St. Nicholas, Vol. 13, No. 12, October 1886
Date: 2025-05-05T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's literature -- Periodicals; Children's periodicals; American

The Project Gutenberg eBook of St. Nicholas, Vol. 13, No. 12, October 1886

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Title: St. Nicholas, Vol. 13, No. 12, October 1886

Author: Various

Editor: Mary Mapes Dodge

Release date: May 5, 2025 [eBook #76024]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Century Co, 1886

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76024

Credits: Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. NICHOLAS, VOL. 13, NO. 12, OCTOBER 1886 ***

MARTHA WASHINGTON.
FROM AN UNFINISHED PORTRAIT BY GILBERT STUART. ENGRAVED FOR ST. NICHOLAS BY W. B. CLOSSON.

(See page 912.)

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XIII. October, 1886. No. 12.

[Copyright, 1886, by The CENTURY CO.]

AUTUMN TO SPRING.

By Edith M. Thomas.

I wish the stately golden-rod
Might kiss the little wind-flower sweet,
That asters might to cowslips nod,
And eyebright run in haste to greet
The violet from the April sod—
So once the Fall and Spring might meet.

I wish my Little Self and I
Might sometime cross each other’s way.
My Little Self is wondrous shy;
I can not meet her any day,
Howe’er I search, howe’er I pry
About these meadows autumn-gay.

The runaway, the teasing elf!
She flits where woodland blossoms drift;
She has a world of pretty pelf
She gathered from the ripples swift;
Such joys she has, my Little Self
Will not be lured by any gift.

She’s light as bird upon the wing,

Her cheeks and eyes are all aglow.

To me what gladness she could bring!

To her I should be strange, I know.

My Little Self holds fast the Spring,

And Autumn will not let me go!

Yet still I wish the golden-rod
Might kiss the little wind-flower sweet,
That asters might to cowslips nod,
And eyebright run in haste to greet
The violet from the April sod.—
But Fall and Spring can never meet!

LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.

By Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Chapter XIV.

It is astonishing how short a time it takes for very wonderful things to happen. It had taken only a few minutes, apparently, to change all the fortunes of the little boy dangling his red legs from the high stool in Mr. Hobbs’s store, and to transform him from a small boy, living the simplest life in a quiet street, into an English nobleman, the heir to an earldom and magnificent wealth. It had taken only a few minutes, apparently, to change him from an English nobleman into a penniless little impostor, with no right to any of the splendors he had been enjoying. And, surprising as it may appear, it did not take nearly so long a time as one might have expected, to alter the face of everything again and to give back to him all that he had been in danger of losing.

It took the less time because, after all, the woman who had called herself Lady Fauntleroy was not nearly so clever as she was wicked; and when she had been closely pressed by Mr. Havisham’s questions about her marriage and her boy, she had made one or two blunders which had caused suspicion to be awakened; and then she had lost her presence of mind and her temper, and in her excitement and anger had betrayed herself still further. All the mistakes she made were about her child. There seemed no doubt that she had been married to Bevis, Lord Fauntleroy, and had quarreled with him and had been paid to keep away from him; but Mr. Havisham found out that her story of the boy’s being born in a certain part of London was false; and just when they all were in the midst of the commotion caused by this discovery, there came the letter from the young lawyer in New York, and Mr. Hobbs’s letters also.

What an evening it was when those letters arrived, and when Mr. Havisham and the Earl sat and talked their plans over in the library!

“After my first three meetings with her,” said Mr. Havisham, “I began to suspect her strongly. It appeared to me that the child was older than she said he was, and she made a slip in speaking of the date of his birth and then tried to patch the matter up. The story these letters bring fits in with several of my suspicions. Our best plan will be to cable at once for these two Tiptons,—say nothing about them to her,—and suddenly confront her with them when she is not expecting it. She is only a very clumsy plotter, after all. My opinion is that she will be frightened out of her wits, and will betray herself on the spot.”

And that was what actually happened. She was told nothing, and Mr. Havisham kept her from suspecting anything by continuing to have interviews with her, in which he assured her he was investigating her statements; and she really began to feel so secure that her spirits rose immensely and she began to be as insolent as might have been expected.

But one fine morning, as she sat in her sitting-room at the inn called “The Dorincourt Arms,” making some very fine plans for herself, Mr. Havisham was announced; and when he entered, he was followed by no less than three persons—one was a sharp-faced boy and one was a big young man and the third was the Earl of Dorincourt.

She sprang to her feet and actually uttered a cry of terror. It broke from her before she had time to check it. She had thought of these newcomers as being thousands of miles away, when she had ever thought of them at all, which she had scarcely done for years. She had never expected to see them again. It must be confessed that Dick grinned a little when he saw her.

“Hello, Minna!” he said.

The big young man—who was Ben—stood still a minute and looked at her.

“Do you know her?” Mr. Havisham asked, glancing from one to the other.

“Yes,” said Ben. “I know her and she knows me.” And he turned his back on her and went and stood looking out of the window, as if the sight of her was hateful to him, as indeed it was. Then the woman, seeing herself so baffled and exposed, lost all control over herself and flew into such a rage as Ben and Dick had often seen her in before. Dick grinned a trifle more as he watched her and heard the names she called them all and the violent threats she made, but Ben did not turn to look at her.

“I can swear to her in any court,” he said to Mr. Havisham, “and I can bring a dozen others who will. Her father is a respectable sort of man, though he’s low down in the world. Her mother was just like herself. She’s dead, but he’s alive, and he’s honest enough to be ashamed of her. He’ll tell you who she is, and whether she married me or not.”

Then he clenched his hand suddenly and turned on her.

“Where’s the child?” he demanded. “He’s going with me! He is done with you, and so am I!”

And just as he finished saying the words, the door leading into the bedroom opened a little, and the boy, probably attracted by the sound of the loud voices, looked in. He was not a handsome boy, but he had rather a nice face, and he was quite like Ben, his father, as any one could see, and there was the three-cornered scar on his chin.

Ben walked up to him and took his hand, and his own was trembling.

“Yes,” he said, “I could swear to him too. Tom,” he said to the little fellow, “I’m your father; I’ve come to take you away. Where’s your hat?”

The boy pointed to where it lay on a chair. It evidently rather pleased him to hear that he was going away. He had been so accustomed to queer experiences that it did not surprise him to be told by a stranger that he was his father. He objected so much to the woman who had come a few months before to the place where he had lived since his babyhood, and who had suddenly announced that she was his mother, that he was quite ready for a change. Ben took up the hat and marched to the door.

“If you want me again,” he said to Mr. Havisham, “you know where to find me.”

He walked out of the room, holding the child’s hand and not looking at the woman once. She was fairly raving with fury, and the Earl was calmly gazing at her through his eyeglasses, which he had quietly placed upon his aristocratic, eagle nose.

“Come, come, my young woman,” said Mr. Havisham. “This won’t do at all. If you don’t want to be locked up, you really must behave yourself.”

And there was something so very business-like in his tones that, probably feeling that the safest thing she could do would be to get out of the way, she gave him one savage look and dashed past him into the next room and slammed the door.

“We shall have no more trouble with her,” said Mr. Havisham.

And he was right; for that very night she left the Dorincourt Arms and took the train to London, and was seen no more.

When the Earl left the room after the interview, he went at once to his carriage.

“To Court Lodge,” he said to Thomas.

“To Court Lodge,” said Thomas to the coachman as he mounted the box; “an’ you may depend on it, things is taking a uniggspected turn.”

When the carriage stopped at Court Lodge, Cedric was in the drawing-room with his mother.

The Earl came in without being announced. He looked an inch or so taller, and a great many years younger. His deep eyes flashed.

“Where,” he said, “is Lord Fauntleroy?”

Mrs. Errol came forward, a flush rising to her cheek.

“Is it Lord Fauntleroy?” she asked. “Is it, indeed!”

The Earl put out his hand and grasped hers.

“Yes,” he answered, “it is.”

Then he put his other hand on Cedric’s shoulder.

“Fauntleroy,” he said in his unceremonious, authoritative way, “ask your mother when she will come to us at the Castle.”

Fauntleroy flung his arms around his mother’s neck.

“To live with us!” he cried. “To live with us always!”

The Earl looked at Mrs. Errol, and Mrs. Errol looked at the Earl. His lordship was entirely in earnest. He had made up his mind to waste no time in arranging this matter. He had begun to think it would suit him to make friends with his heir’s mother.

“Are you quite sure you want me?” said Mrs. Errol, with her soft, pretty smile.

“Quite sure,” he said bluntly. “We have always wanted you, but we were not exactly aware of it. We hope you will come.”

Chapter XV.

Ben took his boy and went back to his cattle ranch in California, and he returned under very comfortable circumstances. Just before his going, Mr. Havisham had an interview with him in which the lawyer told him that the Earl of Dorincourt wished to do something for the boy who might have turned out to be Lord Fauntleroy, and so he had decided that it would be a good plan to invest in a cattle ranch of his own, and put Ben in charge of it on terms which would make it pay him very well, and which would lay a foundation for his son’s future. And so when Ben went away, he went as the prospective master of a ranch which would be almost as good as his own, and might easily become his own in time, as indeed it did in the course of a few years; and Tom, the boy, grew up on it into a fine young man and was devotedly fond of his father; and they were so successful and happy that Ben used to say that Tom made up to him for all the troubles he had ever had.

But Dick and Mr. Hobbs—who had actually come over with the others to see that things were properly looked after—did not return for some time. It had been decided at the outset that the Earl would provide for Dick, and would see that he received a solid education; and Mr. Hobbs had decided that as he himself had left a reliable substitute in charge of his store, he could afford to wait to see the festivities, which were to celebrate Lord Fauntleroy’s eighth birthday. All the tenantry were invited, and there were to be feasting and dancing and games in the park, and bonfires and fireworks in the evening.

“‘ARE YOU QUITE SURE YOU WANT ME?’ SAID MRS. ERROL.”

“Just like the Fourth of July!” said Lord Fauntleroy. “It seems a pity my birthday wasn’t on the Fourth, doesn’t it? For then we could keep them both together.”

It must be confessed that at first the Earl and Mr. Hobbs were not as intimate as it might have been hoped they would become, in the interests of the British aristocracy. The fact was that the Earl had known very few grocery-men, and Mr. Hobbs had not had many very close acquaintances who were earls; and so in their rare interviews conversation did not flourish. It must also be owned that Mr. Hobbs had been rather overwhelmed by the splendors Fauntleroy felt it his duty to show him.

The entrance gate and the stone lions and the avenue impressed Mr. Hobbs somewhat at the beginning, and when he saw the Castle, and the flower-gardens, and the hot-houses, and the terraces, and the peacocks, and the dungeon, and the armor, and the great staircase, and the stables, and the liveried servants, he really was quite bewildered. But it was the picture gallery which seemed to be the finishing stroke.

“Somethin’ in the manner of a museum?” he said to Fauntleroy, when he was led into the great, beautiful room.

“N—no—!” said Fauntleroy, rather doubtfully. “I don’t think it’s a museum. My grandfather says these are my ancestors.”

“Your aunt’s sisters!” ejaculated Mr. Hobbs. “All of ’em? Your great-uncle, he must have had a family! Did he raise ’em all?”

And he sank into a seat and looked around him with quite an agitated countenance, until with the greatest difficulty Lord Fauntleroy managed to explain that the walls were not lined entirely with the portraits of the progeny of his great-uncle.

He found it necessary, in fact, to call in the assistance of Mrs. Mellon, who knew all about the pictures, and could tell who painted them and when, and who added romantic stories of the lords and ladies who were the originals. When Mr. Hobbs once understood, and had heard some of these stories, he was very much fascinated and liked the picture gallery almost better than anything else; and he would often walk over from the village where he staid at the Dorincourt Arms, and would spend half an hour or so wandering about the gallery, staring at the painted ladies and gentlemen who also stared at him, and shaking his head nearly all the time.

“And they was all earls!” he would say, “er pretty nigh it! An’ he’s goin’ to be one of ’em, an’ own it all!”

Privately he was not nearly so much disgusted with earls and their mode of life as he had expected to be, and it is to be doubted whether his strictly republican principles were not shaken a little by a closer acquaintance with castles and ancestors and all the rest of it. At any rate, one day he uttered a very remarkable and unexpected sentiment:

“I wouldn’t have minded bein’ one of ’em myself!” he said—which was really a great concession.

What a grand day it was when little Lord Fauntleroy’s birthday arrived, and how his young lordship enjoyed it! How beautiful the park looked, filled with the thronging people dressed in their gayest and best, and with the flags flying from the tents and the top of the Castle! Nobody had staid away who could possibly come, because everybody was really glad that little Lord Fauntleroy was to be little Lord Fauntleroy still, and some day was to be the master of everything. Every one wanted to have a look at him, and at his pretty, kind mother, who had made so many friends. And positively every one liked the Earl rather better, and felt more amiably toward him because the little boy loved and trusted him so, and because, also, he had now made friends with and behaved respectfully to his heir’s mother. It was said that he was even beginning to be fond of her, too, and that between his young lordship and his young lordship’s mother, the Earl might be changed in time into quite a well-behaved old nobleman, and everybody might be happier and better off.

“‘MY GRANDFATHER SAYS THESE ARE MY ANCESTORS,’ SAID FAUNTLEROY.”

What scores and scores of people there were under the trees, and in the tents, and on the lawns! Farmers and farmers’ wives in their Sunday suits and bonnets and shawls; girls and their sweethearts; children frolicking and chasing about; and old dames in red cloaks gossiping together. At the Castle, there were ladies and gentlemen who had come to see the fun, and to congratulate the Earl, and to meet Mrs. Errol. Lady Lorredaile and Sir Harry were there, and Sir Thomas Asshe and his daughters, and Mr. Havisham, of course, and then beautiful Miss Vivian Herbert, with the loveliest white gown and lace parasol, and a circle of gentlemen to take care of her—though she evidently liked Fauntleroy better than all of them put together. And when he saw her and ran to her and put his arm around her neck, she put her arms around him, too, and kissed him as warmly as if he had been her own favorite little brother, and she said:

“Dear little Lord Fauntleroy! dear little boy! I am so glad! I am so glad!”

And afterward she walked about the grounds with him, and let him show her everything. And when he took her to where Mr. Hobbs and Dick were, and said to her, “This is my old, old friend Mr. Hobbs, Miss Herbert, and this is my other old friend Dick. I told them how pretty you were, and I told them they should see you if you came to my birthday,”—she shook hands with them both, and stood and talked to them in her prettiest way, asking them about America and their voyage and their life since they had been in England; while Fauntleroy stood by, looking up at her with adoring eyes, and his cheeks quite flushed with delight because he saw that Mr. Hobbs and Dick liked her so much.

“Well,” said Dick solemnly, afterward, “she’s the daisiest gal I ever saw! She’s—well, she’s just a daisy, that’s what she is, ’n no mistake!”

Everybody looked after her as she passed, and every one looked after little Lord Fauntleroy. And the sun shone and the flags fluttered and the games were played and the dances danced, and as the gayeties went on and the joyous afternoon passed, his little lordship was simply radiantly happy.

The whole world seemed beautiful to him.

There was some one else who was happy, too,—an old man, who, though he had been rich and noble all his life, had not often been very honestly happy. Perhaps, indeed, I shall tell you that I think it was because he was rather better than he had been that he was rather happier. He had not, indeed, suddenly become as good as Fauntleroy thought him; but, at least, he had begun to love something, and he had several times found a sort of pleasure in doing the kind things which the innocent, kind little heart of a child had suggested,—and that was a beginning. And every day he had been more pleased with his son’s wife. It was true, as the people said, that he was beginning to like her too. He liked to hear her sweet voice and to see her sweet face; and as he sat in his armchair, he used to watch her and listen as she talked to her boy; and he heard loving, gentle words which were new to him, and he began to see why the little fellow who had lived in a New York side street and known grocery-men and made friends with boot-blacks, was still so well-bred and manly a little fellow that he made no one ashamed of him, even when fortune changed him into the heir to an English earldom, living in an English castle.

It was really a very simple thing, after all,—it was only that he had lived near a kind and gentle heart, and had been taught to think kind thoughts always and to care for others. It is a very little thing, perhaps, but it is the best thing of all. He knew nothing of earls and castles; he was quite ignorant of all grand and splendid things; but he was always lovable because he was simple and loving. To be so is like being born a king.

As the old Earl of Dorincourt looked at him that day, moving about the park among the people, talking to those he knew and making his ready little bow when any one greeted him, entertaining his friends Dick and Mr. Hobbs, or standing near his mother or Miss Herbert listening to their conversation, the old nobleman was very well satisfied with him. And he had never been better satisfied than he was when they went down to the biggest tent, where the more important tenants of the Dorincourt estate were sitting down to the grand collation of the day.

They were drinking toasts; and, after they had drunk the health of the Earl, with much more enthusiasm than his name had ever been greeted with before, they proposed the health of “Little Lord Fauntleroy.” And if there had ever been any doubt at all as to whether his lordship was popular or not, it would have been settled that instant. Such a clamor of voices, and such a rattle of glasses and applause! They had begun to like him so much, those warm-hearted people, that they forgot to feel any restraint before the ladies and gentlemen from the castle, who had come to see them. They made quite a decent uproar, and one or two motherly women looked tenderly at the little fellow where he stood, with his mother on one side and the Earl on the other, and grew quite moist about the eyes, and said to one another:

“God bless him, the pretty little dear!”

Little Lord Fauntleroy was delighted. He stood and smiled, and made bows, and flushed rosy red with pleasure up to the roots of his bright hair.

“Is it because they like me, Dearest?” he said to his mother. “Is it, Dearest? I’m so glad!”

And then the Earl put his hand on the child’s shoulder and said to him:

“Fauntleroy, say to them that you thank them for their kindness.”

Fauntleroy gave a glance up at him and then at his mother.

LORD FAUNTLEROY MAKES A SPEECH TO THE TENANTS.

“Must I!” he asked just a trifle shyly, and she smiled, and so did Miss Herbert, and they both nodded. And so he made a little step forward, and everybody looked at him—such a beautiful, innocent little fellow he was, too, with his brave trustful face!—and he spoke as loudly as he could, his childish voice ringing out quite clear and strong.

“I’m ever so much obliged to you!” he said, “and—I hope you’ll enjoy my birthday—because I’ve enjoyed it so much—and—I’m very glad I’m going to be an earl—I didn’t think at first I should like it, but now I do—and I love this place so, and I think it is beautiful—and—and—and when I am an earl, I am going to try to be as good as my grandfather.”

And amid the shouts and clamor of applause, he stepped back with a little sigh of relief, and put his hand into the Earl’s and stood close to him, smiling and leaning against his side.

And that would be the very end of my story; but I must add one curious piece of information, which is that Mr. Hobbs became so fascinated with high life and was so reluctant to leave his young friend that he actually sold his corner store in New York, and settled in the English village of Erlesboro, where he opened a shop which was patronized by the Castle and consequently was a great success. And though he and the Earl never became very intimate, if you will believe me, that man Hobbs became in time more aristocratic than his lordship himself, and he read the Court news every morning, and followed all the doings of the House of Lords! And about ten years after, when Dick, who had finished his education and was going to visit his brother in California, asked the good grocer if he did not wish to return to America, he shook his head seriously.

“Not to live there,” he said. “Not to live there; I want to be near him, an’ sort o’ look after him. It’s a good enough country for them that’s young an’ stirrin’—but there’s faults in it. There’s not an auntsister among ’em—nor a earl!”

THE END.

OCTOBER.

By Susan Hartley.

October comes across the hill
Like some light ghost, she is so still,
Though her sweet cheeks are rosy;
And through the floating thistle-down
Her trailing, brier-tangled gown
Gleams like a crimson posy.

The crickets in the stubble chime;
Lanterns flash out at milking time;
The daisy’s lost her ruffles;
The wasps the honeyed pippins try;
A film is over the blue sky,
A spell the river muffles.

The golden-rod fades in the sun;
The spider’s gauzy veil is spun
Athwart the drooping sedges;
The nuts drop softly from their burrs;
No bird-song the dim silence stirs,—
A blight is on the hedges.

But filled with fair content is she,
As if no frost could ever be,
To dim her brown eyes’ luster;
And much she knows of fairy folk
That dance beneath the spreading oak
With tinkling mirth and bluster.

She listens when the dusky eves
Step softly on the fallen leaves,
As if for message cheering;
And it must be that she can hear,
Beyond November grim and drear,
The feet of Christmas nearing.

SOME CURIOUS MARINERS.

By C. F. Holder.

One bright spring morning, two boys were walking out into the open country, near the little village of Cowes, on the Isle of Wight. Each lad carried under his arm a miniature cutter. It was the day of the great race between the Sea Mew and the Prince Albert, the reputations of which, as winning cruisers, had been earned in many a hard-fought battle on the pond then in sight. A number of boys were already at the shore, and their boats, beating up and down the lake, gave it a very animated appearance. As Ralph and Dick approached, bringing the champion cutters, all the competitors moved to the head of the lake, and soon the signal for the race was given. The Sea Mew and the Prince Albert got off first; then came the smaller boats; while following up the race, some in a skiff and some along shore, the boys shouted and cheered the imaginary skippers of the various crafts, who, it must be confessed, sailed them in a rather curious way. As the Prince Albert rounded the stake on the homestretch, a queer personage came aboard. The boys were allowed to put their crafts about, and Ralph had waded out and was just about to stop his boat, when it came in collision with a floating mass of leaves that threw it up into the wind. From the wrecked leaves nimbly darted the only survivor, a large spider, so alarmed at the catastrophe that it reached the crosstrees of the Prince Albert before it even looked about it.

“The Prince has been boarded by a shipwrecked crew!” shouted Ralph, giving the mast a rap that sent the spider to the topmast-head.

“Let him stay,” said Dick, picking up the leaves that now floated by. “You ran him down, and now you must take him ashore, or we’ll treat you as they did the man in America who was tarred and feathered and carried in a cart.”

So the spider was taken back by the cutter to the starting-point, and it must have brought good luck to the cutter, for the Prince Albert came in ahead and won the “cup,” as the boys called the old-fashioned blue soup-tureen, ornamented with figures of Neptune and dolphins. And within this receptacle the shipwrecked spider was carefully placed after the race was over.

“Here’s his craft!” said Dick. “Let’s put it in some water and see if he’ll take to it again.”

So the “cup” was filled and the layer of leaves thrown in, when the spider, without a moment’s hesitation, leaped into the water from the side of the tureen—or “cup”—and soon clambered upon the leaves, much to the amusement of the young yachtsmen, who had gathered around to see what it would do.

In this manner, Dick and Ralph carried the spider home to Dick’s father, who told the boys, much to their astonishment, that it was a ship-building spider.

“Examine the leaves more closely,” he said. “Don’t you find that the bunch has not been accidentally caught together, but that the leaves have been drawn carefully one over another, and fastened together by silken cords, forming a perfect boat?”

THE SPIDER AND HIS CRAFT.

The boys soon saw that this was indeed the fact, and, much interested, they started out next day, determined to become better acquainted with these nimble little boatmen. They were amply repaid for their trouble; for they had not gone far when Dick cried:

“Here is one, Ralph!” In a little bay, Dick had discovered a small bunch of leaves whirling around and around, and lying closely upon it a large and handsome spider that might easily have been the First Lord of the Admiralty of the Spider-Queen’s navy. Around its brown body was a band, or sash, of rich orange color barred in a curious manner; while a double row of white spots upon the under side, Ralph said, represented its rank. Its legs were a light red—and altogether its outward coloring made up a very fanciful and appropriate uniform.

But I grieve to say that the spider was really a pirate of the boldest and most cruel type. Finding that the circular motion was caused by the peculiar way in which the turned-up tip of a leaf caught the breeze, Ralph gave the craft a start, and away it went before the wind, the red-legged skipper lying low for plunder.

Near the head of the pond several members of the Dolomedes fimbriatus family (for this is their scientific name) were found, and the boys came upon one fellow in the very act of starting out on a voyage.

By lying upon the bank and keeping very still, the lads finally gained possession of many secrets of this cunning ship-builder. At first the spider seemed to be looking for something in the grass near the water’s edge; finally he seized upon a dead leaf, which he dragged down a slight decline, where the boys now saw several other leaves collected. By deft movements of his long legs, the leaf was lifted and tucked in between the others—the builder lashing them together by silken cords which he spun, and fastened them by a simple pressure of his body against the leaf. This leaf being satisfactorily placed, another was brought, and the same process repeated, the creature running rapidly about, passing silken cords over the entire mass, and now and then raising himself up and down, as if testing the strength of his craft. The vessel gradually grew in size until it was an inch and a half thick and four inches across, when it seemed to satisfy its owner.

THE SPIDER BUILDING HIS BOAT.

The spider now ran down to the water several times, returning every time thoroughly to inspect the vessel; finally, taking the craft in his strong mandibles, or jaws, he drew it several inches toward the water. Then, resting for a moment, he took it a second time by the side and drew it fairly to the water’s edge. Once there, he took a last hold, the leafy ship glided clear of the shore, and the gay launcher, leaping aboard with surprising skill, sailed out into the stream.

But the launch was not even yet a success. A spear of grass growing from the water became entangled in the silken cables, and stopped the fairy craft. The spider rushed at the obstruction, seized it in his mandibles, and, to the astonishment of the watchers, walked down it into the water. Soon he re-appeared and again scrambled aboard. But as he now seemed to be greatly agitated and disturbed, the boys here interfered, and cast off the raft for him, whereupon the skipper settled down as if completely satisfied. If they touched him with a blade of grass, he darted into the water and clung to the under side, coming out when the danger was over. Soon an unfortunate fly alighted near the raft, when the pirate, instead of rowing his boat alongside, actually dashed into the water to secure his victim, swimming back to the raft to devour it at his leisure. The last the boys saw of the spider, he had jumped again at something that rippled the water; but he never returned. Possibly a self-satisfied young frog that soon hopped upon the bank could have explained the absence of the skipper of the now deserted craft.

Thoroughly interested, the boys repeatedly watched the spiders, and studied their manners and their labors. They found also another spider, which, although it did not make a raft, had no fear of the water, and frequently went fishing; while Dick’s father told them of still another that lived under water by carrying down bubbles of air with it. Its home, too, might be called a queer diving-bell, as may be seen from the illustration.

THE SPIDER THAT LIVES UNDER WATER.

There are certain ants that show quite as much intelligence as the spider, and the “driver ants” not only build boats, but launch them, too; only, these boats are formed of their own bodies. They are called “drivers,” because of their ferocity. Nothing can stand before the attacks of these little creatures. Large pythons have been killed by them in a single night, while chickens, lizards, and other animals in Western Africa flee from them in terror. To protect themselves from the heat they erect arches under which numerous armies of them pass in safety. Sometimes the arch is made of grass and earth gummed together by some secretion, and again it is formed by the bodies of the larger ants, which hold themselves together by their strong nippers, while the workers pass under them.

THE DRIVER ANTS FORMED INTO A FLOATING BALL.

At certain times of the year, freshets overflow the country inhabited by the “drivers,” and it is then that these ants go to sea. The rain comes suddenly, and the walls of their houses are broken in by the flood, but instead of coming to the surface in scattered hundreds and being swept off to destruction, out of the ruins rises a black ball that rides safely on the water and drifts away. At the first warning of danger, the little creatures rush together, and form a solid ball of ants, the weaker in the center; often this ball is larger than a common base-ball, and in this way they float about until they lodge against some tree, upon the branches of which they are soon safe and sound. And from this resting-place they escape by their curious bridges, a description of which was given in “Jack-in-the-Pulpit,” in St. Nicholas for July, 1881.

THE GREBE AND HER FLOATING NEST.

One would scarcely look for ship-builders among birds, so many of which are boats in themselves, going either upon or under the water; but in the curious family of grebes, one branch of which produces the beautiful feathers so coveted by ladies, there is one kind that forms a nest which is a veritable ark. Instinctively these birds seek the low boggy marshes to build their nests. But there they are in continual danger from the high tides that often cover the marshes, or from the drift-wood which washes in, or from many other accidents. So the ingenious grebe, looking like a clerk with feathery pens behind her ear, constructs a nest that will rise and fall with the tides, and can be moved from place to place. The boat is first built of rushes and grass; this is then packed with moss, and lined and relined until it is perfectly water-tight; and in this the eggs are laid. The home either is anchored to tufts of grass, or drifts, perhaps, here and there, though always guided by the mother-skipper, as she stands by the helm in all kinds of weather. We have seen that the spider is completely at the mercy of the wind, but the grebe propels her boat along. If the young are half grown, they readily take to the water; but if they are just hatched, the mother, at the approach of danger, steps upon one side of the boat, and uses one of her webbed feet as an oar to paddle away from the enemy into one of the innumerable inlets or lanes in the marsh, where she is almost sure to escape.

THE SAILOR-FISH OF THE INDIAN OCEAN.

In the warm waters of the Indian Ocean a strange mariner is found that has given rise to many curious tales among the natives of the coast thereabout. They tell of a wonderful sail often seen in the calm seasons preceding the terrible hurricanes that course over those waters. Not a breath then disturbs the water, the sea rises and falls like a vast sheet of glass; suddenly the sail appears, glistening with rich purple and golden hues, and seemingly driven along by a mighty wind. On it comes, quivering and sparkling, as if bedecked with gems, but only to disappear as if by magic. Many travelers had heard with unbelief this strange tale; but one day the phantom craft actually appeared to the crew of an Indian steamer, and as it passed by under the stern of the vessel, the queer “sail” was seen to belong to a gigantic sword-fish, now known as the sailor-fish. The sail was really an enormously developed dorsal fin that was over ten feet high, and was richly colored with blue and iridescent tints; and as the fish swam along on or near the surface of the water, this great fin naturally waved to and fro, so that, from a distance, it could easily be mistaken for a curious sail.

Some of these fishes attain a length of over twenty feet, and have large, crescent-shaped tails and long, sword-like snouts, capable of doing great damage.

In the Mediterranean Sea, a sword-fish is found that also has a high fin, but it does not equal the great sword-fish of the Indian Ocean.

NAN’S REVOLT.

By Rose Lattimore Alling.

Chapter VI.

December came and went, and although the girls had agreed to postpone their accustomed giving of gifts to one another until spring, when they hoped to present trophies of the winter’s warfare, the season was otherwise filled with the usual gayety.

Our heroines had not in the least relaxed their interest in the world in general, because of their interest in their own worlds in particular, and had not “cut loose,” as Nan at first had threatened. But, as their lives began to have more of purpose in them, their tastes changed somewhat, so that gradually the most “frothy” of their society friends drifted away unregretted, while new people, whom they had “found out,” as Evelyn phrased it, one by one slipped into the vacant places.

So it was that with less frequent but more spirited contact with society, the winter months flew away, and when the first rays of June sunshine streamed through the glass roof into “Cathy’s kingdom,” the most joyous sight they fell upon was the happy face of the proud mistress, as she went about among the radiant blooms and verdure, cutting her choicest buds for Evelyn’s luncheon, to be given that day in honor of Nan’s return and the reunion of the “jolly four.”

When the girls met in the Ferrises’ dining-room, and surveyed Evelyn’s beautiful table arrangements, they were more than usually jolly, and as that sweet young housekeeper had taken much pride in her festive board, she was deeply gratified by their exclamations of approval.

They pirouetted around and around it, admiring everything, beginning with the artistic lunch-cloth, embroidered by the same fingers which had laid a handful of Cathy’s flowers across each napkin; and they would have proceeded to scrutinize each separate detail, had not Bert seized upon a card bearing her name, attached to a cunning basket, which, in its turn, was tied with a gorgeous bow to one of the chairs. This discovery stimulated research on the part of the others, and immediately each guest was “pouncing,” as Bert said, on her own particular basket.

Nan was the first to investigate the contents. “Bonbons!” she shouted. “What richness! After luncheon, let’s toast these marsh-mallows on the ends of hat-pins over a lamp!—But who is the giver?”

Diving among the sweets for a clew, Cathy succeeded in finding a card which bore the inscription: “From the cook. Warranted pure.”

“You didn’t make ’em, Evelyn?” exclaimed Bert, popping a chocolate-cream into her mouth.

“Yes, I did,” laughed Evelyn, “and it’s as easy!—But see here!” and she held aloft a tawny yellow vase, with a flight of butterflies, in all rich hues, encircling the top.

“Waiting for the flowers with which I hope soon to be able to fill them,” Cathy said, as the girls looked radiantly at her work, and Bert hugged one of Pompeiian red, with dull blue butterflies, while Nan suggested the “divine” effect that scarlet nasturtiums would make with the yellow butterflies and the peacock-blue background of hers.

In the meanwhile, Bert, making further search under the fringe of the table-cloth, brought to view a fascinating cabinet. “With a place for a plaque, a place for a jug, and a place for my jar!” she shouted; while Cathy added, as she lovingly surveyed hers, “Yes, and a place for secrets behind the cunning little door!”

“Don’t, girls!” protested Nan, as they heaped thanks upon her. “You needn’t worry; they are not mahogany, nothing but pine, and a cheap carpenter made them, and I stained and polished them myself, so they cost hardly anything.”

“Oh, now, Nan, if you have been to New York and do up your hair in a new way, you can’t get me to believe that!” said Bert decidedly; while Evelyn asked sarcastically, “And did you also design them, Nannie?”

“Of course! What am I studying for, if I can’t design a simple shelf?” cried her sister.

The girls opened their eyes wide, but Nan averted another avalanche of praise by producing the last article on her chair. She gave a deep sigh of satisfaction as she comprehended that Bert had bestowed upon her a set of photographs of the most famous pictures in the world; while Cathy sat down and gloated over her “Goethe Gallery,” and Evelyn smiled into the faces of her favorite authors.

“I beg pardon, Bert,” said Nan, “for the vulgarity of admiring the setting as much as the gem,—but, girls, will you just observe the magnificence of these Japanese leather portfolios?”

The girls observed with joy, and Evelyn said:

“Considering how smart we have already shown ourselves to be, I venture to inquire, dear Bert, if you took the photographs yourself, or only tanned the leather?”

“Neither,” laughed Bert; “I only earned them with my inky fingers, so they are the first real presents I ever gave! And now let us sit down and admire one another.”

“You would be more sensible to admire my bouillon,” suggested Evelyn, as she ordered in the cups containing the first course.

So the merriment went on, through all the changes of Evelyn’s dainty banquet, while the girls compared notes on their various experiences.

“BERT SEIZED UPON A BASKET TIED TO ONE OF THE CHAIRS.”

“Let us add up, subtract, and get our totals, both financially and spiritually,” said Bert. “Who’ll begin?—Ah, what delicious chicken croquettes these are, Evelyn!—Come, Nan! You are responsible for the whole social and moral revolution, you know; so lead off with your account.”

“Nonsense,” replied that young woman; “if I hadn’t begun it, one of you would have fired our noble hearts,—for we should have died of inanition if we had lolled in the lap of luxury another week. So as you, Bert, scrambled down to the ground first, you should begin the reports. How is your exchequer?”

“Low, very low; but my spirits are not, and what matters it therefore, so long as I’m happy?” answered the confidential clerk. “No, money isn’t everything, for I have a gain far better. I feel genuine; I respect Miss Me; and, best of all, I have found my father. So, Nannie dear, I thank you sincerely, for I never was so happy in my life. So much for my grand total, with a large deficit of ennui.”

There was a general clicking of spoons in the after-dinner coffee-cups by way of applause, as Bert finished; and she at once demanded that Nan should next be heard.

The young artist responded promptly:

“Well, we all are happy, I hope,—because, thank goodness, it is no longer the chief object of our lives to be so;—that is one of the valuable lessons I have learned as I sat, day after day, at table between fat Miss Lee and thin Miss Jennings. I have been dreadfully discouraged at times, but I used to have worse ‘blues’ when I was only trying to amuse myself. I have had a happy winter; and even if I never sell a design (I hope to sell at least one next year), I never shall regret the experiment I have made; for the feeling of self-reliance is better than a bag of gold to your friend Nan!”

“But how about the fun you were bent on having?” mildly inquired Cathy.

“Oh, I’ve had a delightful time! Girls with a purpose are twice as interesting as those without; and as most of us were impecunious, we had numberless gay little three-cent larks. Ha, I can tell you there was no lack of fun!” and Nan laughed at certain merry remembrances. “But now, Cathy,” she resumed, “I pine to know all about that famous greenhouse.”

“Green-houses,” replied the young florist, with dignity. “All flowers can’t grow in the same temperature, my dear.”

“Oh,—I want to know!” drawled Nan. “But are you dreadfully in debt? And do things really sprout?”

“Sprout!” exclaimed Evelyn. “You would think so, Nan, if you had seen the big basket of yellow pansies she sent to old Mrs. Burk on the anniversary of her wedding-day! But Cathy will never roll in wealth; she gives all her flowers away. She ought to hang out a sign with the words ‘Flower Mission’ on it.” And Evelyn gave her friend a loving glance.

“Never mind,” retorted Cathy, blushing a little. “Our crusade was not so much to earn money as for the right to be happy, each in her own way; and since I have repaid what Fred loaned me, I can give away my very own things if I wish to, especially as they are usually in the good company of jellies and other lovely delicacies from Evelyn’s larder,” she added. “But don’t be disturbed, my dears, about my generosity; I shall charge you opulent creatures a good round dollar for every bud you get of me.—And now, Evelyn, it’s your turn; but your luncheon has been more eloquent than words——”

“No, no!” broke in Nan, with sudden mournfulness; “Evelyn has been an egregious failure, so far as her family is concerned; she has struck for higher wages——”

But a look from her sister warned Nan not to go further, while Cathy burst out:

“Oh, Evelyn, let me tell!”

“No,” she said, with an odd expression of mingled pride and timidity on her face. “I will tell it myself; why shouldn’t I? Besides, all but Bert know of it already, and I’m sure she suspects.”

“Are you really?” wildly demanded Bert, inconsequently except to the feminine mind.

“Yes, really!” answered Evelyn with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, while Nan groaned:

“Oh, Bert, woe is me! To think that I aided and abetted in this miserable business by encouraging Cathy to become independent, and so allowed her brother Fred to engage my sister for a wife!”

“You gave me a sister!” cried Cathy, as she tipped over her chair in an excited rush at Evelyn, whom she clasped in her arms, crying a little for joy, although her brother had partly prepared her for the glad news,—while Bert exclaimed heartily:

“You have my blessing, Evelyn dear!—And are there any more secrets to be divulged? Nan, you are in the designing business. Is there any decorative youth in view?”

“Not for me!” laughed Nan. “But, Bert, where has all your money gone? I expected you to ask me to accompany you and some delightful chaperon to Europe this summer, at your expense.”

“Oh, I frittered my funds away!” she cried. “Come, come; let us toast the marsh-mallows. Light the droplight, Evelyn. Where are the hat-pins?”

“Now, Bert,” said Evelyn, seriously, “I have found out your secret, and I’m going to tell——” But Bert had escaped and was flying upstairs, while Evelyn continued: “She has given a library to the working-girls’ association, and all that the world knows is that it came from ‘a girl who is thankful to have found out how much better work is than idleness.’ That’s what Bert has done with her money!”

THE END.

IN THE GARDEN.

By Bessie Chandler.

We were working in the garden,
My little boy and I,
Both digging weeds,
And planting seeds
To blossom by and by.

“Here is some pop-corn, dear,” I said,
“I’ll give you for your own;
To plant and hoe,
And watch it grow,
And have it when it’s grown.”

He took the kernels eagerly,
His little hoe he dropped,
Then, out he burst:—
“Let’s pop it first,
So it will come up popped!”

THE CREW OF THE CAPTAIN’S GIG.

By Rev. Charles R. Talbot.

The Fair Rosamond, sloop yacht, N. Y. Y. C., lay at anchor off the east shore of Cape Cod Bay, her polished brasswork and white hull glittering like gold and silver in the morning sunlight. No one was visible on board, forward or aft, until presently a youthful form showed itself above the cabin hatch, halting there a moment to survey the scene, and then stepping forth in full view upon the deck. This was Jasper. The noticeable things about Jasper were his homely, freckled face, his slim, ungainly figure, and his intensely solemn air. One would have thought, to look at him, that he was the most sober person in the world, whereas, in point of fact, he was never known to be serious two minutes at a time, and was forever making fun. He stood there for several moments, his hands in the pockets of his yachting jacket, yawning lazily and looking forward along the deck.

“Well,” he at length observed, “this is a hilarious state of things, I must say! I wonder when those men are coming?” Suddenly he assumed an attitude of declamation, and, raising his head and throwing out his right hand by way of gesture, he exclaimed:

“‘The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but him had fled——’”

These lines, not altogether inappropriate so far as they went, were interrupted here by some one coming up softly from behind and seizing the speaker by the collar. He quickly freed himself, however, and turning about, with hand still extended, finished his verse in good order:

“‘When some one seized him by the neck.

He turned; ’twas Captain Fred.’”

Captain Fred laughed.

“So here you are,” said he, “come up like a whale to spout.”

“A very good joke, my dear brother,” replied Jasper. “I’ll tell you a better, though.”

“What’s that?” asked Captain Fred.

“Your merry men have not appeared yet.”

“What!” exclaimed the captain, scowling and looking forward.

Owing to a serious disagreement between the yacht’s foremast hands, Captain Fred had summarily discharged them all, and sent his sailing-master to Provincetown to pick up a new crew. It was now the third day that he had been absent on this errand; and Captain Fred had counted upon his arrival, with the four sailor men, by an early train that morning. “This is dreadfully annoying!” he declared.

“‘In vain the captain shouted——’”

Jasper began quoting again.

Jasper had a talent for quotations, as the reader will presently perceive. But again he was cut off by an arrival on deck, this time that of three young ladies and a small boy. These were Captain Fred’s pretty young wife, his niece Ethel, her intimate friend Kitty, and little Fred,—the last sometimes known as Frederick the Little, as distinguished from his uncle, Captain Frederick the Great. The girls looked wonderfully fresh and pretty, considering they had just made their toilet in a seven by nine state-room. Kitty was Ethel’s school friend, and had only been with them a few days. She was a bright, vivacious young person, however, and had already made herself quite at home on board. It was she who spoke up now.

“What is the matter, Captain Fred?” cried she. “Are the tea-kettle halliards foul again, this morning?” This was in allusion to a joke of Jasper’s, the first morning she had been on board.

“The matter is,” said Captain Fred, looking as pleasant as he could, “that our crew has not yet arrived; and we may have to lie here a day or two longer.”

At breakfast, Captain Fred announced that he was going ashore. Something must be done at once about a crew. He should run down to Provincetown himself, and should not return until the afternoon at the earliest. Meanwhile, they must get along as best they could. The yacht was in a perfectly safe position; the steward (the only man left on board) was an entirely competent and trustworthy person; and the sailing-master himself would be back, without fail, before night. “And since I am without a crew,” Captain Fred concluded, “I think that you young people will have to man my gig for me.”

ON BOARD THE YACHT, “FAIR ROSAMOND.”

This proposal was agreed to, willingly enough; and a few minutes later, the gig being brought alongside, Jasper called “Giglers away!” and they all got in, Ethel and Kitty at the oars (they were accustomed to rowing together), Freddy in the bow, and Captain Fred and Jasper in the stern-sheets. Mrs. Fred preferred to remain on board and read. They pulled directly inshore. The village and railroad station were some distance below, but much nearer by land than by water. “Good-bye, all!” said Captain Fred as he jumped ashore. “Take good care of yourselves. And, Jasper, do try to behave yourself for one day.” Then he waved his “gripsack” and was gone.

They rowed along, not caring to land,—for the shore everywhere had the genuine Cape aspect, barren and unattractive,—but finding it pleasure enough to float upon the bosom of the sparkling blue water, now drifting idly, now pulling themselves here and there as the fancy seized them. They chatted and laughed and shouted, growing even boisterous by and by, Freddy and the two girls getting into a regular romp at last in the forward part of the boat. Jasper (who was not strong) sat looking down upon this with an air of elderly indulgence. It was one of Jasper’s delights to give himself patriarchal airs. Although just Ethel’s age, sixteen, he was, like Captain Fred, uncle to both her and Freddy,—a relationship which had, by courtesy, been extended to Kitty during her stay with them, though that young lady had professed herself quite indifferent to the honor,—and he loved to talk of his “avuncular responsibilities.”

“Ah, children,” he now declared, “it does your poor old uncle good to see you enjoying yourselves in this way.

“‘I love to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray.’”

“Jasper,” asked Kitty, flushed with exercise and suddenly resting on her oar, “can you sing?”

“Sing!” Jasper looked at her as though he thought her crazy. “My dear niece, what can you be thinking of? I could no more sing than I could—raise a pair of side-whiskers.” He gave his cheek a melancholy tap.

“Oh, yes, you can!” said Kitty. “You can sing something,—can’t you? Some old song or other.”

“Some old song?” Jasper shook his head. “No,” said he,

“‘I can not sing the old songs’;
It is not that I deem them low,
’Tis that I can’t remember
How they go.”

“Pshaw!” cried Kitty, who evidently had some object in view. “I am sure you can sing something,—and you must. Don’t you know ‘Hail Columbia,’ or ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ or ‘Bonnie Doon’?”

“I know ‘Old Grimes,’” said Jasper.

“‘Old Grimes’? Well let me hear it.”

So Jasper began to sing, to a tolerably correct air but in a voice which was far from musical, the song “Old Grimes is Dead.” He grew somewhat in love with his own performance as he proceeded, and gave the “old gray coat” such a thorough “buttoning down before” in the chorus, that Kitty grew impatient.

“Why, to be sure!” she interrupted. “That air is the same as ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ and will do perfectly.” Then she turned to Freddy: “Now, Freddy, what can you sing?”

“Oh, I say,” protested Jasper, “you’re not going to make Freddy exhibit himself, too?

“‘Strike, if you will, this old gray head,’

But spare a little boy like Fred.”

Kitty inexorably repeated her question; and Freddy, showing no disposition to plead his tender years as an excuse, declared that he could sing “’Way down upon the Suwanee River,” and he freely opened his mouth and delivered himself of a verse of the song indicated, in proof of his assertion.

“That will do capitally,” pronounced Miss Kitty. “And, Ethel, you can take ‘Ben Bolt,’ say, and I will take ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ The simpler and more familiar the tunes the better. And now I’ll tell you what I wish you to do. It’s ever so much fun! We tried it one day, up at Lenox, and we got into a perfect gale over it. It’s just this: Whatever any one of us has to say, no matter what it is and without any exception, we must sing it instead of saying it, every one using the tune assigned him or her. Do you understand?

“It’s the eá-siest thing in the wuh-órld, when wuh-ónce you have triéd-it.”

She calmly illustrated her meaning to the tune of “Home, Sweet Home.”

“Of course,” she added, “it’s perfectly ridiculous. But that’s the fun of it, you know.”

They all fell in with the scheme at once, though Jasper proposed to improve it a little.

“Wouldn’t it be well,” he suggested, “to prescribe some penalty or forfeit in case anybody forgets, and talks instead of singing? Suppose, for instance, we agree, each of us, to pay ten cents every time we break the rule, all money so obtained to be devoted to some charitable object.”

“I consent to that,” said Ethel, quite approving.

“And I, too!” cried Kitty. “It will make us all the more particular.”

“Well, then, I don’t!” shouted Freddy, rising up, very red in the face. “It’s all very well for you people who have allowances. But I’m not as rich as the Pennsylvania Railroad Company myself.”

“Well, youngster,” said Jasper, “we’ll only charge you five cents when you break over.”

To this Freddy assented.

“And, of course,” Jasper continued, “we’ll have to make the agreement for a certain length of time—two hours, say. Will that do? Very well,”—looking at his watch,—“it is distinctly understood then that from this moment—it is now half-past eleven—for two whole hours we shall sing everything we have to say, every one to the tune agreed on, and that we shall pay the sum of ten cents for every violation of this rule,—with the exception of Freddy, who is to pay five cents.—Each, upon honor, agrees to this solemn compact.”

He looked about, and all gravely nodded assent.

“All right,” said Jasper. Then, to the familiar strains of “Auld Acquaintance,” without the slightest hesitation he sang these lines, giving his words the proper rhyme and rhythm almost unconsciously:

“My gallant boys (or rather, girls),
Take now your oars and row;
For, if you don’t, ’tis very clear
This boat will never go.”

Four young people, full of frolic, found it easy to laugh at this, as well as at a number of similar outbursts on the part of the others, equally ridiculous if somewhat less elaborate. And the fun went on for some minutes. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that Miss Kitty’s plan, promising as it had seemed, did not turn out quite so well as she had expected. Admirably adapted, as no doubt it was, to a picnic party, where all sorts of people would be constantly moved to say all sorts of things, it was found not to work at all well among four persons of about the same age, in an open boat, where there was no especial necessity for saying anything. Somehow or other, after a little, the singing began to grow less funny, and presently everybody appeared to have discovered that it was easier to keep still than to express one’s self, and so a grim silence fell upon the boat. Freddy played with the water alongside; the girls bent to their oars; and Jasper attended to his steering. And, bound as they were by their absurd agreement, it is to be feared that the crew of the gig would have had a dreary time of it for the next two hours, but for an idea that suddenly suggested itself to Jasper’s fertile mind.

All at once the coxswain gave the helm a turn; and then the boat’s keel was heard grating softly upon the sand. The others looked around in surprise. The boat was close inshore, and the next moment it brought up with a gentle bump against the bank. A short distance away a railroad crossing could be seen, and, just beyond it, a red house. Jasper rose to his feet, and sang:

“Now, what say you, my gallant crew,

To going with me ashore?

Methinks ’twould be a goodly thing

To tread the land once more.”

“I’m ready, for one,” cried Freddy, jumping ashore at once, painter in hand.

“Ahem!” uttered Jasper loudly.

And Master Frederick, looking up, found a finger warningly pointed in his direction, and realized that he had broken the rule. Jasper solemnly took out his note-book and made an entry. Next he leaped ashore himself and stood waiting to help the girls, who, after a moment’s hesitation, also stepped ashore. Then, the boat being made fast to a convenient post, they all started leisurely up the bank.

They soon came to a road which led them directly across the railroad and toward the red house. This house was a small, one-story cottage, very humble, but with the thrifty Cape Cod look, having a bright garden in front and a neat walk, bordered with curious shells, running down to the gate. Jasper, catching sight of a well near the side door, was about to make an excuse for turning in, when Kitty forestalled him.

“Oh,” sang she, her spirits already revived by the change from sea to shore, “Be it ever so humble, I must have some water.”

They went in, therefore, and Jasper was about to let down the bucket, which worked by some modern arrangement, when a woman came running out with a glass.

“Here, here!” she cried shrilly. “We don’t ’low strangers to meddle with that well! I’ll draw it for you, if you please.” And she put Jasper one side, carefully letting down the bucket, and then breathlessly drawing it up. “You gave me quite a turn, I declare!” she observed as she handed Ethel the glass. “I thought you were that sewin’-machine man when I first heard ye. He said he sh’d come to-day.”

She eyed them curiously. She was a spare, energetic-looking woman, with a pinched face and small bright eyes. She seemed rather puzzled when no one spoke, though the two girls and Freddy bowed their thanks profusely as they finished drinking. Her bewilderment may well have grown to wonder as she beheld Jasper, with one hand still extended after handing back the glass and the other laid dramatically upon his heart, open his mouth and begin to sing, to the air of “Auld Lang Syne,” familiar in Cape Cod homes as everywhere else in the world,

“‘Thanks,’ said the judge, ‘a sweeter draught

A fairer hand ne’er quaffed——’”

The combined exigencies of the tune and the effort to adapt the quotation to it, left the singer, attitude and all, hanging, so to speak, at the end of a high note; and the effect was supremely ludicrous. Jasper’s comrades could not restrain their laughter.

The woman regarded him for an instant with a look of amazement; but people on the Cape have a way of keeping their feelings to themselves, and she quickly recovered her self-possession.

“Humph!” said she, glancing keenly from Jasper to the rest. “Where do you folks come from, anyway?”

“We came,” Jasper answered, still true to “Auld Acquaintance,”

“We came, in yonder noble ship,
From lands beyond the sea;
And we’ve landed on this barren shore
To—to—see what we could see.”

He broke a little on the last line and finished rather lamely.

“Humph!” the woman dryly repeated. “You’ve come to a dangerous place, then. P’r’aps you may not be aware that ’twas only right down here a bit that Cap’n Cook was killed.”

Here Kitty, delighted to see her scheme displaying at last some of the qualities she had claimed for it, took it upon herself to answer, clasping her hands in horror at the announcement made:

“Alas, my good woman, how dreadful! And, pray,

What’s the name of this barbarous land, did you say?”

Her rhythm was not quite as smooth as Jasper’s; but she was true to her air, and the rhyme at the end fairly surprised herself.

“Well,” the woman answered seriously, “we gen’rally call it the Cape. Though they do say,” she added, “that they’re tryin’ hard to make an island of it, up to Sandwich.” This was a reference, no doubt, to the famous Cape Cod Canal. Then, still looking her visitors over and trying to make them out, “Do they all sing their words,” she inquired, “in the country you come from?”

Kitty was about to reply again; but at this instant a diversion occurred. Master Freddy, moved to exploration on his own account, had strayed away to the kitchen door, and, peeping within it, his eye had fallen upon a huge dish, full of freshly made crullers, resting upon the table. Utterly ravished by the sight, he had given vent to a prolonged “Oh!” and then, mindful of forfeits, but quite compelled to utter himself, he, too, began to sing, and the well worn notes of the “Suwanee River” rose rapturously to the breeze:

“Oh, how I wi—i—i—i—ish-I

Ha—ad a cruller!”

“Sakes alive!” exclaimed the woman, looking around. “That reminds me. There’re my crullers all this time. I must run. Come in, won’t ye? Come in an’ try ’em.”

Ethel being the only one inclined to hold back, and she being of a yielding nature, they all followed the woman indoors, and were ushered presently into a little sitting-room next the kitchen. It was a poorly furnished, but neat and pleasant apartment, with snow-white curtains, worn haircloth furniture, and a parlor organ, and with a sewing machine in one corner. Freddy came in after the rest, a huge ring of a cruller firmly grasped in one hand, and another of more elongated proportions thrust deeply down his throat. The woman followed immediately with the dish, and her cordially repeated invitation to “try ’em” was gladly accepted. Jasper possessed himself of a magnificent specimen, and loudly sang the praises of itself and donor, pleasing himself immensely by an ingenious combination of “try ’em” and “fry ’em.” Ethel glanced at him reproachfully, feeling a pang of shame that he should persist in his joking in the face of this kindly hospitality. But Jasper was not to be stopped at such a time. Nor did Kitty seem disposed to be prudent. She was, as she herself might have expressed it, gradually working up to “concert pitch”; and she and Jasper, evidently, were having a much better time with their singing than they had while they were in the boat. Kitty also sought to celebrate in song the virtues of the crullers, even venturing upon a little parody wherein “sweet crullers” was substituted for “sweet home,” and “crumble” for “humble,” which, absolutely nonsensical as it may have been, caused Jasper to go off in fits of laughter and clap his hand upon his knee and cry “capital!” in utter violation of his vow. And then Freddy sang, too, and even Ethel sang; and they all got to laughing harder and harder, with that absurd, unreasonable laughter that laughs at almost anything, and that the more it laughs, the more it will laugh, until by and by it grows to be quite uncontrollable. All of which, the writer is aware, was exceedingly silly and ridiculous on the part of these young people whom he has introduced to the reader; but he begs the latter to remember that they were only boys and girls after all, and that they were really a little beside themselves that morning, and that, at any rate, no single one of them meant a particle of real harm by it. The only person who preserved her countenance was their hostess. That problem of a woman went in and out among them, never so much as smiling at anything that was said or done, watching them closely with her small, sharp eyes, always seeming to be “making them out,” but letting no sign of any conclusion to which she might have come find its way into her face.

At length Ethel, thinking to quiet things, glanced toward the organ and asked respectfully (though to music, of course) if she might “try the instrument.”

“Oh!” replied the woman, following Edith’s glance, and with an odd, scared look coming into her face as she did so, “I couldn’t let ye touch that, Miss; indeed, I couldn’t. Why, ’taint mine, yet; an’ I don’t know now as ’t ever will be.” Then she interrupted herself with an air of deep chagrin. “Why, you mean the melodyun, don’t ye? I thought all the while you meant the sewin’-machine. How stupid! Seem’s if I can’t think o’ anythin’ lately but that sewing-machine. It’s nigh worritted my life out. You see, I bought it last winter of an agent, an’ agreed to pay ten dollars a month for it till ’twas paid for. But, somehow or ruther, Silas hasn’t earned anythin’ to speak of, sence he came back from Georges Banks, an’ things ha’ gone hard; an’ now the time is up, an’ there’s twenty-seven dollars still due. I’ve scraped up twenty, here and there, but I’m lackin’ seven, yet. The man’s comin’ to-day to take the machine, an’ I’ve got to lose all I’ve paid him. That was the bargain. But,”—she hesitated and her thin lip quivered,—“I vow it’s too bad! An’ I don’t believe the law would allow it.”

At this instant, as it happened, a step and a heavy rap were heard at the outer door. The woman started.

“There he is now!” she exclaimed. “I know his knock’s well ’s I do the minister’s or the doctor’s. ’Xcuse me a minute.” And, with lips shut tight, she left the room. Then the occupants of the sitting-room heard a man’s voice roughly explaining that he could not take the machine to-day, but that he should be along again to-morrow and should certainly take it then if the money was not ready. The woman seemed to have very little to say in reply; and presently, having dismissed her unwelcome caller, she came back into the sitting-room.

“About that melodyun, Miss,” she resumed at once with an absent air; “you’d be welcome to play on it, but Salome’s gone over to Hyannis for a visit, an’ she accidentally took the key off with her in her rettycule. Salome’s my daughter,” she added, with a touch of motherly pride. “She’s took lessons. If she was here, she’d play for ye!”

What a mischievous spirit it was that prompted Kitty to break forth, in accents as tenderly regretful as any ever attained in the singing of “Sweet Home” itself!—

“Salome! Salome!

Would—that you—were home!”

She wondered herself, the next moment, what had possessed her, realizing that in thus turning the absent daughter’s name to ridicule, she was doing a distinctly rude and unkind thing. She started up, sincerely meaning to apologize. But the woman had turned away, seeming not to have noticed it; and Kitty sank back in her chair again.

The woman had noticed, however, and there was a faint flush on her cheek and a resentful glitter in her eye as she stood at the table, pretending to look for something in her work-basket, and for several moments speaking not a word. Suddenly, with an air of decision, she turned and walked straight out to the kitchen, going to a back door that was there and opening it. Then they heard her calling somebody in her shrill, far-reaching voice:

“Silas! Si—las! Silas!”

Silas—whom all understood to be the woman’s husband—must have been close at hand, for almost immediately a man’s voice sounded without, and then the two were heard talking together in low tones inside the kitchen. The next moment they appeared at the sitting-room door.

The woman, when they entered the room, was preparing to throw a shawl about her shoulders. But nobody, at that moment, thought very much about her. Her visitors were too much struck by the appearance of the remarkable individual who attended her. He was a man of immense physical proportions, more than six feet high, and correspondingly broad. His short, stubby hair was of a dull red color, as were also the thick, wiry whiskers that covered his face. His skin, where it could be seen, was deeply burned. One of his eyes was closed and sightless. He was dressed in a big green baize jacket, oil trousers, and “fish boots.” In his hand he carried a short, heavy clam hoe. Altogether he was a formidable-looking person. The two girls uttered a little cry of dismay when they saw him; Jasper himself looked troubled, and Freddy fixed upon him a look of fascinated horror. Freddy was thoroughly familiar with the story of Polyphemus (Jasper had told it to him many times), and his one thought now was that that awful monster stood before him.

“Silas,” said the woman sharply, turning toward him as she pinned her shawl, “here’s some people. I don’t know who they air, nor where they come from; but I do know that they’re stark, starin’ crazy, every one of ’em. They can’t do anythin’ but sing an’ laugh. I’m afraid of ’em; an’ I’m goin’ to run down to Squire Baker’s an’ have him send up a constable, an’ have ’em taken care of. They ought to be put in the mad-house. I want you to stay here an’ keep guard over ’em till I come back.”

And with that, before Jasper and the rest had at all grasped the meaning of her words or comprehended her intention, she was gone.

The giant, who was left behind, reached over to draw to him a large rocking-chair that stood near by and sat down before the door, not saying a word. Freddy felt quite certain now that he was Polyphemus—Polyphemus, with his terrible single eye, sitting at the door of his cave and keeping guard over Ulysses and his band. As for the rest, they knew not what to do or say. What did it all mean? What strange people these they had come among,—the woman who took them for lunatics, and that grim creature at the door? Could the woman really have believed them crazy? She had said so. And her manner from the first, as they now recalled it, suspicious and uneasy, seemed to say so too. And, indeed, it was hardly to be wondered at, considering their absurd actions. What then would come of it? Would the constable, when he came, think they were crazy too?—and the magistrate? Cape Cod people, they had always heard, were queer people. The situation seemed really serious. They looked at each other soberly, not speaking yet, but all thinking some such thoughts as these.

But Jasper, as the man of the party, felt that it behooved him to do something at once. He got up from his chair and advanced, with as determined a bearing as he could assume, in the direction of their keeper. Ethel turned pale.

“Oh, Jasper!” she murmured. “What are you going to do? Please don’t go near him.”

“No,” Kitty whispered, equally alarmed; “pray don’t. Let us wait quietly till the constable comes. It will be all right then.” No one of them thought any longer of maintaining their agreement as to singing, which, indeed, had been quite driven out of their minds.

“Pooh!” answered Jasper with lofty valor, “I’m only going to request our monumental friend here to move one side a little so that we can pass out. It’s time we were going.” Then, as the person alluded to paid no attention, he addressed him directly. “If you please, my friend, we’d like to pass out.”

“‘I WANT YOU TO KEEP GUARD OVER ’EM TILL I COME BACK,’ SAID THE WOMAN.”

The other shook his head,—calmly and quietly enough. It was not anything the man did, nor indeed anything he said, when he came to speak, that was so terrible, after all; it was simply his forbidding face and his gigantic figure.

“I’m very sorry,” said he in a voice so deep and sepulchral one might well have fancied it was supplied to him somehow from the cellar below, “very sorry indeed. But the fact is ye can’t be allowed to go,—not till Malviny comes back.”

“Look here, now,” observed Jasper, straightening up and trying to look terrible himself.

“Wall, I’m lookin’ here.” The man calmly regarded him with his single eye.

“Do you know who we are?” Jasper continued.

The giant shook his head again. “Hevn’t the slightest idee. Couldn’t no more say who ye air ’n I could say who’ll be keepin’ Highland Light in the year nineteen hundred ’n eighty-six. Malviny says ye’re a passel o’ crazytics, an’ that’s all I want to know about ye. I never go behind what Malviny says. She’ll be back with the cunstable presently, an’ they’ll settle your case. Meanwhile, here you’ll hev to stay till they come.”

He leaned back in his chair and began rocking to and fro, resting his clam hoe across his knees.

“But see here,” persisted Jasper; “that is all nonsense, you know, about our being crazy. We——”

“Hi! hi!” interrupted the giant, stopping his chair. “What’s that ye say? Be keerful, young man. Be keerful!” He lifted his ponderous fore-finger and slowly waved it back and forth with an air of solemn warning. “Don’t you ventur’ fur to dare fur to assertify that anything Malviny says is nonsense! She allus knows what she’s talkin’ about. If she says you’re crazy, crazy you be,—an’ ye can’t help yourselves.”

“But I say——” poor Jasper once again began.

“Now, be keerful, young man. Be keerful!” The awful finger again cleft the air.

“Oh!” cried Jasper, stamping his foot in impotent rage. “This is intolerable! You’ve not a particle of right to keep us here. Move one side, I say, and let us pass.”

He advanced a step and threateningly confronted his enemy.

But the latter remained perfectly unmoved, save that again he gravely shook his head.

“Not till Malviny comes,” was his imperturbable answer. “Not till Malviny comes.”

And Jasper, brave as any lad, but well aware in his heart that he would no more think of actually attacking that gigantic adversary than of throwing himself upon an advancing locomotive, yielded to the renewed entreaties of Ethel and Kitty, and sullenly returned to his seat.

Then for many minutes—just how many, no one knew—there was perfect silence in the house,—or silence the perfection of which was only marred by the ticking of the little Waterbury clock on the kitchen mantel. The prisoners sat there in a dazed, despairing sort of mood, their eyes most of the time bent upon the floor, content to wait without further motion the issue of events.

All at once, from the watcher’s direction, there came a sound, loud, clear, sonorous, unmistakable—the sound of a human snore. They all looked up surprised, and a single glance at the mammoth form in the doorway assured them of the fact which the sound had intimated. Their keeper slept.

Jasper, with a swift gesture of caution to his comrades, sat and watched the sleeper for a moment, to be sure that it was so; then he rose to his feet. The time for action had undoubtedly arrived. He glanced about the room, marking its ways of egress. The windows were open, but not far enough, and it would not do to risk the noise of opening them farther. There were four doors in the room, besides that leading to the kitchen, all closed. Jasper passed three of these by as admitting without doubt to bedrooms or cupboards, and turned to the fourth. This opened, as he had expected, into a little front hall; and there, right at hand, was the outer door. Jasper’s heart sank as he saw that the key was gone; but he tried the door, and lo! to his surprise, it was not locked at all. Here then was freedom at last, in their very grasp! “Come! Come!” he whispered, beckoning eagerly to his companions. And then, like a captain who must be last to quit the wreck, he stood holding open the door for the others to pass through.

Freddy came first, painfully tiptoeing his way, and scarcely able even now to remove his glance from the fearful being across the room. Then Kitty glided out and Ethel followed, and the three stood safely outside. Jasper lingered a moment, latch in hand, glancing back at the grim sentinel in the rocking-chair. The man still sat there, his head thrown back and his dreadful eye fast closed, wrapped apparently in profoundest slumber. Jasper felt all his old assurance coming back. He kissed his hand to the sleeper.

“Good-bye, my dear guardian, good-bye!” he cried, half aloud.

“‘My boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea;

But before I go, once more I must say farewell to thee.’”

But what meant that movement on the part of the sleeper? Jasper stared. The huge frame was certainly shaking in its chair. Could it be that the man was laughing in his sleep? The lad did not stop to ponder the question, but closed the door behind him and hurried after the rest.

At the crossing, they came suddenly upon Mrs. Malviny. Jasper made her a bow.

“May I ask,” he inquired, “if you saw Squire Baker?”

“Yes,” answered she gloomily; “I saw him. He says it’s no use. Unless I pay the money, the man can take the machine. I can’t—But sho! There I am again. You mean did I see him about the constable? Well, no; I didn’t.” She looked at them now with a humorous twinkle in her eye. “The fact is, that was one o’ my jokes. You seemed to be havin’ a good deal o’ fun at my expense, up to the house, an’ so I thought I’d have a little at yours. I hope ye didn’t have any trouble with Silas. He’s the best-natered man in the world,—wouldn’t harm a toad-fish. If he would, I’d set him after that sewin’-machine man! There’s Silas at the front gate now! What’s he laughin’ at, I wonder? Well, good-day! If anybody in your country asks after us Cape folks, you tell ’em we aint all fools down here. We don’t live on fish for nothin’.”

“Well!” uttered Jasper, gazing after her a moment with an air of profound admiration, and then looking down at himself in equally deep disgust. “If we haven’t been most beautifully and artistically circumvented this time, I should like to know the reason why! I feel as cheap as an eighty-cent dollar.”

“We certainly have had a good fright!” declared Kitty.

“It seems to me,” observed Ethel seriously, “that this ought to be a lesson to us not to turn everything and everybody to ridicule quite so freely in the future.”

“Yes,” cried Freddy. “And how about all that money you three will have to pay for talking all this while, instead of singing?”

“Sure enough!” said Kitty.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” suggested Ethel. “We will let ourselves off, once for all, for seven dollars; and we’ll make up that sum and send it to Mrs. Malviny to complete the twenty-seven dollars she owes her sewing-machine man.”

“Done!” shouted Jasper with enthusiasm.

And done it was, that very night.

THE WEASEL AND THE ADDER.

Of all the sharp-toothed and vindictive little animals that prey upon their comrades and sometimes do service for man, none is sharper or more vindictive than the weasel—a bright-eyed little beast, with a coat of golden-brown fur and a clean white shirt-front. It somewhat resembles the rat, and also the squirrel; but it is, really, the deadly enemy of both.

And of all the hateful reptiles that crawl and coil and sting, there are few more venomous and hateful than is the little olive-brown snake known as the adder—a rattlesnake without rattles, and the untiring foe to mice and birds and moles, thus also occasionally proving of service to man.

Both the weasel, which belongs to the family known as the mustelidæ, or mouse-eaters, and the adder, which belongs to the viperidæ, or viper family, are, as you see, agreed upon one thing—a liking for mice for dinner. And they are just as heartily united upon another subject—their hatred of each other.

So when, as in the above picture, weasel and adder meet in the way, there is certain to be a duel to the death.

The weasel is a spry and fiery-tempered little animal; the adder is treacherous and equally hot-headed. And although, as the rule, the weasel is worsted in such encounters, sometimes the coils of the adder squirm and droop and stiffen as, with one quick snap, the sharp teeth of the weasel seize and break the mottled neck of the snake.

GEORGE WASHINGTON.
[An Historical Biography.]

By Horace E. Scudder.

Chapter XXIV.
PRESIDENT WASHINGTON.

It was on April 16, 1789, that Washington left Mount Vernon for New York, where Congress first met, and where he was to be inaugurated President. The country all along the route was eager to see him, and at every place through which he passed there were processions and triumphal arches and ringing of bells. Some of the signs of welcome were queer, and some were beautiful and touching. When he crossed the Schuylkill, there was a series of arches under which he was to ride; and when he came to the first one, a laurel wreath was let down upon his head. The people who arranged that exhibition must have been very anxious as to how it would turn out. At Trenton, where everybody remembered the famous battle he had fought, the women had put up a great triumphal arch resting upon thirteen columns, with a great dome crowned by a sunflower; then, as he rode through, he came upon a company of women and girls who came toward him, strewing flowers and singing. When he reached New York, guns were fired; and a vast crowd of people, headed by the Governor, was waiting to receive him.

Congress had begun its sessions at Federal Hall, which stood where the present Treasury building stands in Wall street. The day set for the inauguration was April 30. Precisely at noon, the procession moved from the house where Washington was lodged, through what is now Pearl street and Broad street, to the Hall. Washington entered the Senate Chamber, where John Adams, who was Vice-President and therefore presiding over the Senate, received him in the presence of the Senate and House, and then escorted him to a balcony at the front of the Hall. A crimson-covered table stood on it, holding a large Bible. Below, Broad street and Wall street were packed with people, as were also the windows and the roofs of the houses near by. They set up a great shout as Washington appeared. He came to the front, laid his hand on his heart, and bowed to the people.

The multitude could see the commanding figure of the great general as he stood bare-headed on the balcony. He was dressed in a suit of brown cloth, of American manufacture, with knee-breeches and white silk stockings and silver shoe-buckles. His hair was dressed and powdered, as was the custom then. They saw near him John Adams and Robert R. Livingston, the Chancellor of the State of New York, and distinguished men—generals and others; but their eyes were bent on Washington. They saw Chancellor Livingston stand as if speaking to him, and the Secretary of the Senate holding the open Bible on which Washington’s hand lay. Those nearest could hear the Chancellor pronounce the oath of office and Washington’s reply, “I swear—so help me, God!” and could see him bow and kiss the Bible.

Then the Chancellor stepped forward, waved his hand, and said aloud: “Long live George Washington, President of the United States.” At the same time, a flag, as a signal, was run up on the cupola of the Hall. Instantly cannon were fired, bells rung, and the people shouted. Washington saluted them, and then turned back into the Senate chamber, where he read his inaugural address, in a low voice, for he was evidently deeply affected,—great occasions always solemnized him,—and after the address, he went on foot, with many others, to St. Paul’s Church, where prayers were read by Dr. Provoost, Bishop of the Episcopal Church, and one of the chaplains of Congress. At night, there were fireworks and bonfires.

Thus, with the good-will of the people and the confidence of all the sections,—however suspicious they might be of one another,—Washington began his career as President. For eight years, he remained in office. His character was now so fixed that there is little new to be learned about it from that time forward; but there were many events that made more clear how wise, how just, how honorable and how faithful to his trust he was. He had been very loath to take upon himself the duties of President, but when once he had been placed in the chair, he let nothing stand in the way of the most thorough discharge of his duties.

INAUGURATION OF WASHINGTON AS PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.

Now came into play all those habits which he had been forming from boyhood. As President of the whole people, it was his business to have an oversight of all the interests of the young nation, and, as the first President, he had the opportunity of setting an example to those who were to come after him. It is one of the most excellent gifts to the American people that they should have had for their first President a man so well rounded and so magnanimous as George Washington. There were as yet no political parties, though there were the seeds of parties in the opposite ways in which public men regarded the new Constitution. Washington called to his cabinet men who disliked one another and who were really as much opposed to one another as if they belonged to antagonistic parties; but they never could draw Washington away from a strict impartiality. He made Thomas Jefferson Secretary of State, because he was most thoroughly acquainted with foreign affairs; and he made Alexander Hamilton Secretary of the Treasury, because he had shown himself the most competent man to plan a way out of the greatest peril which beset the young nation. But Jefferson and Hamilton cordially disliked each other, and were decidedly of opposite ways of thinking.

ST. PAUL’S CHURCH, NEW YORK.

Washington, however, did not rest contented with choosing the best men to carry on the Government. In those days, when the country had only a small population, a small area, and a small business, it was possible for one man to know very much more fully the details of government than it is now. His lifelong habits of methodical industry enabled Washington to get through an amount of work which seems extraordinary. For example, he read from beginning to end all the letters which had passed between Congress and foreign governments since the treaty of peace in 1783, making abstracts and briefs of them, so as to know thoroughly the whole history of the relations of the country to foreign governments. He required from every head of department whom he found in office, a report of the state of public business. He treated these reports as he had the foreign correspondence, and in this way he mastered all the internal affairs of the nation. The result was that he had his own judgment about any matter of importance which came up, and was not obliged to follow the lead of the cabinet officers.

There were, of course, only a few public offices to be filled then, and it was quite possible for Washington to know personally most of the men who should be appointed to fill them. He thought this one of the most important parts of his work as President; because he knew well that it is not rules and regulations, but men, that carry on any government or any business, and that, if he could put honest and capable men, who were unselfishly devoted to the country, into all the offices, he would secure a wise administration of the laws. From the first, he began to be besieged by applicants for office, and he made immediately the very sensible rule that he would not give any pledge or encouragement to any applicant. He heard what they and their friends had to say, and then made up his mind deliberately. He had, however, certain principles in his mind which governed him in making appointments, and they were so high and honorable, and show so well the character of the man, that I copy here what he said with regard to the matter:

“Scarcely a day passes in which applications of one kind or another do not arrive; insomuch that, had I not early adopted some general principles, I should before this time have been wholly occupied in this business. As it is, I have found the number of answers, which I have been necessitated to give in my own hand, an almost insupportable burden to me. The points in which all these answers have agreed in substance are, that, should it be my lot to go again into public office, I would go without being under any possible engagements of any nature whatsoever; that, so far as I knew my own heart, I would not be in the remotest degree influenced in making nominations by motives arising from the ties of family or blood; and that, on the other hand, three things, in my opinion, ought principally to be regarded, namely: the fitness of characters to fill offices, the comparative claims from the former merits and sufferings in service of the different candidates, and the distribution of appointments in as equal a proportion as might be to persons belonging to the different States in the Union. Without precautions of this kind, I clearly foresaw the endless jealousies and possibly the fatal consequences to which a government, depending altogether on the good-will of the people for its establishment, would certainly be exposed in its early stages. Besides, I thought, whatever the effect might be in pleasing or displeasing any individuals at the present moment, a due concern for my own reputation, not less decisively than a sacred regard to the interests of the community, required that I should hold myself absolutely at liberty to act, while in office, with a sole reference to justice and the public good.”

To protect himself from being at everybody’s call, and so unable to be of the greatest service, he established certain rules. Every Tuesday, between the hours of three and four, he received whoever might come. Every Friday afternoon Mrs. Washington received with him. At all other times, he could be seen only by special appointment. He never accepted invitations to dinner, and that has been the rule of Presidents ever since; but he constantly invited to his own table foreign ministers, members of the Government, and other guests. He received no visits on Sunday. He went to church with his family in the morning, and spent the afternoon by himself. The evening he spent with his family, and sometimes had with him an intimate friend.

He still kept up his old habit of rising at four and going to bed at nine. Mrs. Washington had a grave little formula with which she used to dismiss visitors in the evening:

“The General always retires at nine o’clock, and I usually precede him.”

His recreation he took chiefly in driving and riding. He never lost his liking for a good horse, and he knew what a good horse was. He had a servant who had been General Braddock’s servant, and had been with Washington ever since the battle of the Monongahela. Bishop, as he was named, was a terrible disciplinarian, and devoted to his master’s interests. At sunrise every day, he would go to the stables, where the boys had been at work since dawn grooming the General’s horses. Woe to them if they had been careless! Bishop marched in with a muslin handkerchief in his hand and passed it over the coats of the horses; if a single stain appeared on the muslin, the boy who groomed the horse had to take a thrashing. It was no light matter to groom a horse in those days, for, just as the heads of gentlemen were plastered and bewigged, so the horses were made to undergo what would seem to us now a rather absurd practice. The night before a horse was to be ridden, he was covered from head to foot with a paste made of whiting and other ingredients; then he was well wrapped in cloth and laid to sleep on clean straw. By the next morning the paste had hardened, and it was then vigorously rubbed in, and the horse curried and brushed. The result was a glossy and satiny coat. The hoofs were blackened and polished, the mouth washed, the teeth picked and cleaned, and the horse was then ready to be saddled and brought out.

Mrs. Washington was a domestic, home-loving body, but a lady of great dignity and sweetness of disposition, who moved serenely by the side of her husband, receiving his guests in the same spirit. She never talked about politics, but was evenly courteous to every one. She was like her husband, too, in her exactness and her attention to little details of economy. While she was in the midst of her duties as President’s wife, she wrote to one of her family: “I live a very dull life here, and know nothing that passes in the town. I never go to any public place, indeed, I think I am more like a state prisoner than anything else. There are certain bounds set for me which I must not depart from; and, as I can not do as I like, I am obstinate and stay at home a great deal.” But her real heart was at Mount Vernon and in her household affairs. “I send to dear Maria,” she writes, “a piece of chene to make her a frock, and a piece of muslin, which I hope is long enough for an apron for you. In exchange for it, I beg you will give me a worked muslin apron you have, like my gown that I made just before I left home, of worked muslin, as I wish to make a petticoat to my gown, of the two aprons.”

Washington himself never lost sight of Mount Vernon. Just as in his absence, during the war, he required weekly reports from the manager of his plantation, so now he kept up the same practice. Occasionally, when Congress was not in session, he could go home, but his visits were short and rare. It may seem strange to some that a soldier and a statesman like Washington should be also an ardent farmer; but that he was. I suppose the one occupation that Washington loved was farming; in his earlier life there is no doubt that he cared most for a soldier’s fortune, but after he was fairly in possession of Mount Vernon, the care of that place became his passion, and for the rest of his life he was first and last a farmer. For my part, I like to think of Washington in this way, for the one indispensable art is the art of agriculture; all other arts are built upon it, and the man who has a piece of land, and can raise from it enough to feed and clothe and shelter himself and his family, is the most independent of men, and has a real place on the earth which he can call his own.

During his presidency, Washington made two tours through the country,—one into the Eastern and one into the Southern States. He was received with special honor in New England, for he was less familiarly known to the people there, and they made a great holiday in every town through which the President passed. By these tours, he made himself acquainted with the needs of the country and with the persons who were the leaders of the people.

But there were parts which he could not visit, yet in which he felt the deepest interest and concern. We have seen how, from time to time, he visited the country beyond the Alleghanies, and how much importance he attached to the settlement of the West. The greatest difficulty in the early days was through the relations which the people had with the Indians. Washington knew the Indians well; he knew how to get along with them, and he knew also what dangerous enemies they were. At the end of his first term as President, it became necessary to send a military expedition to the frontiers, and General St. Clair was placed at the head of it. When he came to bid Washington good-bye, his old chief gave him a solemn warning: “You have your instructions from the Secretary of War. I had a strict eye to them, and will add but one word: Beware of a surprise! You know how the Indians fight. I repeat it—beware of a surprise!”

But St. Clair was surprised and terribly defeated. It was a bitter disappointment to Washington, who received the news of the disaster one December day when he was at dinner. His private secretary, Mr. Lear, was called out of the room by a servant, who said there was a messenger without who insisted on seeing the President. Mr. Lear went to him and found that he was an officer from St. Clair’s army with dispatches which he refused to give to any one but President Washington. Mr. Lear went back to the dining-room and whispered this to Washington, who excused himself to the company and went out to hear the officer’s news. He came back shortly after and resumed his place at the table, but without explaining the reason of his absence. He was, however, absorbed, as he often was, and muttered to himself; and one of his neighbors caught the words, “I knew it would be so!”

It was the evening when Mrs. Washington held her reception, and the gentlemen, when leaving the dining-room, went directly into the drawing-room. Washington went with them. He was calm and showed no signs of disturbance. He spoke as usual to every one, and at last the guests had gone. Mrs. Washington also left, and the General was left alone with his secretary. He was silent at first, walking to and fro in the room. Then he took a seat by the fire, and motioned Mr. Lear to sit by him. He could no longer contain himself; he must have some relief, and suddenly he burst out: “It’s all over! St. Clair’s defeated! routed! The officers nearly all killed; the men by wholesale; the rout complete—too shocking to think of, and a surprise into the bargain!” He jerked out the sentences as if he were in pain. He got up and walked up and down again like a caged lion, stood still, and once more burst out in passionate speech: “Yes, here, on this very spot I took leave of him; I wished him success and honor. ‘You have your instructions from the Secretary of War,’ said I, ‘I had a strict eye to them, and will add but one word: beware of a surprise! You know how the Indians fight; I repeat it—beware of a surprise!’ He went off with that, my last warning, thrown into his ears. And yet!—To suffer that army to be cut to pieces, butchered, tomahawked, by a surprise—the very thing I guarded him against!”—and the strong man threw up his hands while he shook with terrible emotion: “He’s worse than a murderer! How can he answer for it to his country! The blood of the slain is upon him—the curse of widows and orphans—the curse of Heaven!”

GEORGE WASHINGTON. (FROM THE PORTRAIT BY GILBERT STUART.)

Mr. Lear was dumb. He had never seen or heard Washington like this. It was a pent-up volcano bursting forth. Washington himself recovered his control. He sat down again. He was silent. He felt, as a strong man does who has for a moment broken the bounds of restraint, a noble shame, not at his indignation, but at having for a moment thus given way. “This must not go beyond this room,” he said presently, in a quiet, almost whispered tone. Then he added, after a pause: “General St. Clair shall have justice. I looked hastily through the dispatches; saw the whole disaster, but not all the particulars. I will receive him without displeasure; I will hear him without prejudice; he shall have full justice.”

Washington kept his word. Perhaps all the more for this outbreak, he determined that St. Clair should be treated with scrupulous justice. But the incident illustrates the character of Washington. Deep down in his nature was a passionate regard for law, for obedience, for strict accountability. It was this which made him in minor matters so punctual, so orderly, so precise in his accounts; in larger matters, it made him unselfishly and wholly consecrated to the country which trusted him, just in all his dealings, and the soul of honor. This consuming passion for law made him govern himself, keep in restraint the fierce wrath which leaped up within him, and measure his acts and words with an iron will. The two notable scenes when his anger blazed out and burned up his self-control as if it were a casing of straw, were caused by Lee’s faithlessness at Monmouth and St. Clair’s carelessness. On each of these occasions, it was not an offense against himself which woke his terrible wrath, it was an offense against the country, against God; for in the moment of his anger he saw each of these two men false to the trust reposed in him.

Yet the difficulties with the Indians were as nothing to the perils which beset the country in its intercourse with Europe. At that time, the United States was almost a part of Europe. All its business was with France and England. It had declared and achieved political independence, but was nevertheless connected by a thousand ties of commerce, law, and custom with the Old World. The fierce revolution in France was in part set in flame by the example of America; and when war broke out between England and France, there was scarcely a man in America who did not take sides in his mind with one country or the other. There was the greatest possible danger that the country would be drawn into the quarrels of Europe.

In the midst of all these commotions, when the very members of his cabinet were acting and speaking as if they were the servants either of England or of France, Washington maintained his impartiality, and saw to it that the United States was kept out of European disputes. What was the result? He saved the country from fearful disaster; for he was like the pilot that conducts the ship through rapids and past dangerous reefs. But he himself suffered incredible contumely and reviling from the hot-headed partisans who were ready to plunge the country into the dispute. “If ever a nation,” said one newspaper, “was debauched by a man, the American nation has been debauched by Washington. If ever a nation was deceived by a man, the American nation has been deceived by Washington. Let his conduct, then, be an example to future ages; let it serve to be a warning that no man may be an idol; let the history of the Federal Government instruct mankind that the mask of patriotism may be worn to conceal the foulest designs against the liberties of the people.” That is the way some people wrote about Washington when he was President.

Chapter XXV.
THE FAREWELL.

When Washington had completed his two terms of office, he was unalterably fixed in his resolution to go back to private life. The reasons which had induced him to accept the presidency against his inclination were no longer forcible. The government was established. The country was on the road to prosperity. No one man any longer had it in his power greatly to help or greatly to hurt the people. Moreover he was weary of public life. He was tired of standing up and being pelted with mud by all sorts of obscure people; of having his motives misconstrued; of listening to the endless bickerings of public men about him. For more than twenty years he had really been at the head of the nation. Now he meant to go back to his farm; but before he went, he had it in him to say one word to his countrymen.

That Washington should write his famous “Farewell Address to the People of the United States,” indicates how accurately he understood his position. He was a great man, a splendid figure in history, and he knew it. But he was too great to be vain of his distinction. He was not too great to use even his distinction for the benefit of his country. He knew perfectly well that any speech which he might make when he retired from office would be listened to as almost no other political paper was ever listened to by a people, and he determined to gather into his “Farewell Address” the weightiest judgment which he could pronounce, as summing up the result of his long study and observation of public affairs. He wrote, of course, with a special eye to the needs of the people who were immediately to hear and read the address. They had dangers about them which have since largely disappeared; for example, we do not especially need to-day the caution which the men of that day needed when Washington wrote: “A passionate attachment of one nation for another produces a variety of evils.”

Nevertheless, the address is so full of sound political wisdom, that I wish it might be read in every public school in the land on the 22d day of February. In it, the large-minded Washington speaks, thinking of the whole country, and pouring into his words the ripe and full judgment of a man whose one thought in his life had been to serve his country faithfully.

The observance of Washington’s birthday began in a quiet way during Washington’s lifetime. As early as 1783, when the war was over, but before the treaty of peace was signed, some gentlemen met together to celebrate it, and during his presidency, the day was observed by members of Congress and others who paid their respects to him, and the observance of the day became more and more general, especially after Washington’s death.

The day before he was to leave office, Washington gave a farewell dinner to the Foreign Ministers and their wives, and eminent public men including the new President, John Adams. The company was in excellent spirits, until Washington raised his glass to wish them all good health, after the fashion of those days. He smiled and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the last time I shall drink your health as a public man; I do it with sincerity, wishing you all possible happiness.” Perhaps he was thinking at the moment of his own happiness in going back to private life; but it suddenly rushed over the minds of those present what such a toast meant, and all mirth was gone. The next day he attended the ceremonies of the inauguration of John Adams. As he moved toward the door to retire, there was a rush of the people toward him. They cheered and cheered as he passed into the street. He answered, smiling and waving his hat, his gray hairs blown by the wind. The people followed him to the door of his house. He turned, as he entered, and looked on them. Now it was his turn to feel the pain of parting. After all, he was going away from those busy haunts where he was sure to see men who honored and loved him. Tears stood in his eyes; his face was pale and grave; he raised his hand, but he could not trust himself to speak.

He was once more at Mount Vernon, in the quiet of his home, and again the days went by in that regular routine which suited him. Here is a letter which he wrote to James McHenry, the Secretary of War:

“I am indebted to you for several unacknowledged letters; but never mind that; go on as if you had answers. You are at the source of information, and can find many things to relate; while I have nothing to say that could either inform or amuse a Secretary of War in Philadelphia. I might tell him that I begin my diurnal course with the sun; that, if my hirelings are not in their places at that time I send them messages of sorrow for their indisposition; that, having put these wheels in motion, I examine the state of things further; that, the more they are probed, the deeper I find the wounds which my buildings have sustained by an absence and neglect of eight years; that, by the time I have accomplished these matters, breakfast (a little after seven o’clock, about the time, I presume, you are taking leave of Mrs. McHenry) is ready; that, this being over, I mount my horse and ride round my farms, which employs me until it is time to dress for dinner, at which I rarely miss seeing strange faces, come, as they say, out of respect for me. Pray, would not the word curiosity answer as well? And how different this from having a few social friends at a cheerful board! The usual time of sitting at table, a walk, and tea, bring me within the dawn of candle light; previous to which, if not prevented by company, I resolve, that, as soon as the glimmering taper supplies the place of the great luminary, I will retire to my writing-table and acknowledge the letters I have received; but when the lights are brought, I feel tired and disinclined to engage in this work, conceiving that the next night will do as well. The next night comes, and with it the same causes for postponement, and so on. This will account for your letter remaining so long unacknowledged; and, having given you the history of a day, it will serve for a year, and I am persuaded you will not require a second edition of it. But it may strike you, that in this detail no mention is made of any portion of time allotted for reading. The remark would be just, for I have not looked into a book since I came home; nor shall I be able to do it until I have discharged my workmen, probably not before the nights grow longer, when possibly I may be looking in Doomsday Book. At present I shall only add, that I am always and affectionately yours.”

But the time came when a letter to the Secretary of War was not a piece of pleasantry. There was imminent danger of war with France; Congress issued an order to raise an army, and President John Adams immediately nominated George Washington as Commander-in-Chief. The Senate promptly confirmed the nomination, and Washington accepted on two conditions: that the principal officers should be such as he approved, and that he should not be called into the field till the army required his presence. He did not think there would be war, but he believed the best way to prevent it was to show that the people were ready for it.

It was in March, 1797, that Washington left Philadelphia for Mount Vernon; in July, 1798, he was appointed Commander-in-Chief. He conducted most of his business by letter, though he spent a month in Philadelphia. He took up again the burden he had laid down, quietly, readily, since it was necessary, and without complaint; but he had not very long to bear it.

On December 12, 1799, he had been riding over his farms as usual, but a rain and sleet storm came up, and he returned to the house chilled through by the exposure. The next day was still stormy, and he kept indoors; but he had taken cold and suffered from a sore throat. He passed the evening with his family, however, read the papers and talked cheerfully. In the night he had an attack of ague, and on the next morning, which was Saturday the 14th, he breathed with difficulty, and messengers were sent for one doctor after another. He suffered acutely, but did not complain. Toward evening he said to Dr. Craik: “I die hard, but I am not afraid to die. I believed from my first attack that I should not survive it. My breath can not last long.” He said little more, only thanked his attendants for their kindness, and bade them give themselves no further trouble,—simply to let him die in quietness. Between ten and eleven o’clock that night he died.

Chief-Justice Marshall, when the news reached Congress, said a few simple words in the House of Representatives, and asked that a committee be appointed in conjunction with a committee of the Senate “to consider on the most suitable manner of paying honor to the memory of the man, first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his fellow-citizens”; but no manner has been found more suitable than the study of that life which is the most priceless gift to America.

THE END.

THE CHILDREN’S EXHIBITION.

By Charles Barnard.

One morning last March there appeared in the New York newspapers an advertisement of a “Children’s Industrial Exhibition.” At first many persons could not imagine what it could be. But when the doors were opened and the reporters went to look at the exhibition, the newspapers began to tell of the many curious things to be seen in the hall. No such exhibition had ever been seen in New York, and then people began to wonder why one had not been held before. Now the true way to understand a thing is to look at it again and again. It so happened that I went to this exhibition several times, and that a St. Nicholas artist went too, and so perhaps we can together give you an idea of the principal things that were on view at that curious show.

GENERAL VIEW OF THE EXHIBITION.

The exhibition was held in a large and handsome hall, and was arranged just like any grand fair intended to exhibit the artistic or mechanical achievements of men and women. There was only this difference: the objects to be seen were all made by little women and very youthful men. There were medals to be given for the best work, and there was a catalogue, and there were officials to explain everything to the visitors. Were there sums on slates, compositions, exercises or examples of penmanship? No. Better than these—very much better—there were real things made by boys and girls with their own hands, and, best of all, things made in school.

On entering the hall, however, the first objects to attract attention were those made by boys at home and out of school. These objects were arranged on tables by themselves, some of the work being by children in New York, and some by young folk in Yonkers. There were wood-carvings, hammered brasswork, drawings and designs, embroidery, and hundreds of curious things either useful or merely ornamental; models of boats, houses, shops, forts, and even a carousel with woolly elephants that career madly around the ring whenever the clockwork is wound up. Some of the things were well made, but many were very poorly done, which shows that we must go to school to learn to make boats as well as to learn to do sums in long division. The work of the girls showed more training than that of the boys, and the sewing was very good,—some of the artistic sewing being worthy of high praise.

Speaking of sewing, our old St. Nicholas friends, the kitchen-garden and the cooking-garden, were wonderfully displayed with full examples and models, and even a tea-table set in proper order precisely as arranged by the little housekeepers. The exhibit was well worth looking at, and there was always a crowd around the table, but for us it was chiefly interesting because there the noble art of sewing was demonstrated precisely as if it were a lesson in geography.

PART OF THE EXHIBIT BY THE CHILDREN OF YONKERS, NEW YORK.

The true way to study about islands and capes and all the other divisions of land and water is to have some sand and water in a box, and then to build up the sand into miniature islands and capes, just like the real things out-of-doors. When I went to school, all the boys could say, “An island is a portion of land entirely surrounded by water,” and yet not a boy in the class knew that he lived on an island. So it is with sewing. The girls I knew years ago cried so hard over the long, dreary seams, that I used to be glad I was not a girl. But nowadays there is sewing without weeping: a neat box all ready for school,—with thimbles, needles, pins, thread, scissors; hundreds of pieces of cloth, basted and ready to be stitched; no dreary seams to tire young fingers, but easy graded lessons, like a needle-work kindergarten. And as we crossed the exhibition-hall, we saw another method. There on a long table were hundreds of garments and parts of garments made by the public-school girls of Philadelphia. There, in a frame, were all the lessons arranged in regular order, showing every step—hemming, over-seaming, back-stitching and running, reversible seam, felling, gathering, darning, and mending, up to the fine art of button-hole making. The girls are from eight to fifteen years of age, and that work they did in school, while attending to their regular school lessons. We passed on to the tables where the work of school-girls of Boston and New Haven and Hoboken was shown; and in every instance, we saw regular, graded lessons in needle-work, from the plainest hemming up to the finest embroidery. New York girls, too, in the schools of the Children’s Aid Society, in mission and church schools, showed by their samples that they also were students of stitchery. I saw one piece of sewing that seemed truly wonderful. It was in a glass case, and it was the “graduation exercises” of a young girl, fourteen years of age, on leaving Fräulein Calm’s school in Cassel, Germany. It consisted of half a yard of muslin ornamented with every kind of sewing that can be done on a machine; half a yard of dress fabric worked up by hand into the most beautiful pleatings, in a style that would bring tears of joy to the manly eyes of a ladies’ tailor; a piece of wonderful patching; and a square of darning so perfect that it was impossible to tell which was the new cloth, and which the old garment. Why, the girl must have been a finished dress-maker! She could earn good wages to-morrow by simply showing her “graduation exercise.” And as we turned to a dozen other exhibits in the hall, we saw more sewing, from the work of the first class in hemming up to that of the little dress-makers, who could cut, fit, and make their own clothes.

What can boys do? Judging by their grand exhibit, we thought to ourselves “they can do almost anything!” Some boys who attend one of the uptown schools on the east side had formed a club for home work and study in mechanics, and there was a table filled with their work. It was chiefly models in wood of real things the boys had seen—a crane, a dumb-waiter, a stone-saw, a pile-driver, and other mechanical implements. It was all excellent work, but it was home work done out of school hours.

EXHIBIT OF THE HEBREW TECHNICAL INSTITUTE.

The opposite table showed school work done by the boys of the Hebrew Technical Institute. Those young master mechanics, it seems, attended school every day and at the same time learned the use of tools, the pencil, the saw, the hammer, and the plane. First of all, every boy had to learn to draw, not merely to make a pretty picture of something, but to make a regular working-drawing, so that the real thing could be constructed from it, and so that when the thing is finished, the drawing will be a true picture of it, whatever it may be. So we found there regular graded lessons in drawing, and in making joints in wood, and in construction. As the boy improves, he studies pattern-making and learns to make a mold from the pattern, and to melt lead and make a casting. We saw all the carpentry lessons arranged in order, and glanced at every lesson a boy has to take, from learning to draw to making a step-ladder. There were stools, tables, small bureaus, and other furniture made, finished, stained, and varnished by boys in the school. There was even a window-frame ready to put in the wall of a house, with sash, blinds, and all, complete and in working order; and the boy who made it was only fourteen years old.

There are in every school queer girls or odd boys who somehow fail often and are at the foot of every class. These children may be as bright as any, but there is nothing in the school to bring them out. In this exhibition we found the work of some such girls and boys. They see beautiful things in fields and wood, and they have wise teachers. It is not every child that can express itself in a composition. These boys and girls express the ideas that are in them with a pencil. They study real, living things, plants and flowers, and they learn to place the forms of these things on paper and add to them something of their own day-dreams, and soon every one who sees them exclaims: “What beautiful designs!” These so-called dull children who never can understand the multiplication table, and who shed useless tears over the tables of weights and measures, here find the right kind of school for them: and they appeared, with their work, in this children’s exhibition, as bright, as interested, as eager to learn as any prize-medal scholar in any grammar school.

Now we must not think that only the quiet, thoughtful girls can do such work. Every child has some sense of beauty; the trouble is that unless it is given instruction in such things, it will probably never, except by accident, find out what it can do. They are wiser about such things in Chicago.

On the wall of the exhibition-room, under the gallery, was a grand display of work, and so arranged that we could see just what every child in the public schools of Chicago studies from year to year. The pictures were arranged in three rows to illustrate the different kinds of work; and below the pictures, on a long table, was a collection of little models, made by the children in the schools. There were balls, cubes, and pyramids shaped in clay by little hands. Even the youngest children in primary schools can do this. Why, it is only fun, to shape the soft clay! Of course, every little seven-year-old fellow is in a hurry every morning to get to so grand a school, where he learns what a cube is by making a true, fair cube in soft clay. Having learned to make various shapes in clay, he then learns to make simple outlines of the same objects by placing straws together in those shapes on his desk. Next, he can go one step further, and with a pair of scissors cut cardboard into shapes that represent those forms. Then he can proceed to use these shapes in various ways to make designs, or he can cut in paper or in white wood, with a scroll-saw, pretty figures suggested by the clay-models. He can even make new lines on the old shapes, and decorate the clay forms he first made.

If your teacher tells you that a cube is a “rectangular parallelopiped, which has its six sides squares,” you may think it is all right, and say it after him without tripping, and yet not have the least notion that the wooden blocks on which you learned your letters were all cubes. This Chicago youngster would not use those dreadful words to describe a cube. He would make one and give you a picture of it. Did he not construct one out of wet clay? He knows a cube anywhere, and he will never forget it. All his life long he will see cubes of every size, and he will know in an instant whether they are true cubes with all the six sides truly square. And if you give him a piece of paper, he will cut it out into a perfect cross, and then fold it up in a certain way and make a box that is a cube. Besides all this, his cubes are ornamented, so that he is already an artist, and enjoys making things beautiful.

The picture here given shows the three ways in which the Chicago primary scholar works. At the base are the forms he constructs in clay; then the outlines made of bits of straw; then the figures cut out of cardboard; and finally the decorated figures made from these forms. In this way, he studies construction or making things; representation, or picture-making; and decoration, or the making of beautiful figures that are like the things he constructed and represented. We walked along that beautiful exhibit and saw hundreds of things molded in clay or cut out of soap or carved in wood, and then saw the drawings and ornaments made from those things. We perceived just how the Chicago boy or girl goes on from work with straw to simple drawings on a slate, and then to finished drawings in pencil on paper, until we wondered if every child in Chicago is to be an artist.

PART OF THE EXHIBIT BY THE CHICAGO PUBLIC-SCHOOLS.

Next to that fine display of children’s work from Chicago came a series of drawings by the pupils of the schools of Worcester, Mass. Here, too, we find the boys and girls making drawings of real things that they have made themselves or that were made by others. The first drawings are to show how the things are constructed, the others to show how they look. Then the pupils take flowers or other objects and make from them original designs that may be used for decoration. In this exhibit, too, were beautiful pictures in water-colors to show that the young artists understood the harmony of colors. If the exhibition had shown us nothing more than the admirable work by those Massachusetts boys and girls, it would have well repaid us for coming.

PART OF THE EXHIBIT BY THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF WORCESTER, MASS.

Next to the Worcester exhibit stood the New Haven tables. What fine times those New England children must have! Here we found more drawings, by Connecticut boys and girls, showing that they also know how things are made, and how they look on paper. Here, too, were more of those curious shapes, cut out of paper, to be folded up into cubes and prisms, cylinders and pyramids. There even were little pots and pans, cut out of paper, every part made by itself from a drawing, and the little model made by pasting the parts together. What an easy way that must be to study squares and circles, parallel lines and the whole family of angles! New Haven boys will never stumble over that trying old question, as to the difference between two square feet and two feet square. They learn all about it in a new kind of game with scissors and paper and a pot of paste. We might spend hours in looking over the work of those New Haven boys and girls—the handsome furniture, the neat sewing and pretty embroidery, the “busy work” of kindergarten tots, and the carpentry work of the big boys; and the more we studied that school work, the more we should wish, probably, that all schools were like those schools.

SEWING-KIT FURNISHED TO GIRL PUPILS OF THE PHILADELPHIA PUBLIC SCHOOLS. SAMPLES OF WORK.

Leaving the New Haven tables we came to the grand exhibit made by the school-children of Philadelphia. In that city, there are twenty-five thousand girls studying plain sewing every week of the school year. The piled-up tables loaded with sewing showed only a small part of the work. On other tables we could see excellent designs and work in hammered brass, fine carvings, and even furniture and stamped leather-work. Then there was one very interesting table. On the wall above it were working drawings showing how wooden joints of all kinds are made; and on the table itself were dovetails, mortises and tenons admirably done in wood. There too were pieces of cast iron chipped and filed into various shapes. Very few workmen in shops could do better, and yet all we saw was the work of public-school boys.

SAMPLES OF JOINING-WORK IN WOOD AND METAL, SENT BY THE PHILADELPHIA MANUAL TRAINING SCHOOL.

As we turned away from those tables, we saw another marked “St. Louis.” Here was shown more work by little hands, more drawings, too, and all proving that those Western youngsters are having happy times in school with busy fingers. Next, we came upon some excellent drawings by pupils of a South End Industrial School at Boston. The boys of that school have a printing-press, and the girls can make bread as well as trim bonnets, for they exhibited both the hats and the loaves. Jamestown, in New York, is also teaching its boys and girls to work with their hands, and some of their work in the exhibition is excellent.

Did you ever think what it is to be blind?—to be unable to tell whether the paper you hold in your hand is white or blue or some other color. How could we do anything if we could not see? But in the Children’s Exhibition, on a table covered with knitting and fancy work of blind children, was the strangest display of all—kindergarten work made by a hundred blind girls and boys! No bad work in it either; it all was neat and perfect. Yet those children have never seen the work their young hands have made.

PART OF THE EXHIBIT SENT BY THE MANUAL TRAINING SCHOOL OF CHICAGO.

A boy may lose a foot or a leg and be a cripple all his life. Shall he give up in despair and do nothing, or beg, which would be even worse? No. He has his hands and a brave heart. He will have a manly spirit even if he has a broken body. Well, on a table near the blind children’s work, was a collection of brooms and brushes,—new, well-made brushes, as good as you can find, and all made by the young workmen of the Crippled Boys’ Brush Shop in New York.

There, too, were tables loaded with work from four orphan asylums in New York and Brooklyn, and we saw sewing, bread-making, net-making and cabinet-work done by young hands that have lost their hold on fathers’ and mothers’ fingers. Other friendly hands are leading them to be useful and skillful in many good works.

We may have been accustomed to think of Indian boys and girls as little savages, unable to do anything except to use a bow and arrow or to take care of the wigwam. But the exhibition included also a display of objects made by Indian children at school. There was a set of harness, a pair of shoes, and some sensible coffee-pots made by Indian boys and girls. Like so many others, they are learning to use their hands.

We may pity those halt and blind, those neglected children from the wilderness, and those little ones who have known grief; but see how brave they are! They have wiped away all tears and found it sweet and wise to learn to work, to forget their griefs in industry. Depend upon it, if we had learned nothing more by coming to this exhibition than this, we should have learned a great deal—that work is a cure for many ills, that work actually means happiness.

WORKING-DRAWINGS AND MODEL OF A SUSPENSION BRIDGE. DRAWN AND CONSTRUCTED BY THE BOYS OF THE GRAMERCY PARK SCHOOL.

Near the door of the main hall was a fine model of a suspension bridge with towers and cables complete. Beneath it were drawings showing how the bridge was made. This was the work of the boys of the Gramercy Park School and Tool-house Association. They drew the plans, and constructed the model bridge from the working drawings. They built up the foundations and towers, piece by piece, and strung the cables and suspended the roadway. All, too, while the builders were attending school and without loss of time from their regular lessons.

EXHIBIT BY THE CRIPPLED BOYS’ BRUSH FACTORY.

And even now I have not told you of half the things in that beautiful exhibition. As we sat there, people were flocking in, young and old, teachers and pupils, eager to see what children can do.

And now, what does it all mean? Let us have a little talk about it.

To that exhibition, more than four thousand children sent the work of their hands. We do not think of them as Western children, as Eastern boys, or New York girls, as Hebrews, Catholics, as orphans, or blind, or anything else. They are children at school, and there is the wonder of it all. It is plain their schools are not like other schools and are very different from those I saw when a boy. It is plain that those children can do many things that children without their advantages can not do. And besides, they are probably happier than any children who ever went to school before.

Let us see why this is so. Most children go to primary school and then to grammar school and perhaps to high school and college, or to some private school. This exhibition plainly shows us that there is a new kind of school, that there are new lessons and new teachers coming. Books we must have. To learn, we must read; but we may read all about boats, and yet we can never learn to sail a boat till we take the tiller in hand and trim the sail before the breeze. The book will help wonderfully in telling us the names of things in the boat and, if we have read about sailing, we shall more quickly learn to sail; but we certainly never shall learn till we are in a real boat. We can read in a book how to turn a heel in knitting, and may commit to memory whole rules about “throwing off two and purl four,” and all the rest; yet where is the girl who can learn to knit without having the needles in her hands?

This then is the idea of the new school—to use the hands as well as the eyes. Boys and girls who go to the ordinary schools, where only books are used, will graduate knowing a great deal; but a boy who goes to one of these new schools, where, besides the books, there are pencils and tools, work-benches as well as writing-books, will know more. The other boys and girls may forget more than half they read, but he will remember everything he learned at the drawing-table or at the work-bench, as long as he lives. He will also remember more of that which he reads because his work with his hands helps him to understand what he reads.

EXHIBIT OF THE AMATEUR TECHNICAL UNION.

Again, a boy who goes to one of the new schools, where once a week he spends two hours in a shop, and works with his hands, say to make a square block of wood “true,”—exact to the hundredth part of an inch,—will soon see that bad work is not square, is not true and fair. A piece of false work will seem ugly and show bad workmanship. He will go out of the shop proud that he can do true work; and all false things, whether in wood or only in thought, will seem bad and wrong to that boy. He can not make a crooked joint in woodwork and be satisfied; neither is he likely to be content with crooked work in word or deed.

The four thousand children whose work filled that exhibition hall, read books and study lessons precisely as do you; but they do more. For two, or perhaps four, hours every week they lay down their books and take up those splendid tools, the pencil, the needle, the hammer, the saw, and the file. Are they any less readers than those who only read? No; they are better readers, because they are workers; because by work they better understand reading.

I remember long ago a tear-stained book of tables of weights and measures, and a teacher’s impatience with a stupid child who could not master the “tables.” And I have seen a school where the tables were written on a blackboard—thus: “two pints are equal to one quart,” and on a stand in the school-room was a tin pint measure and a tin quart measure, and a box of dry sand. Every happy youngster had a chance to fill that pint with sand and pour the sand in the quart measure. Two pints filled it. He knew it. Did he not see it, did not every boy try it? Ah! Now they knew what it all meant. It was as plain as day that two pints of sand were equal to one quart of sand; and with merry smiles those six-year-old philosophers learned the tables of measures; and they will never forget them. This is, in brief, what is meant by industrial education. To learn by using the hands,—to study from things as well as from books. This is the new school, these are the new lessons. The children who can sew, or design, or draw, or carve wood, or do joinering work, or cast metals, or work in clay and brass, are the best-educated children, because they use their hands as well as their eyes and their brains.

You may say that in such schools all the boys will become mechanics, and all the girls become dress-makers. Some may, many will not; and yet whatever they do, be it preaching, keeping a store, or singing in concerts, they will do their work better than those who only read in books. The new schools are the best schools. Will there not be more of them every year? I think parents will see that it is an excellent thing for all boys and girls to learn to use their hands, that not to use the hands at all is to be helpless in the great school we all attend when we are men and women. The exhibition held last March may be only the beginning of a new education wherein the hard lessons of the books, that no little fellow ever could understand, shall give place to bright and interesting books about work and about things. There may yet be shops in every schoolyard, and embroidery frames on every girl’s desk. There will be books, of course, and there also may be tools. There will be examinations indeed, but there may also be in every town an exhibition like the one I have told you of; and the fathers and mothers and all the good people flocking to the schools may see what the children can do with their hands. There will be speeches and recitations and music as now, and there may also be drawings and brasswork, embroidery, and designs in clay and in wood; and every child may be able to work as well as to study. No more tears over unmeaning lessons, but everywhere pleasure and interest because study is joined to work, and to learning is added industry.

THE TELL-TALE BARN.

By Esther B. Tiffany.

Oh, the funny little barn on a hill-side near our town!

With two wee, squinting windows in a row,

And a great wide-open door-way, like the mask-mouth of a clown,

It seems to be forever saying, “Oh!”

“Oh!” cries the little barn; “Oh!”

If you break a china dish

Or run away to fish,

“Oh!” cries the little barn; “Oh!”

One morning very early, we stole two pumpkin pies,

And thought we’d go and eat them by the lake,

But when we looked behind us, there stared those watchful eyes,

And oh, they stared so hard it made us quake!

And “Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”

If you stole a pumpkin pie

To eat it on the sly,

“Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”

“I tell you now,” said Jenny, “the old thing won’t keep still

Until we put those pies right back, I know.

Let’s slip ’round to the pantry and lay them on the sill,

Or it will wake the folks up shouting, ‘Oh!’”

For, “Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”

Till we put away those pies

Before its very eyes,

“Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

By Henry Eckford.

As I have already told you, men can convey ideas to one another by making various kinds of marks. They can also speak to one another without using spoken words, by means of gestures. Animals likewise gesticulate, though in a much cruder way. You have probably seen deaf-mutes converse, eying one another sharply while their fingers kept fluttering and their features working in a lively play of expression. They were speaking a silent language, which is the motion-language of animals and the signal-language of savages carried to the highest point. Watch in any black berry patch the large brown thrush, the cat-bird, or the chewink. Every motion of the bird as it bustles about, is unconcerned. But let it catch sight of you, or let its eyes fall on snake or hawk or cat, and you will see the difference in its motions. Four-footed wild animals exhibit different emotions, such as anger or alarm, by various movements of the head and limbs.

Among savage nations, like our Indians and the wild tribes of Asia, whose nomadic habits cause their languages to become distinct from one another even when they belong to the same parent stock, and where intercourse is apt to be dangerous on account of feuds, the language of gestures has been wonderfully developed. A Zuñi will signal to an Apache, his enemy, and sustain a very full conversation with him across one of those tremendous canyons which are the marvel of our Southwest. For instance, putting the hand to the cheek and inclining the head means “sleep.” Touching the heart means, “I am sincere.” Thrusting forward the two fingers from the lips, to imitate the forked tongue of the snake, means, “you tell lies.”

The lower orders of people in Italy have always been famous for quickness in making and reading signals, and a Neapolitan is often as expert as an Indian of the plains in the language of signals; in fact, he is smarter, for he will even talk by means of it to one of his kind while a stranger remains unconscious that they are communicating with each other before his face.

Some writers have argued that our letters must have been developed from signs once drawn roughly to indicate gestures made by the human limbs. An ingenious person has proposed an entirely new alphabet, which he considers much quicker and more sensible than our own. It is based on gestures natural to mankind and reduced from those which he considers the most important. But into this and into the endless varieties of short-hand writings and abbreviated writings proposed by inventors in what is called stenography, tachygraphy, and other strange-looking words selected from the Greek dictionary, we can not enter.

By sounds, too, ideas are conveyed between animals and between men. As used by mankind, we call the sounds speech; owing to the gulf that man in his pride wishes to set between himself and beasts, we call the sounds made by animals anything rather than speech. When your dog wags its tail, it uses a sort of gesture language. But when it barks, does it not speak? If you ever saw the great actor Salvini play “Othello,” you will remember that he uses cries, like those of animals, to express rage, grief, or remorse, which are too great to find the measured relief of words. Birds sing their happiness and cry their distress. Between the disconsolate mewing of the cat-bird and its rich song of gladness at sunset, while the mother is safe on the nest, the difference is astonishing; so is the difference between the mellow song of the brown thrush and its squirrel-like bark at the certainty of danger, or its vicious clucking and hissing when its nest is found and touched. Jays have a discordant cry, but also a charming bell-like call note, which sounds rarely in the deep pine forests. Even fish sometimes make voluntary sounds, while the cries of our frogs and toads and insects, which make the wilderness joyous, at times are deafening. Animals, as a rule, have some kind of speech, however rude, however occasional may be its use.

But such marks as animals leave on sand or wood, in grass or bushes, can hardly be called writing by the widest interpretation, for they lack intention. To be sure, when the grizzly bear rears its ugly bulk against a redwood-tree and gashes the loose bark in order to stretch its claws, it leaves a sign behind which some animals, particularly those of its own race and those on which it most preys, undoubtedly can read. But the nearest approach, in an animal, to intentional acts designed to be seen or enjoyed by others, is the decoration of its curious house by the bower-bird of New Guinea. A pair of these birds will build an arbor of twigs and leaves for no apparent purpose except their own amusement, and then decorate it with bright feathers and stones, as if they experienced pleasure in looking at it and wished other birds or creatures to see it. But even this is far from the rudest beginnings of writing.

Man writes from forethought and for the instruction of himself and others. Speech is a gift; writing an invention. Speech we share with the animals. Those parts of speech which we call ejaculations can not be separated from the cries of animals. You may have heard man called the talking animal. Would it not be better to call him the writing animal? His invention of writing separates him more than does articulate speech, from the lower orders of animate beings. No matter now how far back we go, or how far down we dig through the earth’s crust to the layers of soil deposited nobody knows how long ago, wherever we find things fashioned by men, we find pictures that show the groping toward some kind of writing. Now, it is a portrait of a horse carved in outline on a piece of bone; at another time, it is a mammoth attacked by a hunter under cover of a wolf-skin. The difference between the brains of man and the brains of the highest animals is so great that, however we may suspect from other things that there was an age when men were little stronger in wits than the apes, we have as yet no certainty where and when a race of men lived who could not at least draw a picture in outline. The Bushmen, an African nation thought to be the lowest of living men in intellect, are now known to be marvelously expert in drawing. They cover the walls of their caves with well-drawn portraits of wild beasts.

So you see that the alphabet, which you learn at an age so early that you forget its difficulties, is perhaps the most curious and marvelous contrivance that has been produced by the brain of man. It is so old, that its origin is lost in the perspective of the past. To reconstruct its history is extremely difficult. The further back we go, the more confused are the records, and the scantier they become; but those which we find seem to point originally to a great variety of writings. The general history seems to be that of simpler from less simple—simpler pictures from complex pictures, simpler alphabets from alphabets more complex. Then a few chosen alphabets outlived all the rest; and finally one form, in great variation to be sure, rules now throughout a great portion of the whole world.

This, as you have seen, is the alphabet which we share with so many nations of different speech, color, and ancestry. Still, only half satisfied with the derivation of this alphabet, we ask, whence did it come to the Phœnicians? Was it evolved on Egyptian soil? Or did the Phœnicians perfect it from some old syllabary like those which I have already described to you. A syllabary of the ancient Hittites of Palestine has just been discovered and partly made out. Attempts have been made to trace it to the cuneiform picture-writing at Babylon, which also I have told you about; and some have thought it may have been born in India, out of a vanished syllabary, and its origin completely forgotten because of wars and the destruction of monuments. Or perhaps some very early or forgotten emigration of people from Asia into Egypt may have carried with it a crude alphabet, which, after further changes, was carried by another and a seafaring people, the Phœnicians, to the nations about the Mediterranean. One of David’s captains was Uriah the Hittite. More and more is being learned nowadays about the Hittites, or Khetas, a Semitic nation that conquered and held Egypt for many centuries, long before David’s time. It is thought by some that Joseph was sold by his brothers into slavery while the Hittites ruled over the patient Egyptians, who abhorred them and their gods. There seems to have been no difficulty on the part of Joseph and his brothers in making themselves understood by Potiphar and the Pharaoh that sat on the throne. If the ruling class was Semitic at the time, the court speech of the day was doubtless a dialect something like Hebrew, and this explains also why the starving sons of Jacob turned to Egypt for grain. The Hittites are considered the same people as the Khetas, the same also as the Shepherd Kings whom the Egyptians called the Hyksos. Perhaps it was during the reign of the Hyksos, or Hittites, and while the Hebrews were increasing mightily in numbers, and gradually falling under the displeasure of their rulers in Egypt, that the Phœnicians, their seafaring relatives, adapted those twenty-two letters from the great store of signs and symbols accumulated by long lines of Egyptian priests.

You have seen that the origin of the letters of our alphabet has been attributed to many different sources. One has been sought in the signal or gesture language, common to savage man, still used by civilized man under certain circumstances, and not unknown in its most general features to the lower animals. You may remember that the forms of letters have been traced back by some to the shapes of trees, and by others to the shapes of animals. The best reasoned origin of the Phœnician alphabet ascribes it to rude pictures of gods, men, animals, plants, and objects.

A young man came to one of the wisest Jewish Rabbis to be a disciple.

“My son,” asked the Rabbi, “what is your occupation?”

“I am a scribe,” he replied.

“Then,” exclaimed the Rabbi; “be thou conscientious, O my son, for thy work is God-like!”

Many nations have held that their letters were the suddenly inspired inventions of demi-gods; others have maintained that only a god could have given so useful and admirable a thing to man. The divine origin of letters has been asserted in twenty different tongues. You have seen how many different earthly objects have been suggested as the source of letters. A Frenchman named Moreau de Dammartin, a Member of the French Institute, claimed that the letters of the alphabet were derived from the constellations which lie on the path of the earth around the sun; and certain old star-readers believed that they could read men’s characters and destinies by the aid of the constellations from which Dammartin derived the letters of the alphabets. And to-day there are people who claim to read men’s characters from their handwriting alone. As the writing of every nation is distinguished by certain strong national peculiarities, it is easy for an expert to decide to what nation a writer belongs. Having settled that, certain large characteristics which are common to all men, but in different degrees, can be seen in every handwriting. A certain number of men are calm, even-lived, sensible, and practical. Men of that class are almost certain to write plain, round hands in which every letter is distinctly legible; neither very much slanted forward, nor tilted backward; no letter very much bigger than its neighbor, nor with heads much above or tails much below the letters not so distinguished; the letters all having about the same general uprightness, and the lines true to the edges of the paper, neither tending upward nor downward. Exact, business-like people will have an exact handwriting. Fantastic minds revel in quirks and streamers, particularly for the capital letters, and this quality is not infrequent in certain business hands, as if the writers found a relief from the prosaic nature of their work in giving flourishes to certain letters. Firm, decided, downright men are apt to bear on the pen while writing, and to make their strokes hard and thick. On the contrary, people who are not sure of themselves, and are lacking in self-control, press unevenly, and with anxious-looking, scratchy hands. Ambitious people are apt to be overworked; they are always in haste and either forget to cross their t’s, or dot their i’s. They are also apt to run the last few letters of every word into an illegible scrawl. Besides those who do this naturally, there are others, silly or young people, who imitate the illegibleness in the handwriting of some one whom they admire. Flurried, troubled, and conscience-twinged persons have a crabbed and uneven handwriting. From all this it will appear that the claim of those who try to read character from handwritings is not so absurd as some people imagine.

I have now tried to tell you as plainly as possible the main facts about our alphabet so far as its history has been puzzled out. Those who are not afraid of large words, and wish to learn at greater length, should read the articles on the alphabet in the “Encyclopædia Britannica” and also in “Appleton’s Cyclopædia,” and especially the two large volumes called “The Alphabet,” written by Mr. Isaac Taylor. The number of special books and treatises in French, German, and English, bearing on different languages and their alphabets is too great to mention here.

We are taught the alphabet so soon after infancy that we naturally underrate its importance all our lives. Yet, who shall measure its importance to civilization? Writing has enabled mankind to store up knowledge. There are calculations and speculations which require so much straining of the mind, that advance to them and beyond them would have been impossible without the stepping-stones furnished by writing. For calculations, numerals and algebraic letters are the stepping-stones; for speculations, words and frequent sentences. The storing of ideas in books is often badly done, and people are always ready to groan over the vast accumulations of volumes and the very small proportion of ideas worth preserving. Yet, until volumes became general and no longer the mysterious conjuring books of the few, human knowledge was always more or less in danger of being swept from the earth by accidents to the few and scattered libraries. The more widely a book was spread in copies over the world, the less was the chance of its total disappearance. The printing-press aided in this kind of insurance of the knowledge of man against accidents. And neither printing-press nor alphabet need yet be considered as perfected. Our alphabet is not the best ever invented, but it is short and handy. As a subject for study, it yields to nothing that is connected intimately with the civilization of mankind. When we understand the history of the alphabet in all its course, and in all its minor points, we shall know the history of mankind ever since men first began to diverge widely from the beasts of the wood.

THE END.

THE LITTLE BOYS WHO LOOKED ALIKE.

By Malcolm Douglas.

Oh, never yet were little boys so much alike as they!

Each looked more like the other than himself, folks used to say.

And since no one between them any difference could tell

Some incidents quite undeserved the two at times befell.

Their mother was so puzzled about telling which was which

That it made it very awkward when she had to use her switch;

And it frequently would happen that the guilty one went free,

While his righteous little brother would be placed across her knee.

When either of the little boys was vexed with childish ills

The good old doctor soon would bring his castor oil and squills,

And, in spite of tears and protests, he would very often make

The well one swallow all his horrid doses, by mistake.

Though one at school was always head, the teacher had to put

The other (who would never learn his lessons) at the foot;

So the bright boy for his indolence was ofttimes sternly chid,

And the dull one patted on the head for what his brother did.

And sometimes, too, the cook would make a little pie for one,

And give it to the other just as soon as it was done;

And, to keep the first from crying, she would roll him out one more,

But the second, when he came again, would get it, as before.

Oh, never yet were little boys so much alike as they!

Each looked more like the other than himself, folks used to say.

And since no one between them any difference could tell,

Surprising and unjust rewards the two at times befell!

THE KELP-GATHERERS.
[A Story of the Maine Coast.]

By J. T. Trowbridge.

Chapter XVII.
PERCIVAL AND THE WATCH.

After assisting to bring Olly safe to shore, Perce Bucklin had time to reflect upon his still unclaimed treasure-trove and to grow extremely anxious in regard to it.

He had not felt responsible for its first immersion in the sea. But it had received a second wetting while in his possession. That set him to considering seriously the damage salt water might do, if it should get into the delicate works, and he worried over this to such an extent that he could no longer keep quietly at work, with the watch still in his damp pocket.

“Boys,” said he, “I’m going to have some doughnuts.” He had planned in his own mind that he would take that opportunity to conceal his prize in some safe, dry place.

“I’m hungry too!” said Moke.

“So ’m I!” said Poke.

And all threw down their forks. Their early breakfast, their labor at the kelp, and their exciting adventure on the water, had made the morning seem very long, and prepared them for a substantial luncheon.

That wasn’t just what Perce expected. They were no sooner seated on the sand, with pail and basket and a bottle of spruce beer between them, than fresh restlessness seized him.

Whoever the owner of the watch was or was to be, he felt that it ought to go at once to the jeweler, and be cleaned and oiled. He suddenly jumped to his feet.

“Boys,” he said, taking a piece of cheese in one hand and a wedge of apple-pie in the other, “go on with your lunch; I’ll be eating mine while I run up and see how Olly is getting along.”

“Take some of Ma’s spruce beer, first,” said the twins.

Perce thanked them, but said he would have his share when he came back.

“Don’t wait for me,” he added, “if I should get to talking, and be a little late.”

He had been gone but a few minutes, and the twins were still busy with their bread and butter and doughnuts, when they heard footsteps coming behind them, and looked around, expecting to see him on his return.

But they saw instead a strange man, with a resolute face under a shady hat-brim. A little behind him lingered two of the boarding-house ladies they had seen before.

“Where’s the other member of your party?” asked the man, after looking beyond the twins and all about. “The one you call Perce.”

“Perce Bucklin? He just went up to the boarding-house,” they replied; “he left us about five minutes ago.”

“I’ve just come from the boarding-house,” said the man. “He wasn’t there when we left; and we met no such boy on the way.”

“That’s strange!” said Moke.

And he and his brother began to call. The woods echoed their voices, but no other voice replied.

“I don’t know where he is!” said Poke, astonished.

“He seemed to have something on his mind,” said Moke; “and may be——”

“May be he went to the village!” exclaimed Poke.

They couldn’t conceive why he should have gone to the village, but they remembered that he had spoken vaguely of having some errand there, which he must do before he returned home.

“Thank you,” the gentleman replied, and went back to speak with the ladies. “That fellow has gone off to dispose of the watch,” he said to them; “and I don’t think these two know anything about it.”

He had at all events thought it better not to mention the subject to the twins; in order that, if they should see Perce before he did, they might not put him on his guard.

Perce had, in fact, immediately changed his mind, after leaving his companions; if, indeed, he had any serious notion of going to inquire for Olly.

Instead of going to the boarding-house, he crossed a corner of the woods, in order to strike a road leading to the village, which was about three-quarters of a mile away.

As soon as he was well out of sight, he began to run, pausing only a minute or two in the woods, where he took out his prize, pressed the spring that opened the hunter’s case, and looked at the still beautiful bright, white face of the watch.

“I don’t believe it is hurt much!” he exclaimed joyfully. “I wonder how long it has been in the water!”

The pointers indicated ten minutes past two. Thinking the watch must have stopped soon after it dropped into the sea, he muttered:

“That might have been two o’clock last night, or yesterday, or some day of last week; who knows? Hullo!”

A new mystery! The second-hand, as he watched it, moved! He held the timepiece to his ear, and heard a faint tick.

The works were running still, though feebly. Then the watch could have been in the sea but a few hours; and it was no doubt some water that had got into it which had retarded without stopping the motion of the wheels.

“Eight hours slow!” said Perce, thinking it must be by that time past ten o’clock.

Astonished as he was, his purpose to visit the village remained unchanged. Indeed, it seemed to him all the more important that the watch, since he was convinced that it was as yet uninjured, should go to the jeweler’s without delay.

He had not meant, from the first, to withhold it from its rightful owner, if he could find that person; but only to keep it from the twins, who might set up what he considered an unjust claim to half its value. He expected to advertise it, after putting it into the jeweler’s hands; he had therefore no motive for disguising from the latter the manner in which it had come into his possession.

He was prepared to tell a straightforward story; only leaving out his want of confidence in the twins, of which he couldn’t help feeling ashamed. But unfortunately the jeweler was not in his shop. After a little search, Perce found him walking with a man on the street; and, coming to his side, whispered in his ear that he had a little job for him.

As they entered the shop together, Perce did not notice a third man, flushed with excitement and haste, who had followed him at a distance, and was now watching with an air of affected carelessness, to see what he would do.

As the jeweler went behind his counter, Perce stood before it, with his back to the door, and said breathlessly, in a low tone, as he produced the watch:

“Here’s something I want you to be rather confidential about until——”

Until it could be advertised in due form, he was going to say; for he was anxious that no false claimant should get a description of the watch beforehand. But he had hardly yet recovered his breath, and while he was hesitating, the jeweler opened the watch.

“Where has this been? In the water?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Perce. “And I want you to do whatever is necessary to put it into good order; and to say nothing about it until——”

Here he stopped again, and looked quickly around at somebody who just then entered the shop.

It was Mr. Hatville, who, having stood a moment at the open door, watching the jeweler and the boy, stepped in quickly but quietly, and laying one hand, with a firm grasp, on Perce’s arm, extended the other over the counter.

“Mr. Middleton,” said he, “I don’t think you mean to be a receiver of stolen goods. But it happens that you have my watch!”

“Yours, Mr. Hatville!” said the astonished jeweler. “I thought I had seen it before” (for Mr. Hatville had dealt with him at times, and had shown him his chronometer with much pride), “but never in such a condition!”

“It has run down, I suppose,” said the owner, adding with grim sarcasm, “I hoped the thief would know enough to wind it! Boy!” he cried, tightening his grip on Perce’s arm, “you’ve no business to steal watches, if you can’t keep ’em wound!”

Chapter XVIII.
PERCIVAL AND THE OWNER OF THE WATCH.

Perce stood aghast and trembling, trying to speak. The jeweler spoke for him.

“This boy didn’t steal it, did he? I know his father. He’s one of the selectmen of the town. You are Mr. Bucklin’s boy, aren’t you?”

“I am Percival Bucklin,” said Perce, endeavoring to assume the proverbial boldness of innocence, but nevertheless appearing far more guilty than if he had been a hardened rogue. “I didn’t steal it. I found it.”

“Yes, and I know just where you found it!” said Hatville. “I know, too, just where you’ll be found, in about ten minutes, if Mr. Middleton will have the kindness to step out and call a policeman.”

“Give the boy a chance,” said the jeweler. “He belongs to one of the best families in town. I believe he’s honest. Tell just how you came by the watch, Percival.”

“That’s what I was going to do when this man rushed in and grabbed me,” said Perce.

He was once more beginning his story, when Mr. Hatville broke out again excitedly:

“Where’s the rest of the chain?”

“It’s just as I found it,” said Perce.

“And what’s the matter with the watch?” said Hatville. He had loosed his hold of the boy’s arm, and taken the timepiece in both hands. “It hasn’t run down!”

“Worse than that,” Mr. Middleton replied. “It has been in the water.”

“Boy!” cried the angry owner, “did you have it with you when you went out to the Old Cow for Oily Burdeen this morning?”

“Yes,” said Perce, “but——”

“And did you get wet?”

Hatville reached down and felt the boy’s clothes, which were still damp.

“A wave dashed over me,” Perce admitted, “but——”

“MR. HATVILLE STOOD A MOMENT AT THE OPEN DOOR, WATCHING THE JEWELER AND THE BOY.”

“Now did you ever hear of anything so exasperating?” said Hatville, turning to Mr. Middleton with a grim and very unpleasant expression. “It wasn’t enough for this young rascal to take a man’s timepiece, that had been regulated down to a second and a half a month; but he must also go and jump into the sea with it!”

“I didn’t jump into the sea with it!” Perce spoke up impatiently. “Can’t you hear what I have to say? I found that watch in the seaweed, on the beach, early this morning, just as the tide had left it a little while before. If it hadn’t been for getting Olly off the rocks, I should have thought to bring it here earlier. I meant to have it cleaned and oiled, and then to advertise for the owner, if he wasn’t heard from in the meanwhile.”

“That seems a straightforward story,” said the jeweler.

“What made him so sly with you, then?” Mr. Hatville demanded. “Wasn’t he asking you to say nothing about it, or something of the kind, when I came in?”

The jeweler had to admit that Perce had made some such request; which the boy hastened to explain.

“I said all that; and I was going to say more. I didn’t want anybody to see it until it was advertised, and until the owner proved his claim by giving a description of it.”

“Ah, very wise, indeed! and very plausible! But how did the watch get into the seaweed, without help from somebody?” returned Hatville. “This boy, as it happens, is the only person who had a chance to take it. Now, young fellow, your best course is to own right up. Weren’t you in my room, at Mrs. Murcher’s, last night, and again this morning?”

“I don’t know anything about your room,” Perce replied. “I went through the upper entry to Olly’s room, last evening; but that was the only room I looked into. This morning I went into some gentleman’s room—I don’t know whose—to get a view from the window, while the ladies were hunting for a spy-glass; but I saw no watch there, and I didn’t touch a thing.”

“Besides, if you notice,” Mr. Middleton remarked, “this watch—to be more than eight hours slow, as you see it is, and still going—must have been in the water considerably more than eight hours.”

The argument seemed to strike Mr. Hatville forcibly. But a moment’s reflection enabled him to put it easily aside.

“It had probably run down,” he said; “and the boy has wound it since.”

“Why! I haven’t any key!” Perce exclaimed.

“And you didn’t know it was a stem-winder?” said the owner, with incredulous irony.

Perce said, very truly, that he hadn’t examined it sufficiently to discover that fact; he had heard of stem-winders, but had never before seen one. Mr. Hatville smiled again.

“I can’t yet feel quite so sure of this boy’s honesty as you seem to, Mr. Middleton,” he said. “There are some things that need to be explained: how the watch got out of my room and into the sea, in the first place; and how the chain was broken.”

“If I meant to steal it, why should I break the chain?” Perce demanded.

“I don’t know your motive; perhaps because you saw my monogram on the seal. Come, my boy,” said Mr. Hatville; “come and show me just where and how you found it.”

So saying, he left the watch in the jeweler’s hands, and started to return with Perce to the scene of the kelp-gathering.

Chapter XIX.
THE MISSING LINKS.

On the way, Perce Bucklin’s spirits did not rise, as a perfectly truthful boy’s spirits might have been expected to do, under the circumstances.

He had already felt, with some uneasiness of conscience, that his disingenuous treatment of his partners in the kelp-gathering was unworthy of the son of so upright a father. But he was now appalled by the thought of what might be the consequences of his conduct.

As they walked down the road together, Mr. Hatville asked:

“Was anybody with you on the beach when you found the watch?”

Perce had known very well that some such question must come, and he had been dreading it. He had tried to think what he should reply; but now he could only stammer:

“Yes;—that is, no;—the Elder boys had just gone off with a load of seaweed, and I was waiting for them to come back with the cart.”

“How far away were they? out of sight?” continued Mr. Hatville.

“No, not exactly. We were hauling the kelp into piles, just above high water;” explained Perce.

“Oh, yes! They were near you, then,” said Mr. Hatville, who had observed the heaps of seaweed on the shore. “So they’ll know all about it. Let me hear your story first; then I will hear theirs. Just how it was found, you understand.”

“It will be of no use for you to ask them,” said Perce.

“How so?” replied Mr. Hatville, with another of his sarcastic, incredulous smiles.

“They didn’t know anything about it,” Perce acknowledged miserably.

“So you mean to say that you found a valuable gold watch on the beach, and said nothing about it to your friends, who must have been within sight and hearing at the time? That’s a likely story!”

“I don’t wonder you think so,” said Perce in deep distress. “But I’ll tell you why I didn’t. We had gone into partnership for getting kelp and driftwood, and had made an agreement that we were to divide, half and half, everything we found—half for me and the team, which is my father’s, and half for them. Then, you see, when I found the watch, I was afraid they might claim a share in it, provided the owner didn’t turn up.”

“Very ingenious!” was Mr. Hatville’s skeptical comment.

“You may believe it or not; it’s true!” exclaimed Perce, in a broken and agitated voice. “I did a mean thing; and for that reason I’d rather you shouldn’t say anything to the Elder boys about it. But I suppose they will have to know it. I suppose everybody will have to know it!” And here his voice failed completely.

“I suppose the particulars will have to be known to several persons before we get through with this little business,” Mr. Hatville replied. “Have you anything more to say for yourself?”

The boy had nothing more to say, except to describe more particularly how he took the watch out of the dripping seaweed, and to protest again his innocence of any dishonest purpose; all of which, however, did not seem to make much impression upon Mr. Hatville.

They walked on in silence down the sandy road, Perce as deeply wretched as if he had been already on his way to the lock-up.

Even if he were spared that last humiliation, he felt that his good name was gone forever. The taking of the watch might not be publicly proved against him; but, unless the mystery of its disappearance from the owner’s room, and its re-appearance in the wave-tossed kelp on the shore—unless that could be explained, who would believe him guiltless? The suspicion might cling to him through life.

What would his father say? And how it would grieve his dear mother!

“We’ll not go to the beach now,” said Mr. Hatville, “since your friends can’t say anything to help you. I don’t see why I brought you away from the village, anyway. But never mind; we can trudge back there. And we’ll go to Mrs. Murcher’s first—now that we are so far on our way.”

Harsh as had been his treatment of a supposed culprit, under what seemed to him very great provocation, Mr. Hatville couldn’t help pitying the boy a little; and, now that his anger was cooled, he wished to reflect before deciding to turn so youthful an offender over to the officers of the law.

“‘HERE THEY ARE!’ SAID OLLY, AS HE HELD OUT THE EVIDENCE AGAINST HIMSELF.”

He kept Perce by his side as he mounted the piazza steps.

“Yes, I’ve found him, and my watch, too,” he said to the boarders, who came out to hear the news. “It was in his possession.”

Glad as they were to hear of his good fortune, nothing but painful surprise and commiseration was expressed in the womanly and girlish faces that looked upon the unhappy boy.

“Oh, then! what shall we do with the money?” sighed Mrs. Merriman.

Whereupon it came out that the friends of Olly Burdeen had subscribed a small collection, to reward his rescuers. But, could they bestow it upon such a boy as this one had shown himself to be?

“Give it to the others!” cried Perce passionately. “I don’t want any pay for what I did. No, nor for saving this man’s watch, either,—though I don’t think I ought to be treated this way, as if I had stolen it.”

“Does he deny it?” cried Amy Canfield, eagerly.

“Oh, of course!” replied Mr. Hatville.

“Of course I do!” Perce exclaimed, raising his voice in vehement protestation. “I found it in the seaweed, on the beach. But he won’t believe a word I say!”

And he stood defiant, desperate, his eyes flashing through tears.

The most tender-hearted of the lady boarders couldn’t blame Mr. Hatville for declining to accept such a story as that. But just then another actor in the drama rushed upon the scene.

It was Olly Burdeen, himself, in his old clothes, his hair tumbled, his eyes excited, his voice choking as he tried to speak.

“The watch?” he gasped out. “He isn’t to blame! I—I took it!”

In his room, at the end of the corridor above, he had overheard enough to know that the watch was found, and that Perce was in trouble. Equally excited by the good news and the bad, he had obeyed an impulse of generosity and gratitude, and hastened to the defense of the friend to whom he owed his recent rescue.

But, strange to say, nobody believed him! He was delirious; he was telling a noble untruth; he was sacrificing himself for one to whom he fancied that he owed his life. Everybody believed implicitly in Olly; nobody believed in Perce.

Only Mr. Hatville, whose mind had reverted more than once to Olly, while considering the other’s strange story, listened carefully, thinking that the clew to the mystery might at last be coming.

“How is that, Olly?” he asked.

“I just put on the watch, to wear it a little while with my new clothes,” Master Burdeen confessed impetuously. “Then when the accident happened to me in the boat, I suppose the oar snatched it from my pocket. You didn’t find the whole of the chain, did you, Perce?”

“The hook and the seal are missing,” Mr. Hatville replied.

“Here they are!” said Olly, as he took from his pocket and held out the evidence against himself, glad enough now that he had not thrown it into the sea, when tempted to do so.

After that, nobody doubted his story.

“But why didn’t you tell me this before?” demanded Mr. Hatville, as he took the missing links.

“I thought the watch was lost, and I was afraid,” poor Olly confessed. “But I couldn’t bear to see him accused!”

After this frank acknowledgment from Olly, Mr. Hatville forbore to utter a single reproach, and only said:

“You needn’t have been afraid, if you had only come forward and told the simple truth. The watch is found, and there’s no great harm done; though I shall have some trouble in regulating it again down to a second and a half a month. You’d better go back to bed, Olly.”

And Olly went; abjectly humbled, and blinded by tears of shame and contrition, yet almost happy in the wonderful relief the confession of his fault and the vindication of his friend had brought to his tortured conscience.

“I was sure he never took it!” he heard Miss Amy Canfield exclaim with glad vehemence; but he knew that she was speaking of Percival, not of himself.

Chapter XX.
PERCE SETTLES WITH HIS PARTNERS.

There was no longer any question as to what should be done with the contribution the boarders had made up to reward the humane efforts of Olly’s rescuers.

They had collected ten dollars. To this Mr. Hatville begged the privilege of adding ten more.

“For finding my watch—and for my treatment of the finder!” he said.

But Percival couldn’t bear that anything like that should cloud the great joy with which the welcome light of truth filled his soul.

“I don’t want any reward for anything!” he exclaimed. “I can’t take your money!” And he pushed back Mr. Hatville’s contribution across the hall table. “But I’ve no right to refuse anything intended for my friends; and, if the ladies insist, I will take their money and give it to Moke and Poke.”

“Moke and Poke!” said Amy, with a laugh. “What names!”

“They are my partners, on the beach. The Elder boys—Moses and Porter,” Perce explained.

The ladies did insist; and, with light feet and a lighter heart, he hastened down the sandy path to the shore.

The twins, who had resumed their work, were inclined to show a little resentment of their partner’s prolonged absence. They wished to know what “that man” wanted of him, and where he had been all the while.

“I’ve been getting a reward for you!” said Perce gayly.

“A reward?” cried Moke.

“For what?” asked Poke.

“For rescuing Olly,” Perce replied, opening his hand and showing the money. “Here it is,—with the compliments of the lady boarders at Mrs. Murcher’s.

“Oh!” ejaculated Moke.

“Ho!” aspirated Poke.

“We didn’t want any pay for that!” said both together.

“But it took your time, and interrupted your work; and it really seemed a pleasure for them to give you something. Olly’s a great favorite up there,” added Percival.

“Five dollars!” shouted Moke, brandishing his share above his head.

“Five dollars!” shrieked Poke, capering wildly on the sand.

They had never in their lives been so rich. But where was Percival’s share?

“They offered me ten dollars—or at least the man did. But I didn’t take it. The truth is, boys,——” And, after a little hesitation, Perce told the story of the watch that he had found and restored to the owner.

“And it was Olly that borrowed and lost it?” exclaimed Moke.

“And never told us!” ejaculated Poke.

“Why didn’t you tell us you found it?” cried both together.

“As we were partners,—going halves in everything,—I didn’t know—” Perce blushed and stammered—“I didn’t know but you’d want your share of that, too!”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Poke.

“Of course we shouldn’t!” said Moke.

So that matter was settled,—far more easily and satisfactorily, Perce thought, than might have been the case if no owner for the watch had been found.

“Come!” said Moke, looking again at his money before pocketing it; “we’ve done enough work for one day.”

“Never mind about hauling any more kelp,” said Poke.

“We’ll have the fun of coming again to-morrow,” said both together.

Perce himself was quite willing to go home to dinner. So, having dumped their last load of seaweed (which would not be much more than a third of a load when, after it was well rotted, they should haul it to the farms), they filled up the cart-box with driftwood. Upon that they laid their blankets; and presently climbed up to the top themselves, after bidding good-bye to the beach and the bright sea, and turning the oxen into the wild woodland road.

Then, mounted comfortably upon their loaded cart, they drove back through beautiful sunshine and shade, making the woods ring once more with their voices in glad chorus:

“Now, run and tell Elijah to hurry up Pomp,

And meet us at the gum-tree down in the swamp,

To wake Nicodemus to-day!”

Although he had no money to show, Percival was not the least contented of the three with the result of their work.

He had done something for his friend Olly, and for Mr. Hatville; and no reward could have given him quite so pure a satisfaction as the feeling that he had done it without reward.

Moreover, as he had liberated the watch and chain from their slimy environment of rockweed and kelp, even so his conscience and his good name had been freed from the entanglement that at one time threatened to drag them into a hideous abyss. To have kept his honor unsullied was a greater joy than the possession of many watches.

Yet I can not say that Perce Bucklin was made very unhappy when, not long after, he received by express from Boston a small package, which, on being opened, was found to contain a very pretty silver Swiss watch, and a card bearing Mr. Hatville’s name. It was certainly a gratifying token of that gentleman’s confidence and regard.

THE END.

FUN IN HIGH LIFE.

OLD TIME ARMS AND ARMOR.

By E. S. Brooks.

Do you not think that the garments of iron, of steel, or of bronze in which the soldiers of five hundred years ago rode to the wars must have been very uncomfortable? Look at the “effigies,” as they are called, on the opposite page, representing four royal knights. These colossal statues, with those of twenty-four other noted warriors of history and romance, stand, a silent guard, around the magnificent tomb of the German Emperor Maximilian I., at Innspruck, in the Tyrol. These four mail-clad figures represent four of the bravest and most redoubtable of the knights of old—Arthur of Britain, Theodeobert of Burgundy, Ernest of Austria, and Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths. The armor is rich in ornament and decoration, but I have not a doubt that King Arthur felt much more cool and comfortable when he was eating that famous “bag pudding,” which Mother Goose assures us the queen “did make” for him, than when he rode out from Camelot in the splendidly decorated iron war-clothes that are shown in the picture; and I am very sure, too, that the brave Theodoric was much happier and more at ease when as a boy he practiced Greek gymnastics at the Court of Constantinople, where he was held as hostage by the Emperor, than he did when, years after, he rode to the siege of Ravenna with that ridiculous iron kettle on his head and weighed down with the iron rosettes and jacket that we see in his picture before us.

But, while these metal clothes, uncomfortable, hot, and heavy though they were, have been a necessary style of wearing apparel ever since the forgotten ages when men began to quarrel and to strive, it was not until a comparatively recent date that warriors rode to battle wholly incased in armor. The Assyrians and Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans of the earlier days were satisfied with such partial protection as would shield the most vulnerable parts of their bodies—helmets, or head-coverings; greaves, or shin-protectors; and the short oval breastplates that guarded heart and ribs. The stout old Roman legionaries, bronzed and scarred with exposure and fighting, laughed rather contemptuously at the fresh levies which, when sent into the field, wished to shield their bodies as much as possible. Indeed, the first use of the word armor, as we understand it, is found in the works of a military writer of the latter part of the fourth century A. D., one T. Vegetius Renatus, who refers to armor as a defense worn only by the young troops; so you see that, after all, the boys were the first to incase themselves in armor and were the earliest of the knights.

But gradually, as men grew more careful of their bodies, they increased the safety-coverings; breastplate and greave and helmet grew into coat-of-mail, and suit of plate, until in the days of the knights—the thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries—the men who couched lance or wielded sword and met in the terrific battle-shock seemed to be men of iron, whatever they really were beneath their clanging clothes.

Look at the picture (Fig. I, p. 938) of a knight in a splendid suit of armor, richly engraved. He lived and fought somewhere about the time of the heroic Edward of England, whom men, because of his sable armor, called the Black Prince. This warrior may have even followed the banner of Prince Edward; he may have fought with Bruce at Bannockburn, or against the cause of the people and Rienzi at Rome.

Certainly here is an instance in which “dress makes the man,” as the old proverb declares. Not one of us could recognize the gentleman by his countenance on a second meeting, for even his face is concealed behind a decorated visor, or beaver,—a sort of face-door that works up and down on well-oiled hinges. The short cloth sack, emblazoned with his crest and worn over his armor, is the tabard, and from his plumed helmet to his pointed sollerets, or shoes of iron, he is one mass of metal. The two knights, alongside, in Fig. 2, are incased in somewhat less elaborate iron suits, though they also belong to the age of splendid armor.

BRONZE STATUES AT THE TOMB OF MAXIMILIAN I., REPRESENTING ARTHUR OF BRITAIN, THEODEOBERT OF BURGUNDY, ERNEST OF AUSTRIA, AND THEODORIC, KING OF THE OSTROGOTHS.

In those days of hard hitting with ax and lance, alike in tournament and in battle, the head and the breast generally received the stoutest blows and needed to be the most securely protected. The head-pieces grouped together on page 939 are what a merchant nowadays would call “an assorted lot”; the casquetel, or helmet with an iron cape for protecting the back of the neck; the bascinet, or helmet with a pointed visor, and another just beneath it that looks like three joints of stove-pipe; the tilting-helm, used in the tournament or in the “tilting-field,” looking very much like a “high hat” of to-day, in iron; the German heaume, or old Gallic helmet, with the basket-like cage to shield the face; the plumed burgonet, or old Burgundian helmet, and the rounded one, sometimes called a morion; and the last of the helmets, the helm and casquetel of the harquebusiers—those stout old fighters of the seventeenth century, who gave and took plenty of hard knocks in the Dutch wars, or in the ranks of Cromwell’s Ironsides.

FIG. I.—A KNIGHT OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY IN A SUIT OF ENGRAVED ARMOR.

The breastplate, first worn in front only, was gradually added to until it became a cuirass, or iron jacket, laced at the sides. Around the neck was worn the metal collar, or gorget; the hands were incased in iron gloves, or gauntlets, sometimes armed with long, saw-like projections; and spurs of varying size and length were attached to the heels of the curious iron shoes that were known as sollerets.

FIG. 2.—KNIGHTS OF THE FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES.

Dagger and poniard, mace and lance, bill and battle-ax were the terrible weapons used by the gentlemen in the iron clothes to cut and carve, to pound and pummel, to hack and pierce one another,—and yet those were called the days of chivalry, of courtesy, and of courage!

War is always brutal, always terrible; but there seems something almost cowardly in the custom of those “knights of old” in thus crawling for safety into suits of steel and iron, while the poor people who followed their banners to the wars—vassals and serfs, archers and bill-men—had nothing but leather jerkins and iron head-pieces (often not even these) to protect them from the charge and thrust of the mail-clad knights. And the funny side of it all is that sometimes knights thus covered with plate, like modern ironclads, would fight all day without either being hurt. In one of the Italian battles of the sixteenth century, two armies of knights sheathed in the best Milan armor fought from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon without one valorous warrior being killed or even being wounded. Do you wonder that Cervantes made such sport of those men in kettles and stove-pipe, as he did in his marvelous story of “Don Quixote”?

But, as necessity is called the “mother of invention,” weapons, in time, were made that iron-cased warriors feared even more than mace or battle-ax. The archer’s “cloth-yard shaft” might not be able to pierce the Milan armor, but a steel-headed “bolt” or “quarrel,” sped with terrific force from the notch of a crossbow, has brought many a mail-clad knight to grief, as William, the Red King of England, and Richard, called the Lion-heart, found to their cost. For five centuries, the crossbow, or arbalist, was a favorite weapon in war and in the chase, as Mr. Maurice Thompson has already told you in his interesting “Story of the Arbalist.”[1] And many a boy of those olden days was taught either by the armorer of his father’s castle, or by that same knightly father, the baron and lord of the manor, how to string the bow and how to lay the bolt.

“MANY A BOY WAS TAUGHT HOW TO STRING THE BOW AND HOW TO LAY THE BOLT.”

The battle of Waterloo, in which the iron-sheathed cuirassiers of Napoleon went down in defeat before the soldiers of Wellington, was the death-blow to defensive armor.

LANCES, MACES, AND BATTLE-AXES.

As gunpowder came into use in battle, and science improved the methods of warfare, the iron coats were found to be of little avail as a protection against shot and shell. Men grew braver as they dropped the heavy plates behind which they had hidden for centuries. And now they march unprotected by iron clothes, depending for victory upon their excellent drill and discipline and upon the deadly fire-arms which science has developed and perfected.

But, better yet, more helpful than casque or cuirass, lance or bill or battle-ax, more effective even than the ponderous Krupp cannon, the deadly Gatling gun, or the swift-loading Martini rifle, is the spirit of justice, of kindly courtesy, and of real courage, which now settles quarrels between men and nations. Argument, arbitration, and mutual concession are doing more to civilize the world than all the cruel war-weapons, and these kindlier methods render more and more useless the arms and armor of the long ago, which sprang, not from the friendships, but from the hatreds and passions of men.

But breastplate, helm, and sword, and all the knightly accouterments have served their purpose in the world’s advancement, and as they look down at us from the walls of library or museum could tell us many a story of daring and of valor in “the brave days of old.”

[1] See St. Nicholas for September, 1882.

NED’S BUTTERCUP.

By Bessie Chandler.

Ned picked in the garden, one morning bright,
A buttercup, fresh and yellow;
And his warm, chubby fingers held it tight,
For it pleased the little fellow.

But soon it drooped its satiny head,

(Such a sorry trick to serve us!)

“Oh, give it some water, Mamma!” cried Ned;

“I think it is getting nervous!”

HER PICTURE.

By Anna M. Pratt.

Such an ill-behaved man she never had seen!

When she wanted a picture, pray, what did he mean

By hiding his head? And, under her breath,

She whispered: “Mamma, is he frightened to death?”

She wondered and wondered when would he begin—

When, presto! that instant a round, dimpled chin,

And a mouth where sweet kisses seemed coming and going,

And two merry eyes with their fun overflowing

Were caught by the sunlight.—Now see! There she stands

With a flower on her breast and her doll in her hands,

Her bonny face framed in her fair, waving curls—

The sweetest and dearest of dear little girls!

THE BROWNIES AT BASE-BALL.

By Palmer Cox.

One evening, from a shaded spot,
The Brownies viewed a level lot
Where clubs from different cities came
To play the nation’s favorite game.

Then spoke a member of the band:
“This game extends throughout the land;
No city, town, or village ’round,
But has its club, and diamond ground,
With bases marked, and paths between,
And seats for crowds to view the scene.
At other games we’ve not been slow
Our mystic art and skill to show;
Let’s take our turn at ball and bat,
And prove ourselves expert at that.”

Another answered: “I have planned
A method to equip our band.
There is a firm in yonder town,
Whose goods have won them wide renown;
Their special branch of business lies
In sending forth these club supplies.
The balls are wound as hard as stones,
The bats are turned as smooth as bones,
And masks are made to guard the nose
Of him who fears the batter’s blows,
Or stops the pitcher’s curves and throws.
To know the place such goods to find,
Is quite enough for Browny-kind!”

When hungry bats came forth to wheel
’Round eaves and find their evening meal,
The cunning Brownies sought the store,
To work their way through sash and door.
And soon their beaming faces told
Success had crowned their efforts bold.
A goodly number of the throng
Took extra implements along,
In case of mishap on the way,
Or loss, or breakage during play.
The night was clear, the road was good,
And soon within the field they stood.

Then games were played without a pause,
According to the printed laws.
There, turn about, each took his place
At first or third or second base,
At left or right or center-field,
To pitch, to catch, or bat to wield,
Or else as “short-stop” standing by
To catch a “grounder” or a fly.

Soon every corner of the ground
Its separate set of players found.
A dozen games upon the green,
With ins and outs might there be seen;
The umpires noting all with care
To tell if hits were foul or fair,
The “strikes” and “balls” to plainly shout,
And say if men were “safe” or “out,”
And give decision just and wise
When knotty questions would arise.

But many Brownies thought it best
To leave the sport and watch the rest;
And from the seats or fences high
They viewed the scene with anxious eye,
And never failed, the contest through,
To render praise when praise was due.
While others, freed from games on hand,
In merry groups aside would stand,
And pitch and catch with rarest skill
To keep themselves in practice still.

And had our champion players found
A chance to view that pleasure-ground,
They might have borne some points away,
To put in use a future day;
For “double plays” and balls well curved
And “base hits” often were observed,
While “errors” were but seldom seen
Through all the games upon that green.

Before the flush of morn arose
To bring their contests to a close,
The balls and bats in every case
Were carried back and put in place;
And when the Brownies left the store,
All was in order as before.

ABOUT BREATHING.

By Hellen Clark Swazey.

It is a curious fact that, although breathing is a very simple and necessary accomplishment, there are a great many people who have forgotten how to do it in the best way. If you will watch a perfectly healthy baby when it is asleep, you will see that its shoulders are quite low and even, that its mouth is usually closed, and that it is breathing comfortably from its lower chest. We know that the lungs are the chief purifiers of the blood; but to perform their duty satisfactorily the air-cells of the lungs must be filled with filtered air and they must have plenty of room in which to work,—so we are, on the whole, well satisfied with the baby’s method of breathing. In fact, we have reason to believe that the system has been taught by Nature herself; and when we can get Nature’s methods at first hand, it is seldom worth while to try to improve upon them very much.

But when the baby grows up, if it chance to be a girl, her clothing is usually such that it interferes with the free action of muscles that are concerned in enlarging the cavity of the chest, so that the lower part of the lungs, which should be busy taking in their share of oxygen to make the blood fresh and bright, are seldom used, and the blood goes away from the lungs only partly freed from its impurities, while the lungs themselves do not get exercise enough for their own good.

But tight dressing, though the most serious hindrance to the habit of good breathing, is not the only obstacle. There are careless ways of sitting and standing that draw the shoulders forward and cramp the chest; and it is as hard for the lungs to do good work when the chest is narrow and constricted as it is for a closely bandaged hand to set a copy of clear, graceful penmanship. Then there are lazy ways of breathing, and one-sided ways of breathing, and the particularly bad habit of breathing through the mouth. Now the nose was meant to breathe through, and it is marvelously arranged for filtering the impurities out of the air, and for changing it to a suitable temperature for entering the lungs. The mouth has no such apparatus, and when air is swallowed through the mouth instead of breathed through the nose, it has an injurious effect upon the lungs. A story is told of an Indian who had a personal encounter with a white man much his superior in size and strength, and who was asked afterward if he was not afraid. “Me never afraid of man who keeps mouth open,” was the immediate reply. Indeed, breathing through the mouth gives a foolish and weak expression to the face, as you may see by watching any one asleep with the mouth open.

It is well to establish the habit of deep breathing if it does not already exist, but, in addition to this, the reserve air which is left in the lungs after an ordinary expiration should be expelled and the lungs thoroughly ventilated at least twice every day. First, then, see to it that the air in the room is as pure and fresh as out-of-door air can make it. Then, with all tight and superfluous clothing removed, lie flat on the back and, with the mouth firmly closed, take a full, deep breath. Hold it eight or ten seconds, and then let it out. Take another, and yet another breath in the same way.

After that, take a breath into the lungs as slowly as possible, beginning to fill them at their lowest extremities, and inhaling gradually until they are filled to their full capacity, when the air should be exhaled in the same slow and steady manner in which it was taken in. Repeat this exercise three or four times. Now watch and see if the shoulders are kept drawn down and immovable while the air is inhaled, as they should be, or if they are drawn up, and are thus robbing the diaphragm and muscles of forced breathing of half their exercise.

When you have taken this movement again to make sure that the shoulders are in good position, throw your arms vertically over your head and take another quick, full inspiration, swinging the arms rapidly to the sides close to the body and back again over the head. Swing the arms up and down four times on the same breath, and repeat the exercise three or four times.

After this, it is a good plan to stand erect with the arms horizontal at the sides, and vigorously clap the hands from that position over the head a few times. When taking such movements in an erect position, always keep the chin two or three inches back of the vertical.

A few such exercises as these, for five or ten minutes at night and morning, will promote refreshing sleep and give increased vitality for duties and occupations of the day; and it may be noted in conclusion that an anæmic or low condition of the blood is seldom found where there is an established habit of full, deep breathing with the mouth closed.

BESSIE: “WHAT DOES ‘INHERIT’ MEAN, I WONDER? NURSE SAYS THAT MY GRANDPA’S PAPA PLANTED THIS TREE, AND THAT I’LL HAVE TO INHERIT IT. I DON’T SEE WHY HE DIDN’T INHERIT IT HIMSELF!”

JAPANESE BABIES.

A little bird sings from over the sea:

“I’ve been to a land that pleases me.

“’Tis a fabulous land where babies don’t cry

From the time they are born till the time they die.

You queer little baby, way over the sea,

Tell us, oh, tell us, how can it be.

Aren’t Japanese baby clothes ever too tight?

Don’t Japanese babies wake up in the night?

Do Japanese teeth come through without pain?

Or Japanese children tease babies in vain?

Don’t Japanese pins have points that prick?

Wont Japanese colic make little folk sick?

You queer little baby, if secret there be
Send it, oh, send it way over the sea!
There is no such secret. Far off in Japan

Some babies can cry, and they’ll prove that they can!

JINGLE.

being words and pictures by アルフレド ブレンナン

This quaint little bit of a man
Insisted on using a fan
Until it was known
By some he had flown,
But others said sailed, for Japan.

RIDDLES FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK.

Ever so many days ago, away back in June before any of the hot days came, St. Nicholas gave the Very Little Folk some riddles to guess. And now here are some more. These riddles, like the others, have little pictures, and if you look well at the pictures, you can guess the riddles. But nobody more than seven years old must try to guess them.

First of all is a riddle about Little Tommy Tinderpeg. You must have seen him often. He makes a bright light when he burns his shoe.

Little Tommy Tinderpeg

Burnt his shoe and blacked his leg.

And now here is a riddle about another queer fellow, “Black-a-middle Dick.” He is longer and stronger than Tommy Tinderpeg. And he leaves a black track behind him when he travels. You can guess who he is. Many little boys and girls know him very well, and have helped him to travel.

Black-a-middle Dick though he never can stand,

He’ll travel all day if you give him a hand.

Next comes a good riddle about a dozen bold riders. Have you never seen the funny little fellows all riding one nag? When the wind blows, it is not easy for them to keep their places, and if it blows very hard, some of the little riders may fall off. But most of them ride well and hold on tight.

A dozen bold riders,
Astride of one nag;
No clothes on their bodies,
Not even a rag.
They ride without bridles
Or stirrups or spurs,
And stick to their saddles
Like so many burrs.

Here, last of all, is another Tommy. He is not at all like Tommy Tinderpeg. He has a round, pretty face, and he talks fast and keeps saying the same thing over and over, all the time. You like to look at him, and to hold him up to your ear to hear what he says. You can guess who Tommy Locket is, just by his name. So this is the easiest riddle of all.

About Tommy Locket I’ll give you a rhyme

He rode in my pocket and always kept time.

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

I’m told, my friends, that a beautiful red flower, known as “painter’s-brush,” abounds in Colorado. As it lies on the grass or leans against the stones and fences, it looks in shape and color precisely as if some painter had dipped the soft part of his brush in his brightest paint, and thrown it carelessly down. In midsummer these painter’s-brushes are to be seen by the thousand. Now, as we look about us here in my meadow to-day, it seems as if a million painter’s-brushes had been at work, high and low. Not only brushes dipped in red, but brushes rich with yellows, browns, grays, pinks, and deep dark crimsons. Ah, but it’s a fine piece of color, and the painting has been gloriously done! And though I’m only a Jack-in-the-Pulpit, great thoughts stir within me at the sight.

But now let us take up the subject of

A PERFECTLY QUIET DAY.

One afternoon, not long ago, the Little School-ma’am lay in a hammock, looking up at the leaves.

“How perfectly still they are!” she said to herself. “Not a leaf moves!”

She was lying under an oak tree, a sturdy, steady kind of a tree, as you all know.

“Look at that tree yonder!” said one of the prettiest girl-scholars, pointing to a Norway poplar, the leaves of which are hung on long slender stems.

Lo, and behold, it was all in a quiver!

“Oh, that shakes just for the fun of it!” replied the Little School-ma’am, “for there is hardly a breath of air stirring. It is perfectly quiet.”

The Deacon happened by just then, and overheard her last words. He stopped and asked her if she had any idea how difficult it was to get a perfectly quiet day? Whereupon, she owned that she thought it would be impossible.

“Well,” he replied, “there was once an Italian named Guiglielmini, who wanted to try an experiment in which it was necessary that some balls should fall through perfectly still air from a certain height. So in August, 1791, he went up on a tower in Bologna, and tied the balls to the top with long, silken threads. Then he waited for a perfectly still day. Sometimes the air was quiet, but the tower would slightly tremble, and at other times the tower was steady, but the air was in motion. At last, in February, 1792, there came a day when the air and the tower were both still, and he climbed up as softly as a cat, and gently set his threads on fire, and down dropped the balls!”

“And what was the experiment?” asked the Little School-ma’am.

“Oh, it had something to do with the motion of the earth!” said the Deacon, as he walked away, smiling.

HOW HE PROVED IT.

That reminds me, by the way, of a funny rhyme sent to the Little School-ma’am by a friend of hers, Miss E. L. Sylvester. Here it is:

A clever old man of Montrose
Said: “I’ll balance my cane on my nose;
For so shall I prove
That the world doesn’t move
As a great many people suppose.”

WALKING WITHOUT LEGS.

A little girl has sent you a question. She says she found three pretty brownish shells in the woods, one day, and she took them home to her little brother. They looked, she says, “very like similar shells that often are found on the sea-shore.” Well, she put them on the sunny piazza, and ran to find Bobby.—And now you shall have the rest of the story in her own words:

“Bobby was eating bread and molasses, and so he ran out of the kitchen all sticky. When we went together to look at the shells, lo, and behold! the shells were gone! They had walked around the corner of the piazza. And, oh Jack, what do you think? We watched them, and they kept on walking! And they hadn’t any legs!

“Now this is a true story, dear Jack, and I want you to tell it to little boys and girls younger than Bobby and me (or Bobby and I, whichever is right), and see if they know how those shells walked, and what kind of shells they were, and if any other little boys and girls ever found any of the same sort in their woods or gardens.

“Your little friend,

“Jamesetta C.

“I take up my pen again to say that we all know, of course, that snakes move along the ground without legs. But they do that motion entirely with their own insides, don’t they? Those shells couldn’t possibly move as snakes do.

“For fear you may think my name is strange, I will tell you that I am named after my grandfather, only James wouldn’t do for a girl.”

A QUEER SUNSHADE.

A wise bird of my acquaintance, who has traveled far and wide, told me, not long ago, of a queer sunshade that was invented for the benefit of the British soldiers in the Soudan. (I don’t know where that is, I’m sure, and my bird was in too great a hurry to explain. But who cares? I know I can trust you young geographers to clear up any mystery of that sort.)

Well, as to the sunshade, my bird-friend said that the upright parts are simply light bamboo sticks. They are fastened to the shoulders of the wearer, and they support at the top a curved awning made of paper and painted green inside.

“But it would look so queer!” I said. “Would anybody have the courage to wear it?”—when from the grass near my pulpit up popped an old raven, whose specialties are ancient history, scarecrows, and eavesdropping.

“Don’t you know,” he croaked, “that the man who first carried an umbrella was ridiculed and hooted at?”

That raven, my dears, narrowly escaped a withering reply. But luckily I remembered something the Little School-ma’am read aloud, one sunny day, to a group of boys and girls, as they stopped to rest in my meadow. And what she read was the story of that very man—the original umbrella-carrier. And she was reading from St. Nicholas itself!

The old croaker was right! So I assumed my most dignified air, and gave in.

But did that satisfy him? Bless you, no! Before he left, I had to admit that this new sunshade was merely a parasol carried on the shoulders instead of in the hand; that it was lighter than the common sunshade; that it left both hands free for sketching, playing ball, or what not; and that the old raven might live to see every civilized boy or girl walking along on sunny days with a cupola of this sort over his or her unabashed head.—Between ourselves, my dears, you needn’t yet count upon this last as an up-and-down future certainty. I may take it back when I’ve had time to recover from the raven’s lecture.

By the way, there’s one good thing about that raven,—his memory.

A QUEER JUMBLE.

Talking of queer things, here comes a queer jumble from a young fellow who says he lives in Maine by the broad blue main; and that there’s nothing like using the rod and the “line-upon-line” method when you find a school of fish that won’t go to school; and——

Well, no Jack-in-the-Pulpit can make anything out of such stuff as that! But perhaps some of you clever youngsters can understand it. He sends these rhymes, too, which he calls

A LIQUID PRO QUO.

Oh, shun the ocean big with fate!

Nor strive to make the free strait straight.

Sauce, if thou wilt, the river’s source,

And brook no babbling brook, of course;

But keep the treacherous bay at bay.

(It’s tide no man hath tied, they say.)

And never see the midway sea,

But waive the wave that waits for thee!

THAT DEAR LITTLE LORD.

Pittsfield, Ill.

Dear Mr. Jack-in-the-Pulpit: I think it sounds rather saucy to say just Jack, to the preacher. My Papa is a pulpit man, too, and people call him Mr. Rose, but they leave off “in the pulpit,” because he does not stay there all the time. He can tell me nearly everything I want to know; but there is one thing he is not sure about, and that is how to pronounce Fauntleroy. Should it be Faunt-Le-Roy? Or should the middle syllable be like the last syllable of the word little? I love the little lord so much, I want to know his name exactly.

Your friend,

Horace Rose.

Faunt-le-roy is correct. The vowel is sounded in the middle syllable.

I’m always in my pulpit, dear Horace, but I’m not always preaching. One eloquent sermon, however, I feel called upon to deliver at this present moment, for it concerns little Lord Fauntleroy.—[Haven’t I heard all about him from the Little School-ma’am and the scholars of the red school-house, and, for that matter, from every boy and girl I know?]—Well, the dear little lord is my text. In fact, he’s the sermon, too. So I need say no more except to publicly announce from my pulpit, with all due solemnity, that he is a boy after your Jack’s own heart. And to every youngster among you, dearly beloved, I say, “Earl or no earl,—go thou and be like him!”

THE LETTER-BOX.

Bangor, Me.

Dear St. Nicholas: I am reading “Lord Fauntleroy,” and like it very much, and I hope that the next number will be that the Earl will want the mother to Lord Fauntleroy to come up and live with them. I remain, yours truly,

K. W. S.

Buffalo, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas: I like you so much that I wish you would come every week instead of every month. I like the story of “Little Lord Fauntleroy” best of all. But you must not let him lose his title.

M. C. W.

During the last few months, many of those who have been so deeply interested in “Little Lord Fauntleroy” have formed their own eager opinions of just how that beautiful story could, would, or should end. But all such readers, including K. W. S. and M. C. W., will agree that in the concluding chapters, printed this month, Mrs. Burnett has anticipated or fully satisfied their utmost desires.

Cloverleigh, Pa.

Dear St Nicholas: We are three little girls just the same age, for we are triplets. We look and dress just alike, and our big old brother calls us the “three little maids from school.” We have a pony, a big dog, and a little cat, but we have no little boy to play with, and we wish that little Lord Fauntleroy was a really, truly boy and could come and play with us. We send our love to you, dear St. Nicholas, and we hope that this, our very first letter, will be printed to surprise our dear Mamma and Papa, and to spite our big brother, who says nobody would print such a silly thing. Your loving little maids,

Rosy F., Daisy F., Pansy F.

Here it is in print, dear little maids,—with St. Nicholas’s compliments to you and the big brother.

Detroit, Mich.

Dear St. Nicholas: I am nine years old; I have three sisters, two older and one younger than I. Susie, the eldest, is a great girl for reading; Helen, the next, is very fond of dolls,—she has six; but Edna, the younger, is a little rogue and likes to play ball with the boys best. We have taken you long before I can remember. I enjoy the story of “Little Lord Fauntleroy” very much. Is it a good long story? I hope it is. I went to see the game of base-ball on the 19th between the Chicagos and Detroits. I enjoy playing base-ball very much; although I am only nine years old, I think I can pitch a curve. I hope you will publish this. Your faithful reader,

James C. M.

A Correction.

Colorado Springs, Col.

Editor of St. Nicholas: I should like to correct two errors that in some way have crept into my article on “Fishes and their Young,” in the June St. Nicholas. The two fishes figured on page 601 are described under the cut as being from the Sea of Galilee, and the impression given that they belong to the genus Ophiocephalus. They really belong to the genus Chromis, and are found in Lake Tiberias. On page 602, the description of the sea-horse—“These have a perfect pouch, into which the infant fishes are taken as soon as hatched”—is wrong; it should read, The eggs are taken into the pouch as soon as laid and kept until hatched.

Very truly yours,

C. F. Holder.

Pt. Chautauqua, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have been reading “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” and it is one of the very few stories by which I am perfectly fascinated. I am going to write a story myself, sometime, although I have tried more than once, and they got so stale I couldn’t finish them. But I am writing one now, and I am going to finish it, however stale it may get, or die in the attempt.

Whenever I read a real nice story, I just sit and wonder how any person can ever think of so many things to happen in such a mysterious yet “every-day” kind of way, and come out in the end all cleared up, and just as plain as though it had really happened! Then my wonder grows into admiration, and my admiration into awe, my awe into actual reverence, and then I throw down my book and give it up as past understanding, and go outdoors and play. I am on pins and needles to know whether “Ceddie” was the real Lord Fauntleroy or not; but he must be,—he’s too good not to be!

Next Tuesday I shall be fourteen. I take the whole care of the horse, and, of course, of the barn, too, and as father and mother are in Brooklyn, I am Papa! It is very wearing to have such a multitude of responsibilities, but I think that I shall be able to keep my family (one member of which is an unruly little girl of twenty) straight until my father comes to take the burden off my shoulders.

Your venerable and careworn friend,

Arthur Mason M.

St. Louis, Mo.

Dear St. Nicholas: I am one of your little readers, nine years old. My sister began taking St. Nicholas in 1876, and, though she is now grown, papa still takes it for me. I have never written to you before, but I enjoy the “Letter-box” very much, and especially the letters about the pets the children have. I would like to tell you about three pets we had. They were a black-and-tan dog named Cricket, a Maltese kitten named Tiny, and a pet chicken named Dick. They played together, and ate and slept together. The dog had a rug on the side porch, and they would lie down and cuddle up beside him, and all sleep soundly. Morning, noon, and night we set a pan of milk out, and the three pets would gather around and all drink at once. At play they would roll over each other, and never, at any time, did they disagree or seem to be tired of each other. The kitten and chicken are both dead now, but we have the little dog yet; and he knows a great many tricks, and seems to understand whatever he hears us say about him, and always minds what we tell him. If my letter is not too long, I hope you will print it. I love your magazine very much, and am always impatient for it to come.

Your little friend,

M. C. S.

With the foregoing letter came also a letter from M. C. S.’s mother, conveying such kind and hearty words that St. Nicholas can not refrain from printing it also:

St. Louis, Mo.

Dear St. Nicholas: I wish I could tell you what a blessing your magazine has been to our children, of whom the eldest, now almost nineteen years old, enjoys it as much as her little sister of nine. I have found it a great assistance in amusing and instructing my little ones, and I am sure they will never feel old enough to give it up.

We wish you a long and prosperous life, and hope you may for many years to come send the same joy and delight to the hearts of children everywhere that you have in years past, and to ours.

Respectfully,

Mrs. S. E. S.

Memphis, Tenn.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have been taking you for nearly five years, but I never wrote you a letter before. I think little Lord Fauntleroy is the sweetest little fellow I ever read about. Every time I get a new number of St. Nicholas, I sit down on the rug by mamma and read “Little Lord Fauntleroy” out loud for mamma and my little sister to hear. Mamma and papa both like it ever so much. I liked “Davy and the Goblin” very much, too, and was sorry when it ended. But if I were to go on telling you how many of your stories I liked, I would make you so tired you would never put my letter in print. I am eleven years old, and I live out in the suburbs of Memphis. I sometimes get to studying out every one of the Brownies’ faces, and whenever I do, it makes me laugh heartily.

Your faithful reader,

E. P. P.

Gardiner’s Island, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas: We have taken you for four years, and are very glad when you come to us every month. We live on an island, and are not very far away from Montauk Point, L. I. The island is very beautiful, and of about three thousand five hundred acres.

When we drive in the woods, we watch for the lovely deer, which are wild and leap away when they hear the slightest sound.

We each have our riding-horse, and enjoy it very much here.

We like the “Letter-box” very much, and enjoy the letters from Europe. My sister and I have crossed the Atlantic six times. Last winter we spent in Germany studying. I liked the stories of “Art and Artists” and “From Bach to Wagner” very much. Hoping my letter is not too long, and that you will find a corner for it in the “Letter-box,” as it is my first,

Very truly yours,

Coralie L. G.

Montvale Springs, Blount Co., E. Tenn.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have heard people say that no one is perfect, but I guess they did not know you, for the only fault that any one could possibly find with you is that you don’t come often enough. You were so much company to me all last winter! For I live at a summer resort, and the children all go away in the fall, and there is no school near, and my sister and I have to be taught by a governess. I forgot to be lonesome while you were telling me such nice stories.

I am ten years old.

I hope you will live to be a thousand years old, and make every boy and girl that gets acquainted with you as happy as you make me. Good-bye, dear, good friend.

Yours forever,

Frank J. E.

Dublin, Ireland.

Dear St. Nicholas: I wonder if you ever had a letter from Ireland. I have an uncle in America who sends you to me; we all like you very much. The story of “Little Lord Fauntleroy” is so nice. I have one sister and one brother; also a cousin who lives with us. I do hope this will be printed, as this is my first letter to a magazine. I remain, your constant reader,

Florence E.

Spring Hill, Tenn.

Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little Tennessee girl, and I live in Maury Co. Mother gave you to me last year for a Christmas present. Papa took you for me this year; and I think that “Little Lord Fauntleroy” is the best thing of all. My little brother is four years old; he likes the Brownies best. He calls one of our Jersey calves “Dhonabar,” after a horse told about in St. Nicholas. I have a beautiful little brown pony. His name is Bun. I am eight years old.

Your little friend,

Irene M. C.

By an error in filing, several letters concerning curve-pitching were overlooked two months ago, and so they failed to appear with the others in the August “Letter-box.” But as the friendly correspondents who sent them have taken great pains to explain their theories, it would be unjust to withhold the letters and diagrams from the thousands of boy-readers who are interested in the vexed questions of how and why a ball curves. Some of these letters, therefore, are presented here; the remaining two or three will appear in next month’s “Letter-box.”

Franklin, Pa.

Dear St. Nicholas: May I have a word with your readers on that vexed subject, curve-pitching? Though I am not one of your subscribers, I have a younger brother who has been one for several years, and who also pitches for an amateur club here. Through him I have verified for myself the fact that a ball will curve in the direction in which it is rotating; i. e., it will curve to the right, or “in,” if it rotate in the direction of the hands of a watch, and vice versa. In this, I think, any careful observer of a curving ball will agree with me.

Now, all will admit, I think, that if it were possible to throw a ball in a straight line without any rotation whatever, there would be a cushion of air of greater density than the surrounding atmosphere exactly in front of the ball, and a partial vacuum behind it. Nor would this cushion of air have definite limits, but it would thin out gradually as it streams over the sides of the ball, thus (Fig. 1):

FIG. 1.

But now, suppose the ball be rotating rapidly to the right, in the direction of the hands of a watch. The sides of the ball, as they rotate, must carry by friction some of the surrounding air with them. That is, the point b (Fig. 2), as the ball rotates, will tend to carry air from its present location around to d, and so with any other point on the ball in proportion as it is on or near the equator of rotation.

FIG. 2.

But when each point on the ball’s equator reaches the point c with its load of air, it meets with a resistance produced by this cushion of air in front of the ball, and, in order to pass on, must leave its load behind it. In other words the air carried around in the direction b c d becomes massed against the cushion in front, and the cushion is thickened at and around the point c. And, on the other hand, each point on the equator tends to carry the air from the right-hand side of the cushion, the point c, and consequently, to decrease the density or thickness of the cushion at that point. So that we soon have the cushion of air not exactly in front of the ball, but somewhat to the left of front; thus (Fig. 3):

FIG. 3.

Now, since action is always equal to reaction, the cushion of air must push back against the ball just as hard as the ball pushes against it. And since the cushion is thickest where the combined forces of the ball are greatest, the cushion must push back hardest in the direction of a line drawn through the thickest part of the cushion and the center of the ball; i. e., in the line a, b, Fig. 3, a direction against that of the onward motion of the ball, and to the right of it.

FIG. 4.

Finally, if at any instant we represent the force of the ball and its direction by the line A, B (Fig. 4), and the backward push of the cushion and its direction by the line A, C, then, according to the law of physics, that, “if two forces act on a point, and if lines be drawn from that point, representing the forces in magnitude and direction, and on these lines, as sides, a parallelogram be constructed, their resultant will be represented in magnitude and direction by the diagonal which passes through that point,” the line A, D will represent the actual force and direction of the ball at the given instant.

But both the forces, A, B and A, C, are constantly decreasing from the moment the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, and, moreover, the force A, B decreases more rapidly than the force A, C, inasmuch as A, B is acting against the resistance of the air plus the attraction of gravity, while A, C is acting against the resistance of the air alone. Consequently, the direction of A, D is being constantly changed and away from A, B, and becomes a curve, instead of a straight or broken line. This curve will obviously have the direction, A, D (Fig. 5), or to the right, which is the direction in which a ball rotating to the right will curve.

FIG. 5.

This reasoning will hold for a ball rotating in any direction, so long as the axis of rotation is, or tends to be, at right angles to the line of progression. The problem of the “drift” of a projectile from a rifle or rifled cannon is entirely different, and one I should like to see discussed after this one of “curving” is settled to your readers’ satisfaction.

I think the above explanation solves the problem as well as explains all the fallacies of your former correspondents.

Very respectfully,

S. P. E.

Annapolis.

Dear St. Nicholas: In your February number are two letters about curved pitching: one written presumably by an army officer, from Fort Monroe,—the other from Philadelphia, presumably by a naval officer. The army man states facts, and gives no explanation; the navy man fails to solve a well-known problem.

In the days of smooth bores and spherical cannon-balls (round like a base-ball, only larger), eccentricity, or difference between the position of the center of figure and center of gravity, or weight, had a very perceptible effect upon range and accuracy. Placing the projectile in the gun, with the center of gravity to the right, when the gun was fired, the projectile or cannon-ball took up a motion of rotation from left to right, and deviated to the right (Fig. 1); placing it toward the upper part of the bore, the ball rotated from down up, and deviated upward, or the range was increased (Fig. 2).

FIG. 1—VERTICAL.

FIG. 2—HORIZONTAL.

C. Center of shot. G. Center of gravity. A. Half ball moving toward the resisting air. B. Half ball moving away from the resisting air.

All bodies free to move will follow the line of least resistance. The force acting upon the ball (the resultant of the forward movement, and the opposing resistance of the air) will be away from that half of the ball moving toward the resisting air, as the ball, in its effort to take up the line of least resistance, is pushed away; no part of it is retarded. This it what a “curve-pitcher” does.

A billiard ball having received a strong “draw,” or backward rotation, striking another to one side of the center, makes a very perceptible curve after impact, until the original motion of translation has been overcome.

All these things were known before curved pitching ever was spoken of. Curved pitching was discovered accidentally, although, strange to say, many base-ball players were known always “to throw crooked,” or with a curve.

Yours truly,

E. B. Barry, Lieut. U. S. N.

Bridgeport, Conn.

Dear St. Nicholas: Having seen so many articles in your “Letter-box,” on Mr. Harvey’s excellent story, “How Science Won the Game,” I thought I would write to you in regard to it.

I have carefully tried the experiments of throwing the ball so that it would twist in the directions indicated by the different writers, and so far but one method has been correct in every particular; namely, the one given by F. C. J. in the May number.

I wish I had been at the county fair when Arthur Dart’s father offered ten dollars to any one who would successfully perform the “three stake proof,” as I am certain that I should have made that amount by the operation, whether I had been asked to pitch the “in” or “out” curve, both of which I find equally easy to accomplish.

The question of why the ball curves after it has left the hand, I account for as follows: If the “in” curve is to be pitched, the ball touches the index finger the last thing before leaving the hand, and, as it does so, the hand is quickly and forcibly clenched, so that the ball is given a twirling motion. Therefore it curves to the right (provided it is thrown with the right hand). In the case of the “out” curve, the ball touches the thumb the last thing before leaving the hand, and consequently twists to the left, producing the “out” curve.

The “out” curve is so called because it is a ball thrown to a right-handed batsman when in position, so that it curves out toward the end of his bat, while the “in” curve is a ball thrown to a batsman which curves in toward his body.

The following may be safely taken as a rule as to curve-pitching. If the ball be thrown so it twists the way shown in Fig. 1, the ball will curve in; but, if it be thrown so it will twist as indicated by Fig. 2, the ball will curve out.

FIG. 1.

FIG. 2.

Trusting that this explanation is clear and satisfactory, and hoping to see it in the “Letter-box,” I remain the stanch friend and admirer of our National Game,

Will P. Snikpoh.

Fishkill, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have been reading with much interest the letters concerning the curving of a base-ball, and would now like to try my hand at offering an explanation. The theory that I present is not original, being taken from “Wood’s Analytical Mechanics,” p. 462, but it seems to be the one offering the best explanation of the actual facts of the case. I will omit what mathematics there is in it, in order to render it a little more easily understood.

Suppose a ball is moving toward G, and rotating in the direction shown by the arrow. Then the two quadrants A and D will move with equal velocities. B and C will also move with equal velocities, but B and C will not move as fast as A and D, because in the case of A and D the velocity due to rotation is to be added to that of direct forward motion, and in the case of B and C it is to be subtracted. Now the pressure of the air on a moving body varies, as some power of the velocity of the body; that is, the greater the velocity, the greater the pressure. The quadrant A moves against the air with a certain velocity, and the total pressure of the air on that quadrant will be a force, acting toward the center (if we neglect friction), which may be represented by the arrow at A. The quadrant B moves against the air with a less velocity than A; hence the pressure is less. Let it be represented by the arrow at B. The quadrant C moves away from the air with a velocity equal to B; hence the pressure on C must be less than that on B. The quadrant D moves away from the air with a velocity greater than that of C; hence the pressure on D will be less than that on C. Evidently now from this arrangement of forces the resultant force will lie somewhat in the position shown by the arrow R. This will tend to force the ball away from the direct line of flight and to curve it as shown by the dotted line.

Thus we see that it is the pressure of the atmosphere that curves the ball, and not the friction. The tendency of the latter is to curve the ball in the opposite direction, but this tendency is unappreciable. This is where the mistake of your correspondent in the February number lies; namely, in considering the friction instead of the pressure. The explanation of F. C. J. in the May number seems to me more correct. The theory of “A Curver” in the May number, that a ball could be curved more easily in a vacuum than in the air, is entirely wrong. It violates Newton’s first law of motion. “A body continues in a state of rest or of uniform motion in a straight line unless acted upon by some external force.” In a vacuum there would be no external force, and the ball would not curve at all. Prof. Wood, in the article referred to, proves that the more slowly a ball is thrown with a given velocity of rotation the more will it curve. Does any one know how this is practically? Hoping that I have not taken up too much of your space,

I am, very sincerely yours,

J. R. S.

Brady City, McCulloch, Texas.

Dear St. Nicholas: Seeing Mr. Stevens’s letter on the “curve” in your April number, I am tempted to reply to it. Unfortunately, the data on which his theory is founded are incorrect. A ball twisting to the left will curve, not to the right, but to the left.

May I offer another explanation. The facts are that: 1, the axis of rotation is perpendicular to (or rather the plane of rotation or twist is parallel to) the plane in which the curve lies; and, 2, that the curve is in the same direction as the twist.

When a ball is thrown with sufficient velocity, the air is (as Mr. Stevens tells us) “compacted in front of the ball.” When there is little or no twist, the resistance of the air is equal on both sides of the ball, and there is no curve.

Now, if the wind be blowing across the path of the ball, the resistance is unequal, and the ball curves away from the wind; so that in practice allowance is made for this curve when throwing a ball in a high wind.

When there is no wind, but the ball is thrown with sufficient velocity to create considerable resistance from the air, and at the same time is twisted so as to rotate on its axis, then the resistance offered at a, c (Fig. 1) is greater than that offered at a, b; for a, c is advancing with the velocity of the throw plus the velocity of the twist, while a, b is advancing with the velocity of the throw minus the velocity of the twist. Consequently a greater resisting force being exerted at a, c than at a, b, the ball yields and is forced into the curve B, A′, just as a cross wind would deflect it. The result is a curve—because the forces are constant while the ball is in motion.

FIG. 1.

Again, conceive of the ball B (Fig. 2) as at rest and the wind acting on a, b in the direction c, a. The angle of incidence being equal to the angle of deflection, the result will be to force the ball in the direction c′, a—the same result as is produced by the wind acting on a sail.

FIG. 2.

On this theory, the relation of the velocity of the twist to the velocity of the throw will determine the nature and degree of the curve, and the point of departure from the straight line.

If the ball be thrown too slowly, there is not sufficient resistance to affect its course materially. If it is thrown too swiftly, the velocity of the throw will overcome the tendency of the twist, and there will be no perceptible curve.

For this reason the ball, when first thrown, will proceed in an apparently straight line until its initial velocity is so far diminished as to nearly equal the velocity of rotation, when it will begin to curve.

Again, the ball would have a tendency to curve in the direction of rotation were there no resistance from the air. For, in the plane of rotation the circumference at c moves more rapidly toward A than at the point b (Fig. 3); hence it has a tendency to advance over a greater distance than b in a given time, but is held back by b. This gives centrifugal and centripetal forces acting from b to c, and a consequent tendency of c to revolve around b, which, in connection with the motion of both toward a, would give the curved line a-A′ as the path of the ball.

FIG. 3.

As a familiar example, take a child’s wooden hoop and toss it from you with sufficient upward tendency to overcome gravity, at the same time causing it to revolve rapidly in a plane parallel to the horizon, and you will find that it will describe a curve in the direction of the rotation and fall at your feet. This is an extreme illustration of this factor of the base-ball curve; the diameter of the hoop being so much the greater, of course gives a far greater velocity of rotation in comparison to that of projection than the smaller diameter of the base-ball can give.

This same principle is involved in the explanation of the motion of the boomerang of the Australians and the toy of the same name.

Yours sincerely,

Robert S. Dod.

Our thanks are due to the young friends whose names here follow, for pleasant letters which they have sent us, but which are crowded out of the “Letter-box”:

Arthur E. Clark, Jr., A. G. C., M. M. Stevens, Urbanna Myrover, “Gladys, Gipsy, Sibyl,” Blue Bell, “Hie” and “Tie,” T. A. T., May Elden, Herman N. Steele, “Yum” and “Tum,” Daisy Smith, Phil Riley, Annie M. Porter, Daisy A. C., Lucy E. D., Mable H. W., Amelia N. F., and Annie L. D., Francie Mackenzie, “Maiden Hair and Moonlight,” Mabel F. Rigby, W., I. S. B., E. T. C., Carl W., Isabel Eldridge, Kittie Loper, Aimée and Goldina Mendelson, Herbert A. Megraw, Gerald B. Wadsworth, F. W. L., Amy D. Smith, Imogene Avis, May, David Blair, and May E. Masten.

The Agassiz Association
SIXTY-SIXTH REPORT.

LOUIS AGASSIZ.
His Life and Correspondence.[2]

No person capable of appreciating a beautiful record of a consistent and noble life can begin to read Mrs. Agassiz’s book and leave it unfinished; and no one can finish reading it without receiving a fresh baptism of faith, hope, and love.

“The work is written in so captivating a style that the reader seems almost to see Agassiz, the boy, catching the fishes and studying their movements in the old stone tank near the Swiss parsonage where he was born. Sympathy is felt for the youth threatened with blindness, but still so intent upon his chosen pursuits that he studies fossils in a darkened room, using his tongue to feel out the impressions when his fingers are not sensitive enough. Enthusiasm is aroused when the young man exploits his glacial theory, which, opposed by Buckland and other scientists, afterward makes converts of them all.”

I have been deeply impressed by the manifestation of Agassiz’s distinctive traits and peculiar powers, at a very early age. It is this that makes the record of his life so inspiring to young men. When our boys read what a boy of nineteen may be, and may do, they will not be satisfied with lives devoted in large measure to trivial enjoyments; and they will regard as of less consequence the height of their new collars, and the tie of their cravats.

From the time he was born in the little cottage by the Lake of Morat, until he was laid to rest at Mount Auburn, the story of Agassiz’s life is a constant inspiration. Whether Louis Agassiz was right or wrong, we respect the manliness that refused to accept the doctrine of evolution, because his reason was not convinced of its truth.

I can scarcely conceive a greater blessing to this country, restless as it is in its haste for riches, vexed as it is by the clashing of opposing interests, than that the sweet and consecrated spirit of Louis Agassiz should steal into the unquiet breasts of American young men, and fill them with the like self-forgetting devotion to simple truth.

[2] Edited by his wife, Elizabeth Cary Agassiz. With portraits, illustrations, and index. In two volumes, crown, 8vo. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston and New York.

In Memoriam.

It is with deep sorrow that I have to announce the death of one of our most prominent and promising members. William D. Shaw, son of Mr. Thomas Shaw, died at Côte St. Antoine, June 29, aged 19 years. Mr. Shaw was one of those young men who had caught the spirit of Louis Agassiz, and already at his early age he had given promise of a useful life.

He was the leading spirit in founding our Montreal Chapter, which grew, principally under his direction, into one of the largest and strongest on our roll. A member of the B. A. A. S., he was about going to England to take part in the proceedings there. He was a devoted student of natural science, and his collection which he recently gave to the Montreal Chapter was one of the largest private collections in the city.

Mr. Shaw was our Canadian Secretary, and his loss will be deeply felt by many Chapters of our Association.

Notes.

Water-spider. I found a large water-spider under a bridge. I placed it in a bottle and fed it flies. Instead of building a web, it stays on a stick, and jumps at the flies when they come near it.—Alex. E. Wight.

Electric light and insects. In four or five evenings, by examining the ground closely near our electric lights, I found specimens of Telea Polyphemus, Actias Luna, Platysamia Cecropia, Callosamia Promethea, and other large moths, including several hawk-moths; also many varieties of beetles.

Hardly any were found outside the shadow around base of pole.—Peter T. Bourne, Sec., Poughkeepsie, N. Y.

Birds of Fulton Co., Ky. No bird is given that I have not seen here and fully identified. Nomenclature according to Coue’s Key:

1.—Turdus migratorius. American robin. Transient visitant in spring and fall. Abundant. Many killed and eaten here.

2.—T. Mustelinus. Wood-thrush. Rare.

3.—T. fuscescens. Wilson’s thrush. Transient. Common.

4.—Mimus polyglottus. Mocking-bird. Summer resident. Growing scarce. Many young taken for the cage. A young one sells for from 25c. to $1.

5.—Mimus Carolinensis. Catbird. Common.

6.—Sialia sialis. Bluebird. Resident. More common in winter than in summer.

7.—Lophophanes bicolor. Tufted titmouse. Resident.

8.—Parus atricapillus. Black-capped titmouse. Abundant in winter.

9.—Sitta Carolinensis. Sap-sucker. Abundant in winter.

10.—Troglodytes domesticits. House-wren. Abundant in winter.

11.—Dendræca æstiva. Summer yellow-bird. Common.

12.—Pyranga rubra. Scarlet tanager. Summer resident. Rare.

13.—Pyranga æstiva. Summer red-bird. Common.

14.—Hirundo erythrogastra horreorum. Barn-swallow. Common summer resident.

15.—Passerina cyanea. Indigo bunting. Common summer resident.

16.—Cardinalis Virginiana. Cardinal grosbeak. Common.

17.—Trochilus colubris. Ruby-throated humming-bird. Common.

18.—Cathartes aura. Turkey buzzard. Common resident.

19.—Zenaidura Carolinensis. Turtle-dove. Common.

20.—Anas boscas. Mallard. Very common.

[These are only selections from a long and nearly complete list sent by L. O. Pindar. It shows what an observing boy can do.]

Grasshoppers climbing trees. Toward evening, I noticed on an apple-tree a very large number of grasshoppers, apparently climbing the tree. It seemed to me that they were going to “roost” for the night.—E. F. Stevens, Chapter 465.

Ruffed Grouse drumming. Hearing some one say that the thunder-like noise was made by the grouse’s wings striking upon the log upon which he was sitting, I determined to find out for certain. Since then I have noted four things:

1. The wings are always held half-closed at first; i. e., the outer joint half-doubled against the one next it.

2. The wing is first raised and then pushed outward from the body.

3. The wings are not used alternately, but both at once.

4. The wings do not strike the log, but are drawn in by a quick motion against the sides of the bird.—E. L. Stephan, Pine City, Minn.

Hydrae hunting. I send you a drawing of a hydra which (natural size) is about half an inch long. I have seen a hydra fusca catch little animals smaller than itself by means of its lasso, and, when they were dead, drop them without eating them.—Alex. Wight, Framingham, Mass.

A motherly rat. I found in a nest a mouse, of the common sort, so young that its eyes were not yet open. A friend having a white rat with a litter of young, we put the little fellow among them. The mother rat at once adopted it and took good care of it for two weeks, when it escaped.—Frank H. Foster, Sec. 440.

Flowers, birds, insects, and worms of Japan. Before coming to Japan I was told that the flowers here had no perfumes, and the birds no songs.

This certainly was misinformation, as there are both, though not so intense or so various as at home.

The skylark is the most conspicuous of the birds, at least, so far as voice goes, and pours forth as much music as any half dozen of our songsters. No wonder the poets have gone mad over him.

Will some of our English friends tell us whether the skylark sings any in the fall in England?

Very many of the worms and caterpillars that live on the leaves of trees and shrubs—and every tree and bush seems to have one or more of these enemies—have a queer way of spinning themselves a sort of sack or cocoon covered with bits of twigs and leaves. One end of the cocoon is left open, and through this the worm sticks its head and feet, thus carrying its jacket around with it while eating.

The earth-worms are very striking. They all possess much more springing power than any I ever saw at home. Even the small, common kinds will jump entirely off the ground when touched. Some grow to an enormous size. The largest I saw this summer were fully ten inches long and from three-eighths to one-half an inch through when contracted. Some are beautifully striped—in rings—with a prevailing blue color, but changing in the light like variegated silk.—C. M. Cady.

A robin fights. While on a tramp, one day, I saw a robin give a cow-bird a sound thrashing.

A “fish-fly” walks out. I found, one day, in Wine creek, some queer-shaped larvæ. They looked like large wrigglers. I picked some up and, while looking at them, I saw the back of one split open, and out walked a fish-fly. I thought it would have trouble in getting its tail out, but it didn’t. It just gave a twist and out came the tail.—F. V. Corregan, Oswego, N. Y.

Strange food for tortoises and mice. I am very much interested in the attempt to teach habits of scientific observation to the young people of our country, and therefore venture to send you two facts new to me in regard to the feeding habits of animals. Last summer I was passing through a grove, about twenty rods from the Housatonic river, when my attention was attracted by a large turtle (for reasons mentioned below, I think it was a land-tortoise, though I do not know one kind of turtle from another), with its neck stretched out to its utmost extent, busily engaged about something. As I drew near, it pulled in its head with a sharp hiss, and I saw that it was standing near a fungus, or toad-stool, about an inch thick and three inches across (when whole), nearly half of which looked as if it had been nibbled away; and, on looking at the tortoise’s mouth, I saw bits of the toad-stool sticking to it. On mentioning this to my brother (who knows far more about animals than I), he said, “That is queer, for I found a land-tortoise eagerly eating a toad-stool in my woods, this summer.” My brother lives on Long Island.

For many months my sister and I have been puzzled by seeing a mouse in our room, though he had no apparent hiding-place. One window of ours always stands open at the top all summer, and below it is a thick woodbine. One evening in September, I was busily writing by this window, of which the blinds were closed, but the slats open, when I heard a tapping noise, which I thought was insects. Looking up, however, I saw a little mouse, which, on seeing me, disappeared through the slats of the blind. I sat quite still, and in a minute he came back, and, to my astonishment, began catching and eating the small insects which my light had attracted to the window. He was not a field-mouse, but an ordinary house-mouse, and could not have been driven to this diet by extreme hunger, for he was very plump.

Perhaps these habits in mice and turtles may be well known, but, as I never heard of them, I venture to send them to you.

Yours truly,

V. Butler, Stockbridge, Mass.

The Sensitive Plant of Texas.

This remarkable plant of Texas is one not frequently spoken of by botanists, but nevertheless it is interesting and worthy of a high place among the many beautiful flowers and plants which clothe the boundless plains of Texas during eight months of the year. In its style of growth it somewhat resembles the climbing rose, and is covered with densely grown and flexible thorns about a quarter of an inch long, and turned backward like hooks. Its top (that part above the earth’s surface) dies out when the cold “northers” begin to blow; but early in spring the tender shoots spring up from the old stock. It thrives best among rocks mixed with the yellow alkaline clay common to these regions. Its flower is of the most exquisite and delicate beauty, and its delicious perfume is not to be classed with that of the rose or other sweet-scented domestic flowers. The flower, when blooming, does not burst open after the manner of the rose, but in one night a myriad of little silk-like threads or petals of a deep pink color shoot out from a green ball, much resembling those seen on the sycamore, though much smaller; and, as the king of day peeps smilingly over the distant horizon, it greets him with its delicate beauty and delicious odor. But now we come to the remarkable part of its structure, the leaves. These grow from each side of a stem much in the same manner as those on a walnut tree, but of course not so large, the entire stem rarely exceeding an inch in length. Now draw your finger along this stem, touching the bright green leaves on either side, and what happens? The instant you remove your finger the little leaves close with the uppermost sides tight together, and thus they remain for several hours, as though insulted by such an act of impudence. Even the touch of a stick or a strong wind will close these ill-tempered leaves. If you touch one individual leaf it closes, while the others remain in their natural position.

This plant is also known as the “Indian tracker,” it being said that the Indians, who now roam about over the beautiful plains of the Indian Territory, and even on those of Texas, used to track their enemies and game by observing the condition of leaves on the sensitive plant.

It also grows in Missouri, and, perhaps, in Arkansas, but among the rocky hills and cañons of Texas seems to be at home.—Alfred V. Kern, Wichita Falls, Wichita Co., Texas.

Young Walking-sticks.

I will tell you about a walking-stick I caught last summer. It was the largest one I had ever seen, though they are quite numerous in the woods about here. It measured four inches from its head to its tail. While waiting to get a bottle to preserve it in, I kept it in a small pasteboard box, and when I was ready to transfer it to the bottle of alcohol, I found it had laid six eggs. The eggs were about the size of a large pin’s-head, oval in shape, shiny black about four-fifths of their length, the other fifth white. Well, I put the bug in the bottle, and glued the eggs on a piece of stiff paper and put them away in a pasteboard box. The other day I happened to open the box and found that two of the eggs had hatched. The inmate of one was a perfectly formed little walking-stick one-fourth of an inch long, its legs about the thickness of a fine hair, and the same length as its body. The other one was two-thirds outside of its shell, and was of a bright green color.—John H. Kinzie, Riverside, Illinois.

Exchanges.

Mounted microscopic objects, mostly vegetal, for others, or for books on the microscope, vegetable histology, etc.—A. E. Warren, Jefferson, O.

Determined botanical specimens, for same. Send lists.—Norman C. Wilson, The Dalles, Oregon, Sec. Ch. 28.

Correspondence solicited.—Ch. 187, Newburyport, Mass. G. A. Noyes, Sec., Box 933.

I shall be glad to send specimens of anything I can get here, to those who will pay the postage, or send pressed flowers in return.—Kittie C. Roberts, 212 W. Peachtree street, Atlanta, Georgia.

A Correction.

We were misinformed by an unscrupulous person regarding our badge-maker, Mr. Hayward. He has not retired from business, but may be addressed as heretofore at 202 Broadway, N. Y.

Chapters, New and Reorganized.

No. | Name. | No. of Members. | Address.
975 | London, Eng. (G) | 4 | Francis Felix Francillon, 21 Regent’s Park Terrace, Gloucester gate, London, N. W.
230 | Brazil, Ind. (A) | 11 | Geo. B. Bennett, Box 169.
28 | The Dalles, Oregon (A) | 12 | Norman C. Wilson, Wasco Co.
Disbanded.
834 | Westfield, Mass. (A) | | Miss Mary D. Clark.
511 | Blackwater, Florida (A) | | Miss Kittie C. Roberts.

Secretaries of Chapters 701-800 will kindly forward their reports as soon as convenient. All are invited to join the Association.

Address all communications for this department, to

Mr. Harlan H. Ballard,
Lenox, Mass.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE SEPTEMBER NUMBER.

Connected Pyramids. Centrals, Pastoral. Cross-words: 1. P. 2. bAa. 3. guSto. 4. MonTero. 5. O. 6. eRa. 7. leAch. 8. galLeon.

Cross-word Enigma. Engine.

Buried Quadrupeds. 1. Alpaca. 2. Beaver. 3. Bison. 4. Ermine. 5. Chamois. 6. Genet. 7. Loris. 8. Llama. 9. Lemur. 10. Paco. 11. Paca. 12. Panda. 13. Tapir. 14. Jackal.

Diamond. 1. C. 2. Hap. 3. Humor. 4. Cambric. 5. Pored. 6. Rid. 7 C.

Connected Squares. I. 1. Leap. 2. Earl. 3. Area. 4. Plan. II. 1. Plan. 2. Line. 3. Ants. 4. Nest. III. 1. Plan. 2. Love. 3. Arts. 4. Nest. IV. 1. Nest. 2. Echo. 3. Show. 4. Town.

Double Acrostic. Primals, Cold wave; finals, Manitoba. Cross-words: 1. ClaM. 2. OlgA. 3. LoaN. 4. DemI. 5. WanT. 6. AltO. 7. VerB. 8. EllA.

Triangular Prism. From 1 to 2, Celt; from 1 to 3, chip; from 2 to 5, toupettit; 1 to 4, catechism; 3 to 6, proboscis; 4 to 5, mint; 4 to 6, mass; 5 to 6, trellis.

Double Zigzag. From 1 to 10, Michaelmas; from 11 to 20, roast goose. Cross-words: 1. Macaroni. 2. Bibulous. 3. Peculiar. 4. Cashiers. 5. Gratuity. 6. Deterges. 7. Lampoons, 8. Imporous. 9. Chastise. 10. Pristine.

Numerical Enigma.

Graceful, tossing plume of glowing gold,
Waving lonely on the rocky ledge;
Leaning seaward, lovely to behold,
Clinging to the high cliff’s ragged edge.

Seaside Goldenrod.

Rhymed Word-square. 1. Bacon. 2. Aroma. 3. Coped. 4. Omega. 5. Nadab.

Octagon. 1. Hop. 2. Papal. 3. Harelip. 4. Operate. 5. Palaver. 6. Liter. 7. Per.

Beheadings. Thomas Edison. Cross-words: 1. T-hank. 2. H-aunt. 3. O-pens. 4. M-isle. 5. A-skew. 6. S-urge. 7. E-bony. 8. D-rink. 9. I-deal. 10. S-ewer. 11. O-read. 12. N-once.

Cross-word Enigma. Husking frolic.

To our Puzzlers: In sending answers to puzzles, sign only your initials or use a short assumed name; but if you send a complete list of answers, you may sign your full name. Answers should be addressed to St. Nicholas “Riddle-box,” care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City.

Answers to all the Puzzles in the July Number were received, before July 20, from “B. L. Z. Bub, No. 1”—Topsy and Eva—“Betsy and Bob”—Jo and I—Maggie T. Turrill—Shumway Hen and Chickens—Joseph Brobston, Jr.—Mary Ludlow—The Spencers—Little Miss Muffet—Francis W. Islip—Two Cousins—C. and H. Condit—H. and S.—Madge and the Dominie—“Dash”—“Original Puzzle Club”—J. L. A. O. F.

Answers to Puzzles in the July Number were received, before July 20, from Pelham, 1—Reba Neal, 3—C. E. Thompson, 1—Paul Reese, 2—C. R. M., 1—Capt. Bomb, 5—Maud E. Palmer, 8—Mamma and Katie, 1—Capt. Dag, 1—Tripod, 1—“A. D. Onis,” 1—Birdie Koehler, 7—Kittie, Belle, and Bird, 2—R. G. Welson, 1—Yum-Yum, 1—Gum Tree, 3—Bee, 2—R. H. Wedin, 1—Moses, 1—W. L. C., 3—Mush and Milk, 4—J. C. A., 5—Fin, Fur, and Feather, 3—“Me and Be,” 4—A. Maude Doty, 2—E. D. N., 4—“Pards,” 5—Lena B. R. Pierce, 4—“Sophia and Traddles,” 5—C. Furstenberg, 1—W. K. C., 1—J. and M., 3—Aloha, 3—D. B. Shumway, 7—Effie K. Talboys, 5—E. E. P. and A. S. C., 3—“Whiskers,” 1—Mamie R., 8—T. J. S., 4—Nellie and Reggie, 8—A. Hieronymous, 4—“Agricola,” 6—Spa, 1—Mab, 4—M. L. Everett, 8—L. C. B., 8—“Retlaw,” 1—Bat and Ball, 1—F. D., 5—“B. L. Z. Bub, No. 2,” 8—Addie C. Bowles, 1—Mary and Sallie Viles, 7—L. M. B., 8—Lee, 5—Jack Tar, 1.

DECAPITATIONS.

Behead the first word indicated by stars to make the second, the second to make the third, and so on.

The ship rode in an * * * * * * * bay;
Asleep, * * * * * *, the master lay;
A * * * * * and rugged man was he,
And, like the * * * *, at home at sea;
He, like the * * *, swooped on his prey,
Whene’er the * * came his way.
But now, while * the needle kept,
Forgetting all, he lay and slept.

H. L. E.

EASY HALF-SQUARE.

1. An isthmus through which a canal is being cut. 2. Out of a straight line. 3. A girl’s name. 4. A girl’s name. 5. A personal pronoun. 6. In half-square.

ST. ANDREW’S CROSS OF DIAMONDS.

I. Upper Left-hand Diamond: 1. In fashions. 2. A cover. 3. Fastened with cords. 4. Fabrication. 5. To condescend. 6. A title. 7. In fashions.

II. Upper Right-hand Diamond: 1. In fashions. 2. Part of a flower. 3. An artificial water-course. 4. Papal envoys. 5. A coloring substance. 6. A portion. 7. In fashions.

III. Central Diamond: 1. In fashions. 2. To doze. 3. Dating from one’s birth. 4. Constitutions. 5. A city in Italy. 6. A meadow. 7. In fashions.

IV. Lower Left-hand Diamond: 1. In fashions. 2. A dance. 3. A public house. 4. Heeds. 5. A kind of nut. 6. Three-fifths of a musical term meaning slowly. 7. In fashions.

V. Lower Right-hand Diamond: 1. In fashions. 2. To endeavor. 3. Equipped. 4. Poetical comparisons. 5. An affray. 6. A river in Scotland. 7. In fashions.

M. A. S.

CONNECTED WORD-SQUARES.

Upper Square: 1. A denomination. 2. To resound. 3. The sovereign prince of Tartary. 4. To inter.

Lower Square: 1. A kind of nail. 2. A lineage. 3. A piece of land. 4. Achievement.

Diagonals, from 1 to 2, a case.

“MYRTLE GREEN.”

UNIFORM REMAINDERS.

All of the words described contain the same number of letters; and the letters of each word, after it has been beheaded and curtailed, may be transposed to spell the same word. In short, the middle letters of each word described are the same, and may be transposed to form the same word.

1. Zealous. 2. Rancor. 3. Membranes that cover the brains. 4. To exchange. 5. To impede. 6. Baskets of wicker-work. 7. Uttered foolishly. 8. Divided. 9. Rush. 10. Pertaining to a Mediterranean island, 11. Looked earnestly. 12. Negotiates.

SIDNEY J.

OCTOBER.

Each of the small pictures may be described by a word which rhymes with “celebration.” The initial letters of the words to be supplied spell a busy season of the year. The following lines hint at the meaning of each picture:

My first is great ——;
My next a common ——;
My third a thorough ——;
My fourth an under ——;
My fifth an earnest ——;
My sixth a painful ——;
My seventh, rapid ——;
My eighth, a terrible ——;
My ninth, a perfect ——;
My tenth, a foolish ——;
My last, compulsory ——.

“ROB ROY.”

DOUBLE ACROSTICS.

I. My primals spell one who inherits; my finals, a weaver’s machine; primals and finals combined, a personal chattel, which descends by inheritance.

Cross-words: 1. Pertaining to herbs. 2. An inhabitant of a northern country. 3. A coloring matter. 4. Redemption.

II. My primals and finals each spell a name for the sperm whale.

Cross-words: 1. A fastening. 2. Like a monkey. 3. Demented. 4. Songs of a certain kind. 5. Singly. 6. Smallest. 7. The emblem of peace. 8. A South American animal.

“EUREKA” AND MAX.

PI.

Three si a tabufile tripis ringbathe wno
Tis wellom chinsers no eth drescutle steer,
Dan, morf a breake lufi fo cresthi syde,
Gourpin wen rylog no eth mutnau dowos,

Nad grippnid ni rawm ghlit eth lardpile uscold.

ANNIE AND A.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

I am composed of one hundred and forty letters, and form a stanza by Bryant.

My 101-98-106-115 is a vast number. My 125-22-53 is astern. My 73-107-136-79 is animation. My 45-57-116-4 is to move. My 105-48-127-28 is unmixed. My 100-83-59 is used for illuminating purposes. My 17-63-90 is a nickname for Boston. My 69-34-111-119-13 is a fine city. My 99-134-70-92-49 is to appropriate. My 129-2-122-25-40 is the name of an eminent English naturalist and divine of Selborne. My 35-6-132-65 is the name of a distinguished American poet and artist, born in 1822. My 94-26-32-112-1-8 is a name well known to literature, borne by a man and his wife. My 97-103-31-43-15-18-96-55 is another similar name. My 88-21-138-140 is a famous English humorist and author. My 67-75-61-7-71 is the reputed author of the Iliad. My 113-50-11-102-37-12-91-38-114 is an eminent poet born at Pallas, in Ireland, in 1728. My 47-76-109-86-42 is a celebrated Italian epic poet. My 81-29-23-124-27-20-84 is the inventor of the Kindergarten. My 110-14-126-51-16 is a celebrated Scottish poet. My 117-135-72-3 is “The Bard of Twickenham.” My 78-128-5-68-120-41 is a poet now living. My 130-46-64-36-131-44 is a famous writer of witty verses and essays. My 121-62-30-137-82-89-139-85-118-33 is the best-known American poet. My 58-9-104-66-87 is “The Wizard of the North.” My 108-39-10-24-123-95-56-80-60 is the real name of “Michael Angelo Titmarsh.” My 133-52-93-77-74-19-54 is the real name of “Boz.”

“CORNELIA BLIMBER.”

CUBE.

On a pleasant day in August we took one of the many 1 to 2 plying between city and 2 to 4, and with 3 to 4 hearts started on a day’s pleasure trip. Some 5 to 7 pointed out many objects of interest. On landing, we took a stroll and then seated ourselves on some old 1 to 5 to eat a 6 to 8 and to watch the beautiful white 3 to 7 that were 1 to 3 over the water. A few 5 to 6, trying to gain health and 7 to 8 by a plunge in salt water, were thrown into a panic by a mischievous boy who cried out that he saw 2 to 6 close by. The bathers were glad to take refuge on solid 4 to 8.

“KATASHAW.”

PECULIAR ACROSTICS.

All of the words described contain the same number of letters. When rightly guessed and written one below the other, the second and the sixth row of letters will each spell a name given to the last day of October.

1. Military. 2. A small round mass. 3. Smoothly. 4. To treat with tenderness. 5. A company of travelers. 6. Capable of being molded. 7. Ardent. 8. Blooming. 9. Gross. 10. Regards with reverence. 11. To retain. 12. A little ring.

F. S. F.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. NICHOLAS, VOL. 13, NO. 12, OCTOBER 1886 ***

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Table of Contents

- ST. NICHOLAS.

- AUTUMN TO SPRING.

- LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.

- Chapter XIV.

- Chapter XV.

- OCTOBER.

- SOME CURIOUS MARINERS.

- NAN’S REVOLT.

- Chapter VI.

- IN THE GARDEN.

- THE CREW OF THE CAPTAIN’S GIG.

- THE WEASEL AND THE ADDER.

- GEORGE WASHINGTON. [An Historical Biography.]

- Chapter XXIV. PRESIDENT WASHINGTON.

- Chapter XXV. THE FAREWELL.

- THE CHILDREN’S EXHIBITION.

- THE TELL-TALE BARN.

- WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

- THE LITTLE BOYS WHO LOOKED ALIKE.

- THE KELP-GATHERERS. [A Story of the Maine Coast.]

- Chapter XVII. PERCIVAL AND THE WATCH.

- Chapter XVIII. PERCIVAL AND THE OWNER OF THE WATCH.

- Chapter XIX. THE MISSING LINKS.

- Chapter XX. PERCE SETTLES WITH HIS PARTNERS.

- OLD TIME ARMS AND ARMOR.

- NED’S BUTTERCUP.

- HER PICTURE.

- THE BROWNIES AT BASE-BALL.

- ABOUT BREATHING.

- JAPANESE BABIES.

- JINGLE.

- RIDDLES FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK.

- JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

- A PERFECTLY QUIET DAY.

- HOW HE PROVED IT.

- WALKING WITHOUT LEGS.

- A QUEER SUNSHADE.

- A QUEER JUMBLE.

- A LIQUID PRO QUO.

- THAT DEAR LITTLE LORD.

- THE LETTER-BOX.

- A Correction.

- The Agassiz Association SIXTY-SIXTH REPORT.

- LOUIS AGASSIZ. His Life and Correspondence.[2]

- In Memoriam.

- Notes.

- The Sensitive Plant of Texas.

- Young Walking-sticks.

- Exchanges.

- A Correction.

- Chapters, New and Reorganized.

- THE RIDDLE-BOX.

- ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE SEPTEMBER NUMBER.

- DECAPITATIONS.

- EASY HALF-SQUARE.

- ST. ANDREW’S CROSS OF DIAMONDS.

- CONNECTED WORD-SQUARES.

- UNIFORM REMAINDERS.

- OCTOBER.

- DOUBLE ACROSTICS.

- PI.

- NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

- CUBE.

- PECULIAR ACROSTICS.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE