and the needle and the hammer dropped, while Mother Brimmer went on.

“Mr. Thomas will come here every evening for an hour, for a dollar a week, and teach Jack and both of you; and I’m to have the chance of listening and asking questions, so you might as well call me a scholar, too.”

Neither of her auditors said a word, but stared into the strong face, out of whose mouth was issuing such wonderful words.

“There will have to be hard work on your part to make every minute tell,” said Mother Brimmer, “as you’ve got to keep your books by you and study when you get a chance. But the most important of all, is to keep saying the things you learn, over and over to yourself, so that you can’t forget them; I wouldn’t give a cent that any child of mine should get anything into his or her head, that can’t stay by them,” she added, with a scorn to match that of Cornelius’ own.

“We never’ll forget what we once learn,” cried both Corny and Rosalie in one breath. “But how are we going to pay for it, Mamsie?”

“Well, now to pay for the lessons, we shall all have to sacrifice something,” said Mrs. Brimmer, drawing herself up to her full height, and looking resolutely at them.

“We can give up our play—afternoons,” said Corny slowly, his black eye steadily on her.

“Never!” exclaimed Mrs. Brimmer, bringing her hand down on the table with emphasis, “those mustn’t be touched, whatever we do; that’s decided.”

“What can we give up?” cried Rosy, in astonishment.

JOEY.
(See Baby’s Corner.)

“We’re saving everything as close as can be, now,” said Cornelius, with a decided nod. “Jack turns every penny twice over before he’ll begin to think of spending it, and then he claps it into the bank. What in the world can we save more, ma?”

“I said ‘sacrifice,’” replied Mrs. Brimmer, very distinctly. “We shall have to draw out some of the nest-egg. This will come hard, because all of us have been working diligently to put the little fund there, and every cent taken away from it reduces the interest.”

Cornelius began to look grave at once. Rail as he might at Jack’s regard for every penny, the accumulation of the deposit in the bank was is dear to the heart of the younger boy, who had no delight so great as an errand that took him past the large, red building, over whose door was the magical word—Bank. To stand here a moment and reflect that nearly one hundred dollars was recorded on the books to the credit of Brimmer Brothers and Company, repaid for many hours of toil and self-denial. Now, if they had a teacher, some of that slowly-accumulated money must be used.

It was to be a sacrifice, as the mother had said.

“But,” Mrs. Brimmer’s tone changed to a ringing one of hopefulness and courage, “the money thus taken out and used, will be the best investment possible; better than a ten per cent interest for all of us. Think of it, children; an education for you and for me!” and for one little moment, the barriers of a pent-up longing, that had possessed her heart for years, were dropped.

JAMIE.
(See Baby’s Corner.)

“Mother,” they cried, “let us have Mr. Thomas come just as soon as he can!”

“He can’t come till Christmas Eve,” said Mrs. Brimmer. “But he’ll begin then, and be glad to, for he’s too poor to go home for a vacation. So he told me yesterday, when I stopped into the District school.”

“Is that where you went, Mamsie, in the afternoon, when you put on your Sunday shawl and bonnet?” asked Rosy, who hadn’t recovered from the astonishment produced by seeing such preparations made for a visit about which there was no attending conversation.

“Yes, child; I asked Jack about it, first; and then he wanted, if Mr. Thomas could do it, to have me tell you and see if you would like to fall into the plan. If Mr. Thomas couldn’t do it, why, then, you two wouldn’t have any disappointment to bear. But he can. O, what a Christmas we will have!”

THE RAILROAD ON MT. PILATUS

IF the Rigi Railroad is worthy of being considered an extraordinary and wonderful piece of work, the latest undertaking of this kind—the building of the railroad on Mt. Pilatus—certainly ought to attract the attention of engineers and of the travelling public. This new road differs essentially from its older rivals in the construction of its roadbed, as well as of the rolling stock. The ruggedness and steepness of the mountain, together with its great height (sixty-eight hundred and eighty-two feet, against fifty-nine hundred and five, in the case of Rigi), offered much greater obstacles than the roads previously built, and required an entirely different system. The restless spirit of man is always glad to set for itself some new task, and consequently men were found who, equipped with the necessary capital, were willing and able to carry out this tremendous undertaking. When a portion of the road had been completed, all fear in regard to strength and safety were removed, for it was thoroughly tested every day, the locomotives going as often as it was necessary to that part of the road on which they were at work, carrying materials of all kinds, weighing from twenty thousand to twenty-two thousand pounds. The southeastern side of the mountain was chosen for the road, which begins at Alpnach-Stad, between the Hotel Pilatus and the Eagle Hotel (one thousand four hundred and forty-eight feet above the level of the sea). From there it climbs in a northerly direction to the Aemsigenalp, then westward to the Mattalp (fifty-three hundred and fifteen feet above the sea), and after much winding reaches the plateau of the Hotel Bellevue on Mount Pilatus (sixty-eight hundred and eleven feet above the sea). The road is about two and three quarters miles long, and the total height climbed from the shore of Alpnacht Bay to the Hotel Bellevue is fifty-three hundred and sixty feet. The grade is from eighteen to forty-eight per cent., which is scarcely exceeded by any rope road. In the middle of the line, at Alp Aemsigen, there is a switch. Seventy-two hundred and sixty-seven feet of the entire road consists of straight stretches, curves with radii of from two hundred and sixty-two feet to three hundred and twenty-eight feet, constituting the remainder. The road includes a viaduct, three short tunnels and one long one. The width of the track is two feet seven inches. The foundation consists of a wall covered with plates of granite and loose material, and on this the superstructure is firmly anchored. The tooth-bar—which is placed midway between the rails and is somewhat higher than the latter—consists of soft steel, and is provided with a double row of vertical teeth, which are milled out of the bar. The cogged wheels on the cars, which engage the toothed bar, are arranged in pairs at the right and left of the same. The axles of these cogwheels are not horizontal with the level of the road, as in the Rigi system, but perpendicular to the same, this arrangement making it impossible for the cogwheels to become displaced. The locomotives and cars form a train with two running axles and four cogwheels engaging the toothed bar. The boiler and engine are behind or below the cars, which latter accommodate thirty-two passengers. Brakes can be applied to all of the cogwheels, and besides this there are two clamps at the upper running-axle, which clutch the head of the rail, thus preventing the upsetting of the cars by the wind. The weight of the loaded cars is about twenty-one thousand pounds, and one trip up or down can be made in about eighty minutes. The idea of the Pilatus road originated with Edward Locher, under whose supervision and control the road has been built. The engine was invented by Mechanical Engineer Haas.—Illustrirte Zeitung.

Recent discoveries have settled the vexed question of the former existence of lions in Australia. Bones from the Wellington Caves, New South Wales, are regarded by Professor Owen of the British Museum, as being those of a marsupial or pouch-bearing lion, fully equal in size to the existing African species. These remains were found in connection with those of the Tasmanian Tiger and Tasmanian Devil. Quite curiously, Professor Owen many years ago expressed the conviction that certain ancient herbivorous animals of Australia must have been kept in check by a co-existent race of lions.—Selected.

VALUE OF ARABIC NUMERALS.

FEW people, probably, have any adequate idea of the great difficulties in which arithmetic would be involved were it not for the happy invention of the Arabic numerals. Here is a very simple little sum in addition put Roman fashion.

The reader will find it “a nice amusement,” as the model papa always tells his daughters, to work it out as it stands without having recourse to Arabic notation:

MDCXLVIII
MCCXLV
DCCXXXIX
MDCCCLXXXIV

None of these figures reach two thousand, and yet what a hopeless task to sum them up without an abacus! But that is, indeed, a small matter. Here are two better tests of the impossibility of arithmetic without Arabic notation:

Multiply (all in Roman figures) MDCCXLIV by DCLXXXIV, and divide MCCXLIII by XLV. Nothing could be simpler than these two sums, and yet it requires considerable intellect and very close attention to work them out on paper with the Roman symbols.—Cornhill Magazine.

BABY’S CORNER.

JOEY and Jamie are two little bits of boys.

They live in a nice house and play under a big tree.

One little boy is just as old as the other little boy.

When they stand up to see how high they are, Joey is no bigger than Jamie. They are twins.

They look as much alike as peas in a pod. Only Joey has big black eyes and Jamie has blue ones.

They have good times playing when they are good. Sometimes they are naughty. Joey is naughty most.

One day last summer they were playing by the little brook where the flowers grow. The water said “tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,” as it ran over the stones.

They were happy for a little while. They picked flowers and put their fat hands in the cool water.

But at last Joey began to pick up stones and throw them. One little white stone hit Jamie’s blue eye. It hurt him. He cried. Mamma came and took him on her lap and kissed his eye.

Then it felt better.

Joey sat in mamma’s lap a long time and ate some big red cherries. They were sweet and good.

SOME BIG RED CHERRIES.

Mamma was sorry that she had to punish poor naughty Joey. He had to be tied up in his little chair. He had no cherries. He cried very hard.

Joey will throw no more stones at his little brother.

Mrs. C. M. Livingston.

DISTRIBUTING THE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.

Volume 15, Number 9.        Copyright, 1887, by D. Lothrop Company        December 31, 1887.

THE PANSY.

IMAGE OF BUDDHA.—(See Lotus Lilies.)

A BOY FROM THYATIRA.

TWELVE years ago a little boy, only thirteen years old, stood bidding his mother good-by.

He was going a long journey with strangers across the ocean, to stay a good many years. He didn’t know how long it would be before he should see his dear father and mother again.

He had very black eyes and hair, and beautiful white teeth, and his skin was somewhat darker than yours when you’ve been playing bareheaded in the sun. For the rest, he was a little Armenian boy, born and reared in Turkey, and speaking the Armenian language. His father was a native preacher in Thyatira.

And now this boy was to take a long, long journey to America to be educated, so that he might come back to work for the Jesus whom he loved so much.

It was very hard to say good-by for so long a time, but at last it was over, and the boy went down to the great ship that was to carry him over the ocean, trying to choke back the tears that would rise when he thought of his home and father and mother and playmates, and the missionaries whom he loved so much. So he knelt down by his little bed in the ship, and begged the dear Heavenly Father to go with him. Then there came a sweet verse to him to cheer him: “Fear thou not, neither be thou dismayed, for the Lord thy God is with thee, whithersoever thou goest.”

He was very much bewildered when he landed in this country, at all the bustle and hurry, and the strange language.

He was put immediately into school, and went to work at the English language.

“Did you find it hard?” I asked him, not long since.

“Hard! I should think I did,” he answered. “Your language is so queer! See that horse tied to a tree. It is ‘fast.’ And yet if he is running at full speed you call him ‘fast.’ That window is locked. You say it is ‘fast,’ but so is the young man that smokes and drinks, and wears flashy neckties and carries a cane. It was a great puzzle to me at first. It has taken me all these twelve years to learn it.”

The boy has worked hard, and is a fine scholar.

Five years ago he went back to his own country and spent a year in Smyrna among the Greeks, and now if you chance to have the pleasure of spending an evening in his company, he may take his guitar and sing to you the wild, sweet melodies of the Greeks, with their soft, musical syllables, and I’m sure you’ll be delighted with them.

Perhaps, too, he may give you the Turkish call to go to Jerusalem, and describe the caravan of Armenians as they start on their pilgrimage to the Holy City, with a young man ahead on a beautifully-adorned camel, his head thrown back, his hands clasped at the back of his neck, and singing out the weird call which means something like this:

“Come all ye people! Let us go up to visit Jerusalem! It will please all the saints! I have sold all my vast estates to fit me out for the journey. I have given up everything! Be not behind your leader! Come, let us go up and we shall be saved!”

He will tell you, too, of his little brother, who has just started to this country to be educated. How often he will jump upon some barrel or box in the street and imitate the Mohammedan call to prayer, with such exactness that his mother is obliged to pull him down quickly and take him into the house lest some angry Mohammedan should seize him and punish him for his fun.

The young man is now studying medicine and expects to return to his own country soon, to begin work for his Master.

Shall we not all pray that his work may be blest, and that many may be brought to Jesus through him?

Grace Livingston.

There is a little fable which says that one digging in the earth found a lump of fragrant clay, and asked, “Whence thy fragrance?” “One laid me on a rose,” was the answer. So he who lies on the bosom of Christ and abides in Him will be struck with His fragrance, His spirit of love and holiness, and wherever He goes will shed rich spiritual influence.—Presbyterian.

NOT LOST ON THE AIR.

A VERY interesting incident occurred in the early ministerial life of Mr. Spurgeon, and which he verified to the person who made it public. Thirty years ago or more, he was invited to preach in the vast Crystal Palace at Sydenham. Would his voice fill the immense area? Resolving to test it, he went in the morning to the Palace, and thinking for a passage of Scripture to repeat, this, as he reached the stage, came to mind: “It is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” Pronouncing the words, he felt sure that he would be heard, and then repeated the verse in a softer tone. More than a quarter of a century later Mr. Spurgeon’s brother, who is also a pastor, was called to the bedside of a man, an artisan, who was near his end.

“Are you ready?” asked the pastor.

“O, yes!” answered the dying man, with assurance.

“Can you tell me how you obtained the salvation of your soul?”

“It is very simple,” said the artisan, his face radiant with joy. “I am a plumber by trade. Some years ago I was working under the dome of the Crystal Palace, and thought myself entirely alone. I was without God and without hope.

“All at once I heard a voice coming from Heaven which said “It is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” By the meaning of these words I was convinced of sin; Jesus Christ appeared to me as my Saviour. I accepted Him in my heart as such at the same moment, and I have served Him ever since.”

God honors his Word. Suppose Mr. Spurgeon had used a secular sentence to try his voice? What surprises await the faithful when results are known.—The Watchword.

“NEW MEXICO is peopled largely by a superstitious, ignorant race, intensely bigoted, and under the almost absolute sway of a degraded priesthood, who have a deadly hatred of the spelling-book as well as of Christian instruction.

“For centuries the people have dwelt in isolation, separated from civilization by vast reaches of barren, waterless, cactus-bearing plains. During these centuries they have made no advance either mentally or morally, but have sunk deeper and deeper into the sloughs of ignorance. The mission schools established among the Mexicans are centres of light from whence radiate many cheering rays. The people are awakening to a sense of their degradation, and give evidence of their desire for improvement. Many are anxious to learn English and to have their children educated. A little plain furniture, such as chairs, tables and bedsteads, is finding its way into their houses, and more attention is paid to dress and cleanliness.”

New Mexico is about as large as all the New England States together, with New York and New Jersey.

LOTUS LILIES.

THE lotus lily is spoken of as “the peer-less flower of Farther India.” From an article, which is too long to give you entire, I shall cull some interesting items about this flower for your benefit.

It is a kind of water lily, and is considered a wonderful flower by the people of the countries in which it is found. In Egypt it was once considered sacred to their gods, and in India the Hindoo gods are often represented as seated upon the expanded flower. In China and Japan it is closely connected with Buddha, and has a large place in the worship of that god. In China the lotus lily symbolizes womanly beauty, the small feet of women being called kin leen, or golden lilies.

The petals of the lotus lily are rose-pink, growing brighter and redder toward the tips, where one can almost imagine the life-blood of the flower is oozing out, and will soon drop upon the white mat of the table. Opening the rosy lips, the golden heart of the flower is disclosed surrounded by a silky fringe of the stamens of the same bright hue, edged with pure white pollen. The leaves of the plant are dark-green, almost round, and lie or float upon the bosom of the lake. The stems are like long green serpents, rearing their spiral forms from the black ooze beneath the water, and holding aloft their banners of green and blossoms of beauty and fragrance.

But notwithstanding the fact that the plant is held sacred, many of the Chinese cultivate it for sale. The fragrant blossoms reach a diameter of ten inches, and find ready purchasers. The seeds are used as an article of food; sometimes eaten raw, sometimes ground and made into cakes.

The fleshy stems are used as a vegetable, while the fibres of the leaf-stalks serve for lamp-wicks.

The ancient Egyptians used to inclose the seeds in balls of clay or mud and cast them into the Nile, and in due season the plant appeared, followed by buds, flowers and seeds. Does that make you think of a Bible verse?

ON THE NILE.

In Siam the lotus lilies grow in great profusion, and one may sail for miles along the rivers through flooded fields covered with the lotus blossoms, which the natives are gathering for market.

Then there are the royal lotus gardens of Bangkok. These are several miles from the king’s palace. There is a carriage road leading out from the city, and these gardens are a famous place for picnics. At the grand funeral ceremonies of the Queen of Siam, one of the companies which walked in the procession carried tridents, the triple tips of which were each crowned with the white lotus. Every year thousands of real and artificial lilies are floated on the rivers and sea as offerings of the water spirits.

They are launched at night, with little wax tapers burning, and they are loaded with offerings to the gods.

Many beautiful fancies cluster about the lotus, and many songs have been written, which you may appreciate the more if you happen upon them, for knowing something about the beautiful fragrant flower “trembling on the crystal tide.”

THE YEAR OF OUR LORD.

THE following incident which occurred, as will be seen, many years ago, has lately been published, and is from the experience of Mr. Duncan, a well-known missionary to the Indians of British Columbia. He says:—

“I was teaching the Indians to write letters, and, as a matter of course, began at the name of the place at which the letter was supposed to be written. About that step there was nothing to call forth any remark from the Indians. Next came the name of the month. That elicited some smiles, but no questions. Then was added the day of the month, which also caused some interest, but no surprise. When, however, I added 1860 for the year, immediately the Indians inquired what did those figures mean, and why was the year so named? For a moment I was stunned at the answer which the question called for. Never before had I realized the startling meaning of those figures in connection with the Gospel, and how severely they witnessed against the Christian Church.

BEIRUT.

“The Indians seemed at once to seize with awe the information I offered on the subject, and their looks but too plainly indicated both reproach and astonishment that the message of God should have been withheld from them so long.

“I felt both ashamed and humiliated for my race, and wondered how so many generations of Christians since the apostolic age, could have dared, as they have done, to so willfully and fatally neglect, or, at best, but trifle with their Lord’s commission.”

“THE EVENING STAR.”

IN the large playground of a Christian school in Beirut is an arbor where several girls of the school were accustomed to meet just at sunset for a prayer meeting. They had organized this meeting by themselves, and one day the teacher asked, “What do you call your meeting?”

“Oh! we call it the ‘Evening Star,’ because when the sun sets the evening star comes out, and so, when the sun sets our little meeting is held, and we have named it the Evening Star.”

“And what do you pray for at the ‘Evening Star’?” asked the teacher.

“Oh! we pray for our teachers; but especially we pray for a new heart.”

GOWAHATIS.

IN the western part of the State of New York there is a territory known as the “Cattaraugas Reservation.” This is the home of the Senecas, one of the tribes of the Iroquois, or Six Nations of Indians of Western New York. There were six tribes that in the early history of our country formed a confederacy or union, and were sometimes called the Huron-Iroquois; one tribe was called by the Dutch “Sinnekaas,” which at length became “Senecas.” A secretary of the board of missions connected with one of the leading religious denominations visited the Reservation a year or so ago, and he tells us many interesting facts connected with these Indians and concerning the work of the missionaries among them. Fifty years ago most of these people were benighted Pagans worshiping false gods, but to-day there is probably not a dozen persons among the four thousand who have any veneration for heathen worship. This does not mean that all love and serve the Lord Jesus Christ. When you say that you live in a Christian land or in a Christian community, you do not mean that all the people in the land or in the community are real Christians, but you mean that all or at least the most of the people believe in Christianity.

Now how did it come about that these ignorant worshipers of false gods have become a Christian nation? You are not surprised to learn that it has been brought about through the efforts of a few earnest and faithful missionaries who have given their lives to the work of lifting up this people. But it is the story of Gowahatis that I started to tell you. She was the step-daughter of Red Jacket, a noted Seneca chief, who received his name from wearing a scarlet coat given him, during the Revolutionary War, by a British officer. Red Jacket was bitterly opposed to the Christian religion, to missionaries, schools and teachers. This step-daughter, Gowahatis, was called “Aunt Ruth” by the missionaries.

Her Indian name was significant of her position as leader of a certain dance performed by women alone. It was very honorable, and constituted her a sort of “chief” woman. Both mother and daughter strongly sympathized with Red Jacket in his opposition to the introduction of the religion of the pale faces, until, having been induced to listen for once to the preaching of the missionaries, they perceived its superiority to their faith and desired to know more of the wonderful salvation which the Son of God had wrought out for all men—Indians as well as white men. They went again, but this coming to the ears of the old chief, he positively forbade them, threatening that if they disobeyed he would leave his family at once. The mother was very much alarmed, and for a time she ceased her visits to the mission house. But after a time she and her daughter took their blankets out into the woods one Saturday evening and hid them. The next morning they walked away from the house slowly, as if going out to the woods, and when they came to the blankets they threw them hastily over their heads, and by a circuitous path made their way to the meeting.

There they heard the words, “God so loved the world that He gave His only begotton Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” This brought them to decide, once for all, to take the Gospel and risk the loss of all things. This was a great step; Red Jacket would do what he had said: he would leave the family; this they knew. He was a very distinguished man; as his wife and daughter they had been much noticed and had received many presents, but they would renounce all for Christ and everlasting life.

They joined the mission church, were very earnest Christian women, they remained faithful unto death, and exerted a powerful influence in bringing others to Christ. A year or two after Red Jacket returned to his wife, and acknowledged that he had done wrong in leaving, adding that he did not think that she was any the worse for being a Christian.

Dear Pansies, this thought came to me as I heard the story of these Indian women: they heard the truth once and were interested, twice and accepted.

How many times have you heard it? Have you accepted Christ?

Faye Huntington.

THE PERSECUTED BANNERMAN.

[In one of the missionary magazines I read this note: “There is one story in the foreign missionary department of this number which none of our young readers should overlook.... It is a first-rate story to read and talk about in the family.” Turning over the pages I found, as I had expected, that the editor’s suggestion was a good one, and then I immediately became desirous that all you young people of the Pansy should have a chance at the story, and here it is, clipped for your benefit.—Faye Huntington.]

NG-HIN-KI a young man of more than usual ability and energy joined the Third Presbyterian Church in Canton in September, 1881. His foster mother was bitterly enraged at him for so doing, and all his brothers were greatly displeased. They made strenuous efforts to prevent him from attending church and from performing his religious duties, but without success.

Their persecution, especially that of his foster mother, became so bitter that in the spring of 1882, he was given the place of door-keeper in one of our chapels, one hundred and thirty miles from Canton, receiving for his services two dollars and fifty cents per month. In the autumn of the same year he received a letter from an elder in the Third Church, advising him not to return to Canton, as his foster-mother and brothers had brought a charge against him of being unfilial, which in China is a very serious crime. Their object was to get him discharged from his position as bannerman. Instead, however, of remaining away from Canton, he at once returned, saying he would go at once and meet the charge. He found on arriving that all his property, one shop and three dwelling-houses, had been sold for fourteen hundred dollars. He was brought before a military officer and ordered to light three sticks of incense and place them before an idol. He was told that if he obeyed, the draft for fourteen hundred dollars lying upon the table would be restored to him, but if he refused he would lose not only that and his monthly allowance, but his betrothal, which had cost him three hundred dollars, would be made null and void, altogether that which he would forfeit would be what is for a Chinaman a comfortable and permanent livelihood. Sign and save, refuse and lose. He refused and was cast out penniless. He entered the training school, and after three years of faithful study was appointed to preach. He is now doing a useful and encouraging work three hundred miles from Canton, at Sam Kong, near Lien Chow. Until near the close of last year this man’s relatives refused to have anything to do with him, when, much to his delight, a great change took place. They became not only willing to welcome him home, but to hear him make known the Gospel. It came about in this way: one of his brothers at a tea-shop had seen a member of the Third Church, also a bannerman, telling the people about Jesus.

One of the company in anger struck him a blow in the face, telling him he need not come there to preach to them. He smiled and went on with his discourse. Ng-hin-ki’s brother was much surprised. He knew the speaker was naturally high-tempered, was physically strong, and was no coward. In fact he knew perfectly well that what prevented the bannerman from striking back was not fear, but principle. This won his admiration for the man and respect at least for his message and was the occasion of bringing about in his family the changed feeling mentioned above.

A PRODIGAL SON.

I HAVE opened one more school, a mile from the road. I had to walk that distance. Those burning days it was pretty severe, as the road lay over sand hills and plowed fields. The school was so nice, the children so happy, one could not remember the discomfort.

An old Mohammedan priest tried to break it up, and did compel some to withdraw their children, but the school is secure.

Several women came in to see Miss Sohiba and watch the school. The Bible lesson began from a picture of the Prodigal Son, hung on the wall. An old lady listened; her face sobered, tears filled her eyes; finally, amid broken sobs, she declared—

“O, Miss Sohiba, that is my boy! That is my boy!”

Most touchingly she told how he had gone, how she had watched and waited for him, but he never came back.—Extract from Miss Pratt’s letter from India.

THE TOWER OF KOUTUB, PLAIN OF DELHI.

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT.

The address of Mrs. G. R. Alden (Pansy), is Winter Park, Orange Co., Florida. All contributions for The Pansy magazine should be sent to that P. O., and not to the Publishers, D. Lothrop Company.

ALL ALONG THE LINE.

Conducted by
R. M. Alden.

We have to thank many of our readers, this month, for helping us in this Department. Let others follow their example, and begin this part of the winter’s work. Address everything for us to R. M. Alden, Box 17, Winter Park, Orange County, Florida.

We hear from the Secretary of a Band in India of how they are educating two Mexican girls, whom a missionary has taken to educate for teachers. Who knows what great food this seed may start?

A Mission Band in Brighton, Massachusetts, made over one hundred dollars in a fair held last May. There were fancy articles and refreshments sold. Twenty dollars were voted to the “Fresh Air Fund,” and twenty more to some home missionaries in the West. [We are indebted to Miss Bessie Cotton for the report.]

Have the readers of The Pansy heard of the natives of the Charlotte Islands, ignorant and benighted, who gave, one Sabbath, one hundred of their blankets, valued at one dollar and twenty-five cents each, toward the erection of a new church? If we consider the resources and ideas of this people, it was truly a great gift, and a good example for any Americans. [We have to thank Adella F. Coy for calling our attention to this most interesting item.]

At Nolo, Iowa, there is a very busy mission band, of nine members, which is making up a box for a hospital in Council Bluffs. They are earning money in various ways. Some gather eggs and have one out of every dozen, some have raised chickens, one little pigs. One boy’s father offered him ten cents apiece for all the squirrels he would catch on the farm. But so many poor nut-crackers became prisoners that the price came down to two and one half cents. The Band held a Lawn Festival, at which they sold various refreshments, and made thirteen dollars. They are knitting stockings, hoods, and mittens, dressing a doll and piecing a comforter. Success to all who “are not weary in well-doing.”

In the streets of large mission stations of Japan, there are rooms open all day, in charge of the missionaries, where the heathen may learn of the true religion. A countryman entered one of these stations and had a long talk with one of the missionaries,—whom it was our pleasure to meet this summer. When he went home he was a Christian. Some weeks afterward the missionaries received a letter from him. He wrote: “We have here a church, Sabbath-school, prayer-meeting, etc., all composed of one member. I get along nicely, except for the Communion Service. And if you could send me by mail a bit of the bread you use could I not have a service all by myself?” The bread was sent, and some time later the convert wrote back how much he enjoyed the Communion Service, all alone, with Jesus.

The young people of a certain church in the West, had a chance not long since to give an object lesson and did it well. One of their number who had been long absent from home, soon after her return, made an entertainment for her friends; delightful music was to be expected, and some other enjoyments of a special character. The invitations were sent out for Friday evening; to the lady’s disappointment, one, and another and another, of those whom she specially wanted, politely declined the invitation; they were sorry not to be with her; under other circumstances nothing would give them greater pleasure, but for that evening they had a previous engagement. On being pressed as to what it was, they explained that it was the evening for their regular young people’s prayer meeting! Their friend was so astonished at this reply, that she took some trouble to learn whether the young ladies had known of one another’s intentions in declining her invitation, and found that each had acted without knowing what the other meant to do. Don’t you think she must have decided that in the minds of some people the prayer meeting was an important place, and the engagement to attend it was not to be lightly broken?

MERRY CHRISTMAS to all my Blossoms! Glad am I to be able to give you this happy greeting once more. And to the many new faces which I greet for the first time, the wish is just as hearty; may each of you have this month, not only the merriest, but, in the truest sense of the word, the best Christmas you ever enjoyed in your lives.

Shall I tell you how to make sure of this? I dare say you know, but I will just repeat the thought to keep it before your minds. In the first place, let each of you make a Christmas gift, very costly and very precious, to the best friend you have. Now I see many sorrowful faces, and hear low, regretful voices: “You would like to, but you have no money to spend, or at best but very little, and cannot afford anything costly.” Is that what I hear you say? Mistaken, every one of you. The most costly and precious thing in the world, is the strong true heart which has its home in your body, my boy—or my girl. I want you, this Christmas month, to give it away to the Lord Jesus Christ.

No matter if you have done it before. I am glad to know that many of you have. Just renew the gift. Choose some quiet hour, and go alone, and, on your knees, say: “Lord Jesus, I give myself anew to Thee, in return for Thy great Christmas gift to me. I give Thee my time, and my strength and my will. I ask Thee to direct me all day, and every day, in the way in which Thou wouldst have me go. And I promise to use my tongue to speak for Thee, and my hands to work for Thee, and my feet to do errands for Thee, and my heart to love Thee.”

I wonder how many will use this prayer, and mean each word in their hearts? Just so many will be sure to have a happy Christmas, and a happy year.

One other thing: Some of our Blossoms have been transplanted during the year that is past. God has sent his angels and gathered them to bloom in His upper garden, where flowers never wither. Now, while we are glad for them, shall we not remember the homes from which they have gone? The dear fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters, who cannot, sometimes, keep the tears from coming, because they miss their darlings so? Will not every Pansy Blossom ask the dear Lord to help and comfort these sorrowing hearts?

Now, just one thing more: What can you do on Christmas Day which will make somebody else happier than he or she could possibly have been if you had not done it?

Think it out, my Blossoms, “something for each of you now to do.” Then, set to work and do it; then write and tell me all about it, and I’ll weave all your letters into a story for next year’s Pansy.

Lovingly,
Pansy.

Annie and Florence. No doubt your game, “Jack Throws,” is a good one but as it has a diagram, and as our printer cannot always prepare such, it may fail to appear. Sorry.

Alice L. Snow. Send a copy of your Queer Story for examination. You did capitally on the geographical puzzle. “A Christian since eleven years of age.” So glad I am of this. I trust the Saviour is glad, too. Is it your constant aim to make Him glad?

Myrtie A. B. Your Queer Story almost, not quite, correct. Don’t be discouraged. The effort has done you great good, making you a better speller. And you don’t have to go “three miles” to the Queer Story school. You must teach your puss better manners when you are working at your lessons.

Mamie Fuller. You must keep some of the writing you do now while you are six years old, and put it by the side of what you do when you are sixty. I guess you will see great progress. And I hope you will come very near the Lord Jesus in that time.

C. R. Richmond. A picnic in a beautiful grove; five hundred present; a brass band; oranges, ice-cream, lemonade; talks by Revs. King and Adams; a bountiful dinner following, etc., etc. It seems as though Master Colin and his companions must have gone home with sunny hearts and faces, and in love with the S. S. Did you?

Minnie Locket. When a dear little Pansy writes as well as ever he or she can, they need not ask me to excuse their penmanship or anything else about the writing. All I care to know is that they do their very best. No one can do more, and so there is no room for an excuse. Do your best, Minnie, every time, and you will not be ashamed.

Jessie P. Davis. Whenever your Pansies fail to come, write to D. Lothrop Co., 32 Franklin Street, Boston, Mass. Do not think that any Pansy can be so small as not to be missed. The baby is the smallest body in the house. Don’t you think it would be missed?

H. C. Withey. The monkey game you send must be very funny, but its length and the difficulty of “doing” it here will explain why it does not appear in the Pansy. Perhaps you will try again, and send something very short and easily played. The Pansies will be interested in anything of that sort from Africa.

Lolo Keeling. Don’t despair whatever may come. Carry your failures to Jesus. Try again. Triumph will come.

M. Nellie Lindsey. Thank you for remembering to write to me many times, even if you did “forget to send them off.” And what in the August magazine pleased you so much besides that letter?

Fannie W. Ambler. Let me commend you for plain writing. The Queer Story is well done, though with some mistakes. Try again, my dear.

M. Lillie Read. Your Queer Story is much like Fannie’s, almost, but not quite, right. Never mind; there’s another for you. Don’t be afraid of it. Don’t be cast down over any failure, but up and at it again. Train the baby to be a true Pansy. I’m so glad you make any progress.

Nellie Wright. “Nine years old.” Said and done a thousand things or more in that time. Now, suppose you live to be ninety,—my dear uncle has just died at ninety-two,—and you keep on saying and doing, then how many thousand will it be? But all the better if it be all for Jesus’ sake. I like Florida, and you must like Kansas, which gives you “lots of corn and fruit.”

BIBLE READING FOR DECEMBER.
(Christ.)

Dec. | 1. | Ps. xxiv: 7-10; 1 Cor. ii: 8.
“ | 2. | Mi. v: 2; Matt. ii: 3-6.
“ | 3. | Is. lx: 6; Matt. ii: 7-12.
“ | 4. | Hos. xi: 1; Matt. ii: 13-15.
“ | 5. | Jer. xxxi: 15; Matt. ii: 16-18.
“ | 6. | Is. xi: 2 and xlii: 1; Matt. 3: 13-17.
“ | 7. | Is. ix: 6; Luke ii: 11.
“ | 8. | Is. liii: 4; Matt. viii: 16, 17
“ | 9. | Is. liii: 5; 1 Pet. ii: 24.
“ | 10. | Is. liii: 7; Matt. xxvii: 12-14.
“ | 11. | Is. liii: 9; Matt. xxvii: 57-60.
“ | 12. | Is. liii: 10; Luke iii: 6.
“ | 13. | Matt. iv: 18-22.
“ | 14. | Matt. iv: 23-25.
“ | 15. | Matt. ix: 18, 19, 23-26.
“ | 16. | Matt. xi: 25-30.
“ | 17. | 2 Cor. v: 14, 15, 17.
“ | 18. | Rom. viii: 1, 2, 17, 18.
“ | 19. | Rom. viii: 35, 37-39.
“ | 20. | Rom. xv: 1-3.
“ | 21. | Rom. v: 1-2.
“ | 22. | Rom. v: 7-9.
“ | 23. | John xviii: 33-40.
“ | 24. | Luke ii: 8-14.
“ | 25. | Luke ii: 15-20.
“ | 26. | John xix: 1-7.
“ | 27. | John xix: 8-12.
“ | 28. | John xix: 13-16.
“ | 29. | John xix: 17-22 and xx: 31.
“ | 30. | Mark xvi: 19; Lu. xxiv: 51; Acts i: 9.
“ | 31. | Acts i: 10, 11; Matt. 24: 42-46.

EXTRACTS FROM PANSY LETTERS.

Dear Pansy:

From a tiny child, May, if told to do anything, would do it just a little differently. If told to put a thing on the table, she would say, “I dess will put it on lounge,” and when I answered, “No; on the table,” she would skip along, laughing, “I dess will put it on chair.” But doing a little differently from mamma’s way and God’s way will end in many a heartache Pray that mother and child may yield impliably to the dear Father’s will.

May and her Mamma.

P. S. May sends six cents for the organ, earned by washing and wiping dishes.

Dear Pansy:

This is one of my compositions:

A PAPER OF NEEDLES.

First, a coil of steel wire, twenty-four inches long. This cut through the middle by scissors into little curved bundles, long enough for two needles. Straighten and point them—on a grindstone. They are pointed at both ends. They must now have their eyes opened. Needles, like puppies and kittens, are born blind. They are stamped with a heavy die that leaves the print of two needles’ heads and eyes at the center of the wire. Then the eyes are opened with a double punch.

Harry B. Hayes.

Dear Pansy:

My fault is that I am ready to give, but not to take advice. I am president of a society. One member chooses another to write about; others read or recite selections. I attend Shurtleff Grammar School.

Nellie F. Treat.

Dear Pansy:

When I read answers to letters, it seems to hit me. I will try to be more patient with brother and sister. I am a church member, and I very much wish my cousin were. It is hard sometimes to talk about Christ. I talk about other things readily. Why?

Blanche E. Treat.

Dear Pansy:

As to how we spend our evenings: we play games and speak pieces, and we have lots of books and papers. We like The Pansy. Papa got The Pansy for us and we did not know it till we got the mail. Mamma gave us “Young People at Home,” which you wrote, and which we like much. Maud and Mabel Davis, my sisters, are writing; so I thought I would. Mamma does not like to have me tease my little brother Romie. I will try not to do so.

Alice.

Dear Pansy:

Badges received in time to organize. They are lovely. They will help us to remember our faults. We meet at each other’s homes weekly and read, sew, sing, pray, and play The Pansy games. “Monteagle” is splendid. Hope the trip will help Dilly get well, and she will help naughty Hart get better. What a good woman Mrs. Hammond is to have such a bad boy. I guess he’ll come out right.

Mabel S. Kagey.

Dear Pansy:

I send a small sum for the organ. I sent sixty cents to D. Lothrop Company, and received “A Girl’s Room.” I would not part with it for twice that. Every girl should have it. The book gives me an idea what to do with things. I am much interested in “Around the Family Lamp.”

Emma Fisk.

Dear Pansy:

Our mission band is “The Cheerful Givers.” Mrs. Prof. Jewett is the teacher. She is nice. We like her—at least I do, and we all think the others ought to. We have mite boxes to put our pennies into, to buy maps of the world. I am not failing to mind my badge.

Mabel Hicks.

Dear Pansy:

I am eight and cannot write well. I tried last week. The words were hard to spell. I got tired. Tears came, so did mamma, and said, “Wait, I will help you.” I have taken your paper since I was a bit of a girl, and love it, and can hardly wait till it comes.

I have many, many, many naughty traits. Send me a badge. It may help me. Mamma and my good auntie read The Pansy to me, and they enjoy it as much as I. Papa died before I was three years old. I want to be good “For Jesus’ sake.”

Annie T. Dana.

Dear Pansy:

Your answer to my last did me a world of good. I have it in my album, as one of my most precious treasures. I’m determined to grow up a useful Christian woman—thanks to the “Whisper Motto” and the influence of Pansy and my mother. Mamma has no ambition for her children but that they become genuinely good. When we are determined to be so, she wishes us to join some church. There are six, and as merry and happy as the “Little Peppers” of whom dear Margaret Sidney wrote so sweetly.

Blanche Crawford.

Dear Pansy:

I enclose five cents. I earned it for the organ fund by learning the multiplication table.

Minnie Lockwood.

Dear Pansy:

We have almost finished a bed-quilt and are making holders to sell; in that way to raise money to buy cotton and lining. Every week a word is given out. We learn a Bible verse with that word, to repeat at the next meeting.

Gertie Currier.

Dear Pansy:

Please print my letter, as it is the first I have written to any paper. I got a good many Christmas gifts, among them a canary. I named her Soldie. I want to join the P. S. My fault is getting angry. I mean to try real hard and break that horrid fault. I would like a badge. I think you are real lovely. I would like to see you. I am your constant reader and loving little friend. No one helped me about my story.

Eliza W. Holland.

ELIZA’S STORY.
(Ella’s Lesson.)

Ella Smith was six years old. Her mother told her to take care of the baby while she went up street. Ella went into her mother’s room for the baby. The bureau drawer being open, she thought she would take a peep. Naughty Ella! in it lay three large oranges. How good they looked! She said to herself, “I will just touch them.” They felt so mellow she took two large bites. When her mother came, she punished Ella. Never did she peep into her mother’s drawer again.

Dear Pansy:

I am trying to overcome my fault, which is putting off, and not starting the moment I am spoken to. I like the whisper motto. I have your picture and think very much of it. I have a pansy bed, and when I look at it, it makes me think of the Pansy Society.

Ula Cook.

Dear Pansy:

I think the games published in The Pansy are lovely. We children, this spring, in our yard, planted some seeds, and in three days they began to show themselves. We planted the seeds in June and now they have buds on them.

Rita E. Boardman.

Dear Pansy:

I have five dolls, Mabel, Phœbe, Sallie, Mollie, and Nannie. I love Phœbe the best. I have had her almost two years. I have two cats, Mrs. Kitty Clyde and her son Tom. We have a dog, too. His name is Nero.

Rosalie T. Canfield.

Dear Pansy:

Perhaps some of the Pansies would like to hear of my two little horned toads, about an inch and one half long. I have them in a wire-screen cage. I have a big black beetle in the cage with them, and they don’t seem to like him very well. I feed them with cornmeal and flies.

Ollie Cutter Clarke.

Dear Pansy:

Thank you ever so much for the badge. I think it has helped me some, but I left it in Denver when I came to Leadville to spend the summer.

Orlena Beggs.

Dear Pansy:

I lend my Pansies to my friends to read. I found ninety-eight mistakes in the Queer Story of August Pansy.

Sadie M. Knight.

Dear Pansy:

Willie Hicks, a dear little fellow in Africa, six months only, has gone to his heavenly home. Each Angola station has its representative in Heaven; but with Melville Cox, we say, “Though a thousand fall, let Africa be redeemed.” My bed is a bamboo frame, a canvas cot laced to it, set on low horses. I am learning how to use tools. I want to make a desk and case for my little library. I have no Pansy books. If I had money they would be here soon.

Herbert C. Withey.

Dear Pansy:
I walked in my garden to-day;
Many wee faces looked up
From their shady retreat.
Some had eyes dark or blue;
Some, curls of golden hue;
Dressed were some in velvets rare,
Or quaint, gay frocks,
These babies dear.
I asked them to come and live with me;
Gayly they laughed,
“Pansies are we.”
E. Edwards.

Dear Pansy:

I am so ashamed of myself I don’t like to write to you. I beg your pardon. I have not worn my badge much, and I have not written to you. It is all because I am so neglectful. I will try to wear my badge more.

Mamie Thompson.

Dear Mrs. Alden:

We have a beautiful location. Looking south, we see the little valley with Keiser Creek, like a thread, bright and clear; on either side, the rocky hills, with pines, separated by deep ravines. Away beyond the foot hills, overtopping all, is the Yellowstone or Snowy Range, lifting up their white tops on the hottest days, as if in derision. Rocks are everywhere. “The Rockies” are rightly named. Several miles down the river is “Pompey’s Pillar,” on the rocky face of which is carved the name of Wm. Clark, 1806, the explorer. Not far is the battle-ground, on which the gallant Custer and his men lost their lives by the Indians.

Lue J. Roseau.

Dear Mrs. Alden:

The Carmans gave us a concert. The church was full. Every one was delighted. They stayed all night at our house and sang. So we had a free concert. It makes me think of an angel to look at Miss Nellie while she sings. Davie is such a sweet, manly boy. I wish there were more such boys. I don’t know of any. I like Mr. and Mrs. Carman, too. They are all beautiful singers. Davie is fourteen, and superintends a mission Sabbath-school. While reading Docia’s Journal, I decided for Christ.

Edith M. Hillbrant.

Dear Pansy:

When your kind letter came, Auntie Alice Ferree was here from Kansas City. She used to live in Greensburg, Ind., and knew you, and wishes to be remembered. I showed my badge to Gov. St. John. He sends kindest regards.

Lena Pugh.

Dear Pansy:

I counted one hundred and sixty-six mistakes in the Queer Story. I have written to ask you to write a letter and put it in The Pansy. I could not find A Sevenfold Trouble, in one of the Pansies. Call me Aurelia from Mass. There are so many Lizzies.

Lizzie A. Potter.

Dear Pansy:

I found one hundred and fifty-seven mistakes in the Queer Story. [Send a copy corrected.—Ed.] I have two pets, a bird and a kitten. The kitten is black, yellow, and white. Her name is Pansy. My bird is cardinal; his name, Mac. Good-by!

Mabel Dynam.

E. Smith’s letter, with badge, sent to Roberts, Ill., has returned.

A letter signed Jonnae J., 2617, Park Ave., St. Louis, Mo., received.

Henry P. Austin’s letter, sent to South Paris, Me., with badge, comes back.

S. H. Sterling writes from Philadelphia, Pa., without street and number.

The above persons should immediately write, giving full name, street, and number, and write very plainly.

THE QUEER STORY.

PRESCILA ALDON lived in a verry valuble pavilian in Tenessee. She was a buisy gerl, driveing her Shettling pones from hous too hous and carying lillies, raisens, robbins, rabits, aggs and menny other plesent an prety presants two sutch as wer in nead.

She wasent a fraid nuther off takeing a litle troubble whar thar was opertunity of makeing her nabours hapy.

She desided to oregonize a socity of Pansys. Consequensely she was going an comming hear an thare verry ofen and writeing leters, hopeing two recieve manny menbers like other socitys. She securred meny honary nembers two. So she ocupied herself til Febwary, wen the aniversary of the socity came. Then it was reccomended that the anniversity should be selebrated by an entetainment of adreses, resiting peaces, musec, bone fiers, ice creems, punkin pise and chickins and that all Pansys should ware thare bages and collors and that no teaseing or plaging boy be aloud too com til he promiced too lieve everry folt to home an bring towells and sope to cleen the durty dishes.

Sence sum wouldent concent, thay wer not permited two com. But the selebration was a grate sucess an Prescila was hapy.

[Mabel L. Thomas and Maude Lincoln have mastered the mistakes of the Queer Story.]

THE STENOGRAPH.

A CONTRIVANCE, by M. M. Bartholomew of New York, weighing about three pounds, costing forty dollars, about the size and shape of a man’s hand, with five different keys and a roll of narrow paper, something like a spool of silk, designed for “fast writing,” is the Stenograph; so named, because that is the meaning of the word in Greek.

This queer little creature can make its mark, that’s all. But it can do it so quickly and put it in so many different places and orders when its fingers are touched by wire and spry human fingers that it can write all your pen can write and do it in a fraction of the time, while the operator’s eyes are looking away into the face of the speaker whose words are being taken down.

Then, you can learn to “make it talk” in three months!

Suppose, now, some of you Pansies manage in some way to own a Stenograph and teach the dear to mind the moment you speak to it. It would be a delight to you to play upon it as upon your piano. Besides, it would probably make music for your pocket. There is money in it. You would be in demand at conventions and other places as a reporter of speeches and sermons. And you could command good pay, if you were a good stenographer.

Who knows but some of you will get your “bread and butter” by means of this queer little creature?

C. M. L.

NEW BOOKS.
(Published by D. Lothrop Company.)

True Manliness. By Thomas Hughes. Price $1. I want to say a word about this book to a certain dear little girl I know who has a whole dollar with which to buy papa’s Christmas present, and who cannot decide what to buy. She knows papa likes books better than almost anything else, but then, how should a young girl know what book to select for a man who has gray hair?

My darling, I feel sure papa would like this very book. It is the reason I selected it from a large number of others, to tell the Pansies about, because I thought of you and your dollar. A very pretty book in a deep maroon binding, with three hundred pages of reading matter, and all of it put in paragraphs so that a busy man, who has but a few minutes to read, can seize this volume, get some sweet and helpful thoughts from it, during the five minutes when he is waiting for the mail, or for the street-car, and then go on his busy way. Just the thing for your hurried papa, don’t you see? In fact the book belongs to a set, named “The Spare Minute Series,” gotten up for just such waitings as I have described.

“Would the book be ‘nice’ for you to read?”

Well, no, little girlie, I’m inclined to think it would be rather “grown-up” for you, because, you see, it was written to help your grown-up papa and mamma. There are bits in it that you would like; and your fifteen-year-old brother would often read words in it that would please and help him. I open the book at random, and find these words under the heading of “Courage.”

“After all, what would life be without fighting, I should like to know? From the cradle to the grave, fighting, rightly understood, is the business, the real highest, honestest business of every son of man.

“Every one who is worth his salt, has his enemies, who must be beaten, be they evil thoughts and habits in himself, or spiritual wickednesses in high places, or Russians, or Border-ruffians.”

Don’t you know your brother said, only a few days ago when he got cross and things went wrong, that he felt as though he should like to fight somebody?

Here is his chance, with directions how to carry out his wish.

A Chautauqua Idyl. By Grace Livingston. Price 75 cents. The queerest little Chautauqua story you ever read! All about a new Chautauqua which is to be; one in which the birds and the flowers, and the fishes, and the squirrels, and all that lovely out-door life at which we look on, are deeply interested, as indeed they may be, for they are the prime movers. You couldn’t guess who leads the music, nor, for the matter of that, who gives lessons in Theology! A book full of lovely summer secrets, just right for the little people to read during the winter evenings.

Pictures? I should think so! Lovely ones; almost every page in the book is illustrated. Some of your little brothers ought to send for copies for Christmas presents for the sisters, or cousins, who always expect books from you.

Would it do, I wonder, to tell you a secret?

I mean you boys and girls who have read, and who love, “Grandpa’s Darlings?”

The truth is, this Grace Livingston is the very little “Gracie,” Grandpa’s own darling, who has grown up to be a young woman, and the first day she had a chance, she wrote this book, all about a queer, sweet, new Chautauqua; just to pay her “Auntie Belle,” for telling all sorts of funny things about her when she was Grandpa’s Darling.

Scripture Birthday Book. Price, $1.00. I thought I was tired of Autograph Albums, but this pretty little book bound in green and gold, containing a carefully-selected Bible-verse, and a verse of a hymn, for each day in the year, with a blank space for friends to write their names, gives me a great deal of pleasure. I think I should like to write in such a book as this. I’m sure I should like to give each of my young friends a Christmas present of a copy; and I would ask them to please learn the verse for each day. The one for the first day of the New Year is: “Sing unto the Lord with thanksgiving, for consider how great things he hath done for you.”

He giveth snow like wool: He scattereth the hoar-frost like ashes.—Psalm cxlvii. 16.
FROM THE “SCRIPTURE BIRTHDAY BOOK.”

And the accompanying verse is:

“Man’s life’s a book of history;
The leaves thereof, are days;
The letters, mercies closely joined;
The title is, Thy praise.”

Ah! there are pictures in it, too; one for each month. The first one shows us such a lovely snowy world, that I will have it copied for you to see.

The Pansy Advertiser

Does not set quickly like the old style Glue; has four times the strength. | No Heating.

These Glues are used in the Smithsonian Institute at Washington for all its works of mounting specimens, by the Government Arsenals and Department Buildings, by the Pullman Palace Car Co., Mason & Hamlin Organ and Piano Co., and by thousands of first-class manufacturers and mechanics throughout the world for all kinds of fine work.

Pronounced STRONGEST ADHESIVE KNOWN. Sold in tin cans for mechanics and amateurs, and in bottles for family use.

The total quantity sold between Jan. 1880, and 1887, in all parts of the world amounted to over Forty-Seven Million bottles.

Don’t be cajoled into buying the various Liquid Glues which are being put on the market; some with high-sounding names; others imitating our trade-marks and name as near as they dare; their only cry is: “Just as good as LePage’s.” It is the best recommendation that the RUSSIA CEMENT CO. could have of the merits of their glues. Labels of our CANS are black and yellow; BOTTLES, red, yellow, green and black, with a line of blue.

We have just commenced manufacturing our NEW PATENT CAN—which has the following advantages: The top can be turned on or off readily by the fingers—each Can has brush fastened to the inside of cover, and a wiper to take off superfluous glue. This arrangement enables the amateur or artisan to carry a small can in the pocket ready for immediate use, without danger of soiling from brush or can. The NEW PATENT CAN is in 3 sizes:—Half-pint, gill and half-gill.—Regular Cans, pint, quart, 2-quart and gallon. Bottles, two sizes, as heretofore: 1 oz. and 2 oz.

Be sure and get the GENUINE LePAGE’S,
MADE ONLY BY THE
RUSSIA CEMENT CO., Gloucester, Mass.

PARKER’S
With it you can stamp more than
1000
PATTERNS

STAMPING
OUTFIT
Exceeds in value all other outfits,
$1.00.
Sent anywhere by mail, prepaid.

This outfit contains book teaching every known Method of stamping, price 25 cents; Box Best Powder and Pad, 15 cts.; Materials for Indelible Stamping on Plush, Felt, etc., 15 cts.; Materials and Instruction for Parker’s New Method (copyrighted), No Paint, No Powder, No Daub, 50 cents; New 1888 Catalogue (showing all the new stamping patterns), 10 cents; and Illustrated Wholesale Price List of Embroidery Materials, Infant’s Wardrobes, Corsets, Jewelry, and everything ladies need.

SAVE MONEY BY BUYING AT WHOLESALE.
PARKER’S LAST INVENTION.

A SET OF DESIGNING PATTERNS.—With this set any one can design thousands of beautiful pieces for Embroidery, Tinsel Work, Painting, etc. No experience needed—a child can do it. An Illustrated Book shows how to make patterns to fill any space; all the flowers used in embroidery represented. Every one who does stamping wants a set, which can be had only with this outfit. This outfit also contains TWO HUNDRED or more Stamping Patterns ready for use. The following being only a partial list:—Splasher Design, 22 in., 50 cents; Roses, 12 in., and Daisies, 12 in., for scarf or tidies, 25 cents each; Wide Tinsel Design, 12 in., 25 cents; Strips of Scallops for Flannels, wide and narrow, 30 cts.; Braiding Patterns 10 cts.; Splash! Splash! “Good Night,” and “Good Morning,” for pillow shams, two fine outline designs for tidies, 6x8, 50 cts.; Tray Cloth Set, 50 cts.; Teapot, Sugar, Cream, Cup and Saucer, etc.; Pond Lilies, 9x12, 25 cts.; 2 Alphabets, $1.00; 2 Sets Numbers, 30 cts.; Patterns of Golden Rod, Sumac, Daisies, Roses, &c., Tinsel and Outline Patterns, Disks, Crescents, &c.

COUPON FOR ONE DOLLAR.

In addition to all these and many other patterns we enclose a Coupon good for $1 worth of patterns of your own selection chosen from our catalogue.

THE MODERN PRISCILLA. 1 Year.

The Modern Priscilla (the only practical fancy work journal in America), by arrangement with the publishers, will also be sent free for one year.

The Great Value of this Outfit is in Good Useful Patterns.           T. E. PARKER, Lynn, Mass.

Devoted exclusively to
LADIES’ FANCY WORK.

THE MODERN PRISCILLA

Published monthly, at 50 cts. per year. Descriptions of new fancy work appear every month; all directions for knitting or crocheting carefully corrected. Everything beautifully illustrated.

Miss Eva M. Niles says: “I think your paper a little gem.” Get up a Club. Great Inducements!! Send stamp for premium list. Club rate is now 25 cts. a year, or 5 for $1. Get 4 subscribers and have your own free. Address,

Priscilla Publishing Co., Lynn, Mass.

SAVE MONEY.

Embroidery Material, Infant’s Goods, Kid Gloves, Corsets, Laces, Ruchings, etc., at WHOLESALE PRICES.

Sent anywhere by mail.
POSTAGE ALWAYS PREPAID.

25 Skeins Embroidery Silk, 11 cents. Box of Waste Embroidery Silk, worth 40 cents, for only 21 cents. Felt Tidies, all stamped, 10 cents. Linen Splashers, all stamped, 18 cts. Felt Table Scarfs, 18x50, all stamped, 48 cents. Ball Tinsel, 8 cents.

T. E. PARKER, Lynn, Mass.

How some of them look and what they amount to.

Mary Bradford Crowninshield takes two boys and a girl along to use their eyes and ears and ask questions. A very rich book. $2.50.

Talbot writes as bright a story as ever was written; and this is one of his best. $1.50.

They study spiders and butterflies, chickens and rabbits, fishes and frogs, the folks on the ground and the folks in the air. $1.50.

Dr. Buckley goes himself to Russia and other northern European countries and brings back report of what is going on there. $2.50.

Mrs. Sherwood takes her story to European Courts and the people in it practice manners there. $1.25.

The collector of curiosities goes on his quest with his eyes wide open and notebook in hand. You may read on any page you happen to light on, and stop if you can. A book of adventures and hunters’ yarns. $1.50.

Indescribable mass of instruction and entertainment—so much, so various. The cheapest book of the year. $1.75 in boards.

The prettiest baby-book, the solidest mother-book—just look at these children. 75 cents.

Keen as a sea-story. Gathers the myths, and tales and authentic accounts and sifts and weighs and puts a book to be read in place of a score to gather dust. $2.50.

The bookstores have them; or send to the publishers,
D. LOTHROP COMPANY, Boston.

IN THE SELECTION OF

A CHOICE GIFT

For Pastor, Parent, Teacher, Child, or
Friend, both elegance and usefulness will be found
combined in a copy of Webster’s Unabridged.

Besides many other valuable features, it contains
A Dictionary
of 118,000 Words, 3000 Engravings,
A Gazetteer of the World
locating and describing 25,000 Places,
A Biographical Dictionary
of nearly 10,000 Noted Persons,
All in One Book.
3000 more Words and nearly 2000 more Illustrations
than any other American Dictionary.
Sold by all Booksellers. Pamphlet free.
G. & C. MERRIAM & CO., Pub’rs, Springfield, Mass.

BIRD MANNA

restores the song of cage birds and keeps them in perfect health. Sent for 15c. in stamps. Sold by Druggists. Bird Food Co., 400 N. 3d St., Phila.

True Stories of American Wars. From Records and Famous Traditions. Ill. Boston: D. Lothrop Company. Price, $1.25. The twelve capital stories that make up this volume will furnish a rich feast for patriotic and venture-loving boys and girls. The statement upon the title-page that they were drawn from old records and family traditions is literally true; each story has its appropriate basis of fact, and some of them are very slightly embellished indeed. In every family of the older States there are legends of the old Indian wars which have never been written; and records of suffering and privation, of deeds of daring and heroism, which to-day seem almost incredible. And fresher and more vivid than these are the tales of the Revolution, the battles, skirmishes and marches in which our ancestors participated, comparatively few of which have been told outside the family circle or the localities where they occurred. There is not a town along the shores of Connecticut and Massachusetts but has its traditions, and something more than traditions, of deeds that took place during the later war of 1812, as stirring, perhaps, as any of those of older times. From this great mass of material the authors represented in the volume have drawn the narratives they have here set down. Among them is the story of the capture of the British General Prescott, in command at Newport, by a picked party of Americans under Colonel Barton, one of the most daring exploits of the Revolution. Another is the narrative of the raid of the Indians upon Royalton, Vt., in 1780, when the village was burned and several of the inhabitants murdered. Other sketches are entitled, “A Revolutionary Turncoat,” “The First Blow for American Liberty,” “Joel Jackson’s Smack,” etc. Most of the stories are illustrated.

Story of the American Indian. By Elbridge S. Brooks. Boston: D. Lothrop Company. Price $2.50. The North American Indian has been for years a problem and a paradox. With manners and customs analagous to those of almost every nation of civilized antiquity his origin remains as great a mystery as ever. The owner and lord of a continent, his possessions have shrunk to nothing and his native freedom has faded away into a state of sullen vassalage. Theorized over and speculated about by scholars and scientists, made the text of many a disquisition by philosophers and economists, used now as a hero and now as a fiend by romancer and poet, and played with as a shuttlecock by philanthropist and politician, his story has never yet been fully told, nor the record of his power, his progress and his decline been given in anything like historic detail.

The material devoted to the several phases of the Indian’s history is very great, but no consecutive record exists in all this material, and one who wishes to follow the course of the red-man’s rise and decline has heretofore been unable to intelligently select from the accumulated record enough connected material to present a satisfactory survey of the case. Of late years the public conscience has been aroused to something like interest in the Indian; his wrongs are admitted and, almost too late, measures for his help and his reclamation find listeners and supporters. The American sense of justice has developed into something like a determination to see justice done to an unfortunate race, and official mismanagement of Indian affairs as well as border tyrannies over a fallen foe arouse more indignation and protest than have yet been known since the days of discovery and conquest. It is with the desire to place before the American public a rounded record of this conquered race at precisely the time when inquiry and interest in them are both awakened that Mr. Brooks has prepared and published his “Story of the American Indian.” The volume has no pet theory to advocate, it advances no solution of the Indian problem. It seeks only to place before the readers of the land the story of an injured race in strong but simple language and in brief but direct detail.

The many and conflicting theories as to the Indian’s origin have been sifted and debated, and what seems the most practical and the simplest explanation is given. The condition and culture of the red-man through a thousand years of supremacy before the era of discovery are thoughtfully stated. The story of colonial mistreatment and of national indifference are told and the real story of the Indian is here set down in the plainest but most forcible manner. The story is told in a style that will interest both young and old alike, and the earnestness of its telling can hardly fail to arouse interest and awaken sympathy. As the record of a race that has yielded to the dominant energy of its conquerors, the book merits more than passing attention and must stand as a glimpse at a life that has long since lost its manhood and its identity, and the story of a race that has fallen victim to the vices rather than the prowess of a higher civilization.

DOBBINS’

ELECTRIC SOAP

Is for sale everywhere, and has for twenty years been acknowledged by all to be
THE BEST FAMILY SOAP IN THE WORLD.

In order to bring its merits to the notice of a still larger constituency, we have recently reduced our price, keeping its quality unchanged, and offer the following

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THE OUTSIDE WRAPPERS TAKEN FROM THIS SOAP.

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D’Oyley Carte’s Original English Mikado Company, Fifth Avenue
Theatre, New York City.
For Twenty-five complete wrappers we will mail a copy of the most
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The original painting is owned by us, and cannot be copied or duplicated
by any other firm, and hence is worthy a place in any house in the land.
For sixty complete wrappers we will mail a copy of
Short Hints on Social Etiquette
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The Housekeeper will find on a trial, according to directions, that the
washing does not require HALF THE QUANTITY of DOBBINS’
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400 RECITATIONS

AND READINGS. We will send to any address on receipt of 30 cents, a handsome book, bound in paper cover, and containing 400 of the best recitations ever issued. Address

J. S. OGILVIE & CO., 57 Rose Street, New York.

LADIES We have just had designed and made by one of the best pattern designers in the country TWENTY NEW PERFORATED PATTERNS for Stamping and Embroidery. These Patterns are worth at retail 20 CENTS EACH. We wish to place our Catalogues in the hands of every lady in the U. S., and to any one who will send us Twenty cents in stamps to pay for postage and advertising, we will send the whole 20 ELEGANT PATTERNS FREE. Only one set of 20 can be sent to one person, as we lose money on every set we send out. Send Silver or Postage Stamps and Mention This Paper. Address the World M’f’g Co., 122 Nassau St., N. Y.

AGENTS WANTED (Samples FREE) for DR. SCOTT’S beautiful ELECTRIC CORSETS, BRUSHES, BELTS, ETC. No risk, quick sales. Territory given, satisfaction guaranteed.

Dr. SCOTT, 843 B’way, N. Y.

S | HORTHAND Writing thoroughly taught by mail or personally.
ituations procured all pupils when competent. Send for circular. W. G. CHAFFEE, Oswego, N.Y.

R. M. LAMBIE,
ALL KINDS OF
BOOK
HOLDERS
The Most Perfect
Dictionary Holder.
Send for Illustrated
Catalogue.
39 E. 19th St., N.Y.

WE SELL DIRECT TO FAMILIES—(avoid Agents and Dealers whose profits and expenses double the cost on every Piano they sell) and send this First-Class UPRIGHT Cabinet GEM 7½ Octave Rosewood Piano, Warranted 6 years, for $193! We send it—with Beautiful Cover and Stool—for Trial in your own Home before you buy. Send for circulars to

Marchal & Smith, 235 East 21st St., N. Y.

The Lightning-Trick Box. The neatest trick ever invented. You take off the cover and show it is full of candy; replace it and you can assure your friends it is empty; and taking off the cover again, sure enough, the candy has disappeared. Any one can do the trick. Directions sent with each. Sample, postpaid, 10c.; 3, 25c.; one doz., 75c. HOWARD MFG. CO., 45 Eddy St., Providence, R.I.

SHORT-HAND, | Type-Writing, Book-Keeping, Penmanship, &c., at Boston Commercial College, 639 Washington St. Send for circular.

FACE, HANDS, FEET,
and all their imperfections, including Facial Development, Hair and Scalp, Superfluous Hair, Birth Marks, Moles, Warts, Moth, Freckles, Red Nose, Acne, B’lk Heads, Scars, Pitting and their treatment. Send 10c. for book of 50 pages, 4th edition. Dr. John H. Woodbury, 37 North Pearl St., Albany, N. Y. Established 1870.

THE Toy the child likes best!

This is the title of a descriptive Price-list, richly illustrated in colour-print, of the ANCHOR STONE BUILDING BOX, which should be found in every family and may be obtained from all Toy dealers, Stationers and Educational Depôts. The Price-list will be forwarded gratis on application to

F. AD. RICHTER & Co.
NEW YORK, 310, BROADWAY or LONDON E.C.,
1, RAILWAY PLACE, FENCHURCH STREET.

LADIES’
FANCY
WORK

Ingalls’ Illustrated Catalogue of Stamping Outfits, Felt, Linen and Silk Stamped Goods, Fancy Work Materials, Books, Briggs Transfer Patterns, etc., sent free for one 2-c. stamp.

J. F. Ingalls, Lynn, Mass.

LADY

AGENTS clear $100 Monthly with our new Undergarments and other goods for LADIES only. SAMPLE FREE by return mail. G. L. ERWIN & CO., Chicago, Ill.

DRESS

Illustrated Catalogue Free.
MRS. A. FLETCHER, 6 EAST 14TH ST., N. Y.

DRESS

Lyon’s Kathairon gives length and Strength.
Lyon’s Kathairon contains no lead or sulphur.
Lyon’s Kathairon contains no rancid glycerine.
Lyon’s Kathairon was discovered by a great chemist.
Lyon’s Kathairon is a purely vegetable compound.
Lyon’s Kathairon purges away all dandruff.
Lyon’s Kathairon soothes and cools the scalp.
Lyon’s Kathairon kills tetter and ringworm in the scalp.
Lyon’s Kathairon stops all itching of the scalp.
Lyon’s Kathairon makes the hair glossy and silky.
Lyon’s Kathairon stimulates the growth of the hair.
Lyon’s Kathairon makes the tresses soft and wavy.
Lyon’s Kathairon is so clean it will not soil your linen.
Lyon’s Kathairon is the best and cheapest hair toilet.
Lyon’s Kathairon gives vigor and stops grayness.
Lyon’s Kathairon keeps the hair from falling out.

The following genuine certificate speaks for itself in orthography, grammar and truthfulness as a testimonial to the worth and real merits of

Lyon’s Kathairon for the Hair:

Maidsville, Monongalia Co., W. Va.,}
December 28, 1885.      }

Mr. Lyon & Co.,

Dear Sirs:—I have been entirely bald for several years hereditaryly I suppose, as my ansesters was bald so far back as I can remember or have any knowledge. I tried all the hair vigors that I could handly get holt of for several years but all of no use I became discouraged and quit concluded it was hereditary and that my hare would never be restored a gan. So in April 1885 I was pursuaded by Dr. C. C. Conaway to try Lyon’s Kathairon and to my great surprise a fine suit of hair was soon perceptable I continued the use of your Kathairon. I know have a fine suit of hare for wich I am very thankful.

Yours truly,
C. C. Kincaid.

Ladies and Gentlemen, give it a Trial.

EVERLASTING
POT POURRI

OR

ROSE LEAF MIXTURE.

For Imparting to Apartments a Subtle, Delightful Perfume.

Prepared from AROMATICS and FLOWERS of
agreeable perfumes, with Musk and Ambergris
to impart permanence.

IT will last for years and the rose petals MAY BE RENEWED by adding those from native roses by the addition of one teaspoonful of salt to each quart of petals. The perfume may be intensified at any time by the addition of Cologne, Florida Water or Concentrated Extracts.

Fill into a rose jar, vase or bowl until the Pot Pourri comes within two thirds of the top. Adjust a cover, and when it is necessary to perfume an apartment remove the cover for ten or fifteen minutes.

——————
PREPARED ONLY BY
THEODORE METCALF & CO.,
39 Tremont Street, Boston.
——————
Sample mailed upon receipt of 25 cts. in stamps.

BOOK

OF BEAUTIFUL SAMPLE CARDS.
44 tricks in Magic, 800 Autograph Album Verses, 34 Amusing Games, 43 Ways to Make Money. All for a two cent stamp.

EAGLE CARD WORKS, CADIZ, OHIO.

This little organ has as much power as any single reed organ; with that excellent quality which characterizes the Mason & Hamlin Organs. It is successfully employed for private and public uses; even, in some instances, for the accompaniment of hundreds of voices.

A circular with about one hundred opinions of purchasers of this smallest organ will be forwarded to any one desiring it.

PIANOS.

Mason & Hamlin’s Piano Stringer was first introduced by them in 1882, and has been pronounced by experts the “greatest improvement in pianos in half a century.”

A circular, containing testimonials from three hundred purchasers, musicians and tuners, sent, together with descriptive catalogue, to any applicant.

MASON & HAMLIN ORGAN AND PIANO CO.,
BOSTON, 154 TREMONT ST.      CHICAGO, 149 WABASH AVE.
NEW YORK, 46 EAST 14TH ST. (UNION SQUARE.)

941

HIDDEN NAME CARDS, scrap pictures, puzzles, games, tricks, money making secrets, album verses, and the largest and finest sample book of new style cards ever issued. All for a 2-cent stamp. Steam Card Works, Station 15, O.

NEW TEMPERANCE PUBLICATIONS.

The National Temperance Society has published over 1,600 different publications upon every phase of the question, 154 of which are for Sunday-school Libraries. Over 250 first-class writers have contributed to their publication. Among the latest are the following:

FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL LIBRARIES.
A Made Man. 308 pp. By J. McNair Wright | $1 25
The Turning of the Wheel. 322 pp. By Mary Dwinell Chellis | 1 25
Dave Marquand. 357 pp. By Annette L. Noble | 1 25
The Story of Rasmus. 338 pp. By J. McNair Wright | 1 25
Roy’s Wife. 562 pp. By Mrs. E. J. Richmond | 1 00
Susan’s Sheaves. 364 pp. By Mrs. C. M. Livingston | 1 25
Never Begin Series. 4 volumes, 170 pp. each | 3 00

MISCELLANEOUS PUBLICATIONS.

The People versus The Liquor-Traffic. By John B. Finch. 12mo, 259 pp. Paper

$0 30

Eleven great speeches of this eminent lecturer. A most severe, logical and unanswerable arraignment of the liquor-traffic, and a most convincing argument for Constitutional and Statutory Prohibition.

Alcohol in History. A Prize Essay. 12mo, 481 pp. By Richard Eddy, D. D.

1 50

It embraces the historical, statistical, economical and political phases of the reform.

An Hour with Mother Goose and Her Temperance Family. By Mrs. Nellie H. Bradley.

0 25

Embracing Recitations, Colloquies, Solos, Duets, Choruses, etc., by Mother Goose, Jack and Jill, Little Red Ridinghood, Old King Cole and “the rest of the family.” The notes of the music are given, and the entire entertainment will be found one of the best ever given. 32 pages.

Readings and Recitations, No. 6. By Miss L. Penney. 12mo, 120 pp. Cloth, 50 cents; paper

0 25

A new and choice selection of readings and recitations, from the best writers and speakers. The best compilation ever made. Suitable for use in the schoolroom, the home, and at public gatherings.

Rallying Songs for Young Teetotalers. A splendid new song-book for Bands of Hope, Juvenile Temples, Loyal Legions, and all children’s organizations, containing a new collection of choice songs, glees, marching-songs, motion-songs, etc. Edited by Miss L. Penney, 64 pp. Per dozen, $1.50; single copies.

0 15

Mother Goose for Temperance Nurseries. By Mrs. J. McNair Wright. 8vo, 68 pp.

0 25

It consists of 31 songs or rhymes, with 31 beautiful illustrations and 31 wise sayings, for every day in the month, in the best style of Old Mother Goose. Every child should have a copy.

National Temperance Almanac for 1888. Filled with choice stories, handsome illustrations, shadow-pictures, puzzles, facts, figures, etc. 72 pp.

0 10

The Little Red Stocking that Hung at the Gate. A Christmas Story. By Faith Wynne. 12mo, 72 pages

0 10

Christmas Temperance Service. By J. N. Stearns. It gives responsive readings, recitations, music, etc. 8 pp., octavo, per hundred

2 00

Address J. N. STEARNS, Publishing Agent, 58 Reade Street, N. Y.

THOUSANDS OF THE BEST

$38 | GOLD
WATCH

EVER MADE ARE SELLING IN OUR
CO-OPERATIVE CLUBS.
This is the Best, Cheapest,
Most Convenient,

And only co-operative System of selling watches. The watches are American Lever Stem Winders, containing every essential to accuracy and durability, and have, in addition, numerous patented improvements found in no other watch. They are absolutely the only Dust and Dampproof Movements made in the World, and are jeweled throughout with GENUINE RUBIES. The Patent Stem Wind and Set is the strongest and simplest made. They are fully equal for appearance, accuracy, durability and service, to any $75 Watch.

Our Co-operative Club System brings them within the reach of every one.

We want an active, responsible representative in EVERY CITY and TOWN.

Heavy profits guaranteed on limited investment.

Write for full particulars.

The Keystone Watch Club Co.
P. O. Box 928, Philadelphia, Pa.

REFERENCES:—Keystone
National Bank, or any Commercial
Agency.

AGENCIES:

- New York, N.Y.

- Chicago, Ill.

- Pittsburgh, Pa.

- Boston, Mass.

- Philadelphia, Pa.

- Detroit, Mich.

- Harrisburg, Pa.

- Denver, Col.

- Baltimore, Md.

- St. Louis, Mo.

- Wilmington, Del.

- Etc., etc.

ARE | BEST
THE

BECAUSE They contain everything essential to Accurate Time Keeping found in any watch, and in addition have the following important patented improvements, which appear only in Keystone Watches:

The PATENT DUST PROOF protects perfectly the balance and hair spring (the most delicate and vital parts) from damage, dirt and dampness.

The Patent Compound Regulator has absolutely no lost motion.

The PATENT STEM WIND is the strongest and simplest made.

The Patent Dust-proof movements are free from all variations caused by dirt or dampness; an advantage which no other maker does or dare claim.

This is the only Factory using only Genuine Ruby Jewels in every grade, and all Keystone Watches are made of the best material, and are accurate time keepers, under our own guarantee.

For Sale on Easy Terms, in Co-operative
Clubs at the Lowest Cash Prices, by

The Keystone Watch Club Company,
P. O. Box 928.         Philadelphia, Pa.

CHRISTMAS CARDS BY MAIL.

OUR CARD PACKAGES for 1887 and 1888 are ready. The assortment is unusually large and fine, embracing the best cards that can be obtained. These packets will be found the most wonderful bargains ever offered. We advise early orders, as many will certainly desire to re-order.

We will send a complete set of the first six packages for $3.50, and 40 cts. for postage and registering, and of the complete 9 sets for $5.00, and 50 cents for postage and registering.

No. 1.—For 50 cents and four cents for postage: 17 of L. Prang & Co. and other fine Christmas Cards, together with a Double Fringed Card and a handsome Birthday Card.

No. 2.—For 50 cents and 4 cents for postage: 10 large and finer Cards from the above Publishers, also, a Fine Frosted Card and a folding card cut in form of Sheaf of Wheat.

No. 3.—For $1 and 6 cents for postage: A choice selection of 25 Beautiful Cards, of L. Prang & Co.’s, also a souvenir booklet and a Hand-Painted Card.

No. 4.—For $1 and 8 cents for postage: A selection of 10 of our Largest and Finest Cards, together with a Beautiful Four Folding Calendar for 1888, by L. Prang & Co.

No. 5.—For $1 and 10 cents for postage: 10 Double Fringed Cards (not folded), each in a separate envelope, together with a fine Folding Fringe Card, and a handsome Satin Card.

No. 6.—For 25 cents and 2 cents for postage: 10 Prang’s, Tuck’s, Ward’s, and other beautiful cards.

No. 7.—For $1 and 8 cents for postage: 4 beautiful Folding Cards and 4 Souvenir Books, with appropriate selections from best authors; retail price, 25 and 50 cents each, and an enlarged Lithographic Card of the above cut by L. Prang & Co.

No. 8.—BIRTHDAY PACKET. For 50 cents: 17 Fine Cards of Prang’s or Tuck’s.

No. 9.—SUNDAY SCHOOL PACKAGE. For 50 cents: 20 Cards, of Marcus Ward’s, Prang’s Cards, assorted.

STAMPS OR POSTAL NOTES RECEIVED.

Hand-Painted Cards, Pearl Cards, and other Novelties at 10, 15, 25, 50, 75 cents and $1 each, for Christmas, Birthday, or Anniversary, which will be selected with care for different tastes and ages as specified.

Chromo lithograph Cards by Prang & Co. of the above cut and verse, with companion cards, per doz., with one booklet, postpaid, $1.

TO TEACHERS ONLY.

50 Marcus Ward’s, Prang’s, and other beautiful cards, no two alike, for $1 and 8 cents for Postage, Better Assortment, $2 and 10 Cents for Postage. A very choice selection, no two alike, $3 and 20 Cents for Postage and Registering.

Every Packet will be sent in pasteboard Protectors, and heavy envelope wrappers, for safe transmission.

The above offers include our Easter Card Packets for 1888. These will be ready about March 1st. Envelopes for mailing 12 cts for each packet.

LOWEST PRICES IN THE UNITED STATES.

PAPER BY THE POUND. We are the New England Agents for the Hurlbut Paper Co. (established in 1822), and manufacturers of the Beacon Hill Linen Paper (no better or more elegant paper can be made). Selling direct from mills to the consumer, we are able always to give lowest possible prices. Sample sheets of paper and envelopes, with prices and number of sheets to a pound, sent on receipt of 15 cents, and special prices to those taking orders for these papers with our card packets.

POT-POURRI. (Rose Leaves.) A preparation of Rose-Leaf Petals combined with the choicest Oriental perfumes, which will remain fragrant for years. Per box, size 3¼ by 4¾, postpaid 50 cents. In fine Japanese Jars, securely packed and filled, price from $1 to $5.

H. H. CARTER & KARRICK, 3 Beacon Street, BOSTON.

With this outfit any boy or girl can MAKE MONEY. With 10 cts. worth of wood, you can make articles that will sell easily for 75 cts. or more. You can GET YOUR MONEY BACK on the first article you sell. You can soon earn enough to buy a large foot saw, and then do business on a larger scale. You can make articles to beautify your home, and handsome presents to your friends. One of these outfits will not only prove profitable, but will give you

HOURS OF FASCINATING PLEASURE,
which would otherwise have been wasted. Persons who work during the day can make extra money by sawing a few minutes every evening. Send for an outfit and try it, you will never regret it. The Outfit consists of the following: One Steel Bracket Saw Frame, Extra Saw Blades, 1 Brad Awl, Copying Paper for copying designs, Sand Paper, 1 Dozen Patterns for making Easels, Match Safes, Wall Brackets, Card Baskets etc., 1 Pack Business Cards, to give to your friends, and Full Directions for using. All packed in a neat box and sent by mail, post-paid for Only Thirty Cents. P. O. Stamps taken WORLD M’F’G CO., 122 Nassau Street, New York.

Just the thing for a Holiday Present.

——THE ENGLE SPRING GUN——

37 in. long.                  Steel Barrels.

NO REPORT.               NO EXPLOSION.

The Simplest and Best in the Market.
The Barrel of each Gun contains 25 Projectiles.

One GUN and 125 Projectiles will be sent postage paid to any part of the United States for $1.65.

ENGLE SPRING GUN CO.,
Mention this paper.               Hazleton, Penn’a.

A descriptive Circular and a Projectile sent on receipt of a two-cent stamp.

The Finest Powdered Chocolate for family use. Requires no boiling. Invaluable for Dyspeptics and Children. Buy of your dealer or send 10 stamps for trial can. H. O. WILBUR & SONS, Philadelphia.

FUN

CARDS, set of Scrap Pictures, 1 checker board, & large Sample Book of Hidden Name Cards, & agents’ outfit, 2 c. Capital Card Co., Columbus, O.

AN ELEGANT

CHRISTMAS PRESENT,

for $1.00.

For ten times the cost you cannot get anything that will please and educate the children and yourself like

THE WORLD’S EDUCATOR;

OR

EDUCATIONAL TOY AND GAME.

A Perfect Treasure-Box.

FULL OF FUN.
FULL OF INSTRUCTION.
FULL OF SOLID AMUSEMENT.

WIT! WISDOM! WONDER!

For sale everywhere or sent prepaid by the manufacturers, on receipt of $1.25. Send for full descriptive circulars. Agents wanted. Mention this magazine.

W. S. REED TOY CO.,
Leominster, Mass., U. S. A.

Pat. in U. S. and Gt. Britain.

For sale in Boston by

Horace Partridge & Co., Richard Schwarz, Heyer Bros., Peabody & Whitney, and all other Toy Dealers.

PICTURES TO PAINT. Ten outline pictures, with directions for mixing colors and for painting, sent to any address on receipt of 10c. by S. W. TILTON & CO., 29 Temple Place, Publishers, Boston.

| DRESS STAY.

Soft, Pliable and Absolutely unbreakable. Standard Quality, 15 cents per yard. Cloth covered, 20 cents. Satin covered, 25 cents. For sale everywhere. Try it.

UNRIVALLED IN TONE.
ELEGANT IN FINISH.
REASONABLE IN PRICE.

——————
Fully Warranted. Ill’d Catalogue Free.
——————
ESTEY ORGAN CO.,
BRATTLEBORO,      -   -      -      VERMONT.
159 Tremont St., Boston.

IF YOU WEAR
PANTS

Send 6 cents for samples, rules for measurement, and other particulars showing how we make

The Celebrated
BAY STATE PANTS
FOR $3.
Vests, $2.25, Coats, $8,
and OVERCOATS,
at popular prices.

With our 20 years’ experience in this business we can furnish you with the best goods in the latest styles. Satisfaction guaranteed. Reference—American Express Co., Boston. We want a trial order.

BAY STATE PANTS CO., 30 Hawley St., Boston, Mass.

THE WORLD TYPE-WRITER makes a BEAUTIFUL HOLIDAY PRESENT.

NO HOME Should be without One.

No. 1 Japanned, | $8.00
In Pine Box.
No. 2 Japanned, | $10.00
In Leather Box.
No. 3 Full Nickelled, | $15.00
In Black Walnut case, Satin and Plush Lined.

Correspondence will be rendered pleasant by the use of this practical and ornamental machine, while the young folks may improve their knowledge by practicing on an instrument so simple and yet so strong that no amount of hard usage will injure it.

Send for Book and Circulars.      GEORGE BECKER & CO., 30 Great Jones St., New York.

THE LEGEND OF CEREALINE.

“And they called the women round them,
Called the young men and the maidens
To the harvest of the corn fields.”

MERRY were the gladsome huskers,
For they knew the corn they gathered,
In the pleasant days of autumn
Would sustain their lives through winter.
So they sang a song together,
All the young men and the maidens,
Sang the praises of Mondamin
And his Grecian sister Ceres.
Thus they sang in measured chorus:
“Honor be to brown Mondamin;
Honor be to ancient Ceres;
Honor to the noble Red-man;
Honor to the wiser White-man
Who hath built in Indiana
Mighty mills to make the magic
Cerealine, the Flakes nutritious,
Food of foods, the precious essence
Of the life blood of Mondamin,
That shall give to every eater
Health, and strength to think and labor.
Haste the day when all the people
Shall enjoy at each day’s banquet,
Cerealine, the food ideal.”

——————
The series of twelve original pictures, illustrating “Hiawatha’s Fasting,” of which the above
is a small example, will be mailed to any one who will mention where this advertisement was
seen and enclose a two-cent stamp for postage to the Cerealine Mfg. Co., Columbus, Indiana.

“Cerealine Flakes” for sale by all grocers at twenty cents a package.

BUBBLE PARTIES.

ONE of the most amusing, as well as easily arranged entertainments for the Holidays, is a “Bubble Party.” Twenty or more ladies and gentlemen, enough clay pipes so each will have one, three or four bowls of soap-suds, and, say, half a dozen trifles, for prizes, are all that is required, the prizes to be awarded to those who blow the largest bubbles, one of the party to act as referee.

The suds should be of Ivory Soap, as it gives a clean, white, and abundant lather, with an entire freedom from oil or grease; and as the materials of which it is made are so clean and pure, it is not at all offensive to the smell or taste, like ordinary soap.

A WORD OF WARNING.

There are many white soaps, each represented to be “just as good as the ‘Ivory’;” they ARE NOT, but like all counterfeits, lack the peculiar and remarkable qualities of the genuine. Ask for “Ivory” Soap and insist upon getting it.

Copyright 1886, by Procter & Gamble.

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Ad on “Etching,” “addresss” changed to “address” (free to any address, on)

Page 35, word “it” added to text (reason why it worked)

Page 53, “nncontrollable” changed to “uncontrollable” (an uncontrollable appetite)

Pansy Corner and Pansy Advertiser:

Page 3, “lii” changed to “liii” (Is. liii: 10)

Page 6, “Thuogh” changed to “Though” (Though a thousand fall)

Page 7, “minntes” changed to “minutes” (the five minutes when)

Page 9, “A HESIVE” changed to “ADHESIVE” (STRONGEST ADHESIVE KNOWN)

Page 11, “diquisition” changed to “disquisition” (a disquisition by philosophers)

Page 13, “vegntable” changed to “vegetable” (purely vegetable compound)

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PANSY MAGAZINE, VOL. 15, DEC. 1887 ***

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Table of Contents

- The Pansy, December 1887

- A DARK EVENING.

- A HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU!

- ARCHIE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

- “WE TWELVE GIRLS.”

- “WHOSOEVER.”

- UP GARRET. (More about A Sevenfold Trouble.)

- CHAPTER I.

- THE CONE.

- OUR TIGER.

- GRANDFATHER.

- THE POPLAR ST. PANSY SOCIETY.

- CHAPTER II.

- HOW BENNIE WAS TEMPTED.

- THE COMPLAINT OF SANTA CLAUS.

- INTRODUCTIONS.

- THE OLD BRIMMER PLACE.

- CHAPTER II.

- THE RAILROAD ON MT. PILATUS

- VALUE OF ARABIC NUMERALS.

- BABY’S CORNER.

- A BOY FROM THYATIRA.

- NOT LOST ON THE AIR.

- LOTUS LILIES.

- THE YEAR OF OUR LORD.

- “THE EVENING STAR.”

- GOWAHATIS.

- THE PERSECUTED BANNERMAN.

- A PRODIGAL SON.

- SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT.

- ALL ALONG THE LINE.

- BIBLE READING FOR DECEMBER. (Christ.)

- EXTRACTS FROM PANSY LETTERS.

- THE QUEER STORY.

- THE STENOGRAPH.

- NEW BOOKS. (Published by D. Lothrop Company.)

- The Pansy Advertiser
- THE LEGEND OF CEREALINE.
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE