island of Mackinac, I saw a short distance ahead of me, two little
pigs, one perfectly white and the other perfectly black, both the same
size, trudging along side by side in the same direction as myself,
seemingly engaged in earnest conversation. They seemed so out of place,
and I was so curious to know whither they were bound, that I followed
them unobserved.
They did not walk aimlessly, but as if they had some special object
in view, and some definite destination. I wondered what they would do
when they reached the water. I was not long in being answered. Without
a moment's hesitation, they plunged into the waves, side by side, and
swam out and away toward another island, six miles distant. I stood and
watched them until their two little heads looked like balls bobbing up
and down, side by side all the time.
When I related the incident to the landlord, a little later, he looked
astonished and annoyed.
"Those pigs," he said, "were to have been served up for dinner to-day.
They were brought here this morning in a boat from that island, six
miles away, and we thought we might allow them their freedom for the
short time they had to live, never thinking of their making an attempt
to return home. And did you notice," he continued, "they chose the
point of land nearest the island where they came from, to enter the
water? Singular, the little animals should have been so bright? And,
furthermore, they weren't landed there; that makes it more strange."
I, too, left the island that day, and I have never heard whether those
brave little pigs ever reached their destination or not.--_Harper's
Young People._
DECORATION DAY.
YES, little daughter, we go again,
One glad bright hour in May,
To cover with bloom the quiet graves
Where sleep the "Blue and Gray."
I think I have told you many times
The sacred reason why,
But mamma often likes to speak
Of the sad, sad days gone by.
I have told you how your grandpa
Fell in the ranks of the Blue,
When I was a wee maid, Barbara,
Not nearly as large as you.
Fell 'neath the dear old banner
At the battle of "Cedar Creek,"
In the days when uncle Charley
Was a baby small and weak.
I well remember him, darling,
So true, and noble, and bold,
Though I was such a small, small girlie,
Not quite turned eight years old.
He told me we of the Northland
Were forced to enter the fight,
How _we_, not our Southern brother,
Were battling for God and right,
How they of the fiery Southland
Were striving to tear apart
The States cemented by life-blood,
From many a loyal heart.
And I ever was staunchly loyal,
For when my baby came,
I called her the name our Quaker bard
Has given to deathless fame.
Of her who so bravely held the flag,
Out in the morning air
Baring to rebel bullets
The crown of her grand white hair.
But grandpa dwells where he knows to-day
The truth between Gray and Blue
Better than they of that far-off time
Who thought they alone were true,
And mamma has learned that noble men
Were there on the conquered side,
As any that ever suffered,
Suffered and bravely died.
So, little maiden Barbara,
On that sunny time in May,
Let us seek to honor the lonely graves
Of the men who wore the Gray.
EMILY BAKER SMALLE.
[Illustration: LITTLE MAIDEN BARBARA.]
_Volume 13, Number 28._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_May 15, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: "WILD MAGGIE" AND I SERVED.]
MONUMENTS.
IT was my first visit to New York. A few days after my arrival
uncle took me to Greenwood, the most beautiful cemetery I ever saw.
We visited the many points of interest. As we stood gazing at the
fireman's monument, uncle told me the story of his heroism; how in one
of the fierce fires this brave man lost his life while rescuing a woman
from the flames. Then we spent a long time looking at the monument to
Miss Conda, the beautiful young heiress who was thrown from a carriage
and killed; and her fortune was built up in this wonderful marble.
The next morning aunt said, "You will go with me to-day to another
Greenwood and see grander monuments than any you saw yesterday."
I wondered how that could be. But we were soon on our way. At length we
turned into narrow, dirty streets, growing worse and worse. I shuddered
at such sights and sounds of human beings, never before dreaming that
in grand New York there could be so much wretchedness. I drew closer
and closer to aunt, fearing one of the human demons that leered at us
would seize me and carry me off.
Such people! such places to live in! Such language! Why, it almost
makes my hair stand on end to think of it. Aunt did not seem to mind
them. May be they knew her, for every one stood aside for us to pass.
"Here it is," she said at length. "Here is the other Greenwood."
"This?" I answered, looking around for gravestones and monuments,
and seeing nothing but dreadful houses and miserable objects. "This
Greenwood!"
She simply answered, "Yes; come right in and you shall see the
monuments."
I could only follow, wondering all the while if aunt was not losing her
mind.
A sweet-faced girl met us with a warm welcome to aunt and an earnest
look at me. As she led the way within, aunt whispered:
"One of the monuments, Clara."
"What? I don't know what you mean."
"Her name is Maggie," she quickly whispered back; "used to be called
'wild Maggie;' was one of the worst girls in this region. Never mind
now, will tell you more hereafter. Take a good look at her, you'll see
her again."
Then I heard singing like the songs of many angels. A door swung open.
We entered. It was a great company of children, black and white, some
with sweet sad faces; others with evil looks, but all singing. Soon
Maggie came in from another door and sat among them and I could hear
her voice ring out in joyful strains, leading the rest.
There was prayer and Bible reading, and such a good talk by a
gentleman. It seemed like heaven, while many of the children, some
partly blind, some lame, some pale and sad-faced, gathered around after
meeting was out and seized aunt Joanna's hand, and seemed so happy.
Another lady was there to whom they all pressed for a smile and a word.
"That lady," said aunt, "is Sir Christopher Wren."
"What _can_ you mean?" I asked. "Sir Christopher Wren was a _man_ who
died in England more than a hundred years ago."
Aunt Joanna only laughed and said, "And came to life again, my child.
This is he, only greater."
"What?" said I, more and more bewildered.
But she went on: "Look around here at the Monuments. You knew Sir
Christopher was the architect of the great Westminster Abbey of
London, and that kings and statesmen and poets are buried there, and
their names and deeds are written there; but if any one inquires for
Sir Christopher Wren's monument, he is told to look at the wonderful
building of which he was the architect."
"I see," said I, "that lady has 'built up' Maggie."
"Exactly," said aunt Joanna, "and more than one hundred other
miserable, sick and wicked children. See that frail girl over there
coming toward her? It would take a book to tell how this lady used to
come daily here and bend over her crib, sometimes holding her in her
arms for hours fearing each moment would be her last. But come and I
will introduce you and you shall see a greater than Christopher Wren."
After we were on our way home, aunt told me the story of this lady; how
one day curiosity led her to go through this worst part of New York.
Her heart was so touched at the wretchedness of the people that she
resolved to do something for them. Her friends tried to dissuade her.
Some said the people would kill her; some said it was no use to try to
help them. But she went right forward, and now after years of labor and
sorrow there is her monument, saved children.
Before my return home in the country, aunt Joanna gave a treat to the
children of the Home all at her own expense.
Maggie, once "Wild Maggie," and I served. How many sandwiches I passed
around, how many cups of milk Maggie filled, how some of the urchins
were dressed, how they laughed, or chattered, or stared, what they all
said to aunt Joanna about the "treat," would fill a book.
CLARA.
MONKEY POCKETS.
I SUPPOSE you did not know that monkeys had any pockets, save those
in the little green coats they sometimes wear. But that is a mistake;
their real pockets are in their cheeks. The other evening, I travelled
in the next compartment to a little becoated monkey and his master.
The little creature's day's work was over, and, perched up on the sill
of the carriage window, he produced his supper from those stow-away
pockets of his, and commenced to munch it with great enjoyment. Several
times the platform had to be cleared of the girls and boys who had come
to see the little friend off on his journey. At length a porter, whose
heart was warm toward little folks, allowed them to slip in and remain.
The officials felt the attraction of that window; and the stoker
addressed the monkey as "mate." Even the station-master as he passed
cast a sly glance toward the monkey, and a cheer was raised when the
train was set in motion, and the monkey glided away from big and little
spectators.
I heard the other day of a pet monkey called Hag, a creature no larger
than a guinea-pig, whose master once found in his cheek pockets a
steel thimble, his own gold ring, a pair of sleeve-links, a farthing,
a button, a shilling, and a bit of candy. Monkeys, I am sorry to say,
are given to stealing, and they use these pockets to hide the articles
which they have stolen.--_Selected._
MY BRAINLESS ACQUAINTANCE.
BY PARANETE.
VII.--IN WHICH THE STORY IS FINISHED.
"AN easy carriage came to the border of the woods," my acquaintance
continued, "and the poor boy who had been shot was put on a couch that
had been fixed in it, and carried home. All the other boys went home
too. They didn't feel like having any more fun. The boy who had so
carelessly fired the last time could hardly be comforted, and nobody
blamed him, but every one pitied him.
"I learned from day to day, from Fred and the other members of the
family, how the sick boy was getting along. He was fast improving, it
seemed.
"I was soon transferred to the cushion from which I had been taken,
where I remained for some time, until fall, indeed. From time to time,
though, I was used for little things by different members of the
family, but nothing special occurred in my presence, and I was seldom
taken from my resting-place, for I was so long, that it was seldom
that any one wanted to use me." (Moral: If you are _long_ about doing
things, no one will want your help.)
"One day trunks were being packed, there was a general air of 'going
away' about the house, and I learned that the lady, Fred's mother, was
going away to be gone for some time. The children were to remain at
home with their father. The last day I, or, more properly speaking,
the pincushion on which I was, was packed in a satchel, and taken to
the depot, and I knew no more of where I was for a good while, except
by the rocking and noise of the train. Soon the satchel I was in was
picked up, I felt the motion of a carriage again, and when light was
let in upon me, we were in a room in a hotel, and my mistress placed
my pincushion on the bureau, where I could see the busy street of a
large city. The pins that were with me were pretty good company, and
we remained in the city (that is, my mistress did) for some weeks,
when one day, to our amazement, she packed up and went off, leaving us
behind!
[Illustration: THE COUNTRY BOARDING-HOUSE.]
"Well, during that winter the room was occupied by various persons,
thus affording me opportunity to study human nature, but I will not
tire you with the results of the study, for I am simply telling you the
story of my life. None of these persons touched me, but finally all
the other pins were gone from the cushion, and I was left alone, and
consequently was rather lonesome. The room was hired by a mother and
her baby, a father and his baby, a young couple taking their wedding
trip, I judged, and divers and sundry other people, who, as I remarked
before, paid no attention to me. I grew more and more lonely, and was
almost despairing of ever getting out of the hotel, when, one day, a
fat old gentleman was led into the room by the colored porter, and
established himself there. He was an author"--
"The one that boards here now?" I interrupted.
"Never mind," responded the pin, "don't interrupt me, please. This
gentleman was an author, as I said before. He had papers and papers
and papers! He had pens and pens and pens! He had stylographic pens,
Mackinnon pens, and Paragon pens, and Todd's pens, and other pens! He
came there to be quiet, he said, but he made more noise than anybody
else in the house, except the solo singer, who roomed at our right, and
the elocutionist (female, of course) who roomed at our left.
"One day the old gentleman announced to the porter that he couldn't
stand it in that horrid place any longer, and he must help him get
away the very next day. So he went. And as he was packing up, he found
one roll of manuscript that wasn't pinned together, and so he drew me
out from my long resting-place, much to my joy, and fastened the roll
together with me.
"I was packed up in his satchel, and we journeyed quite a while.
When it was opened, we were in a pleasant little room in a country
boarding-house"--
"My mother's!" I again interrupted.
"Will you please be so kind as not to interrupt me again?" said the
pin, his sharp voice growing sharper than ever. "I found myself, as I
remarked before, in a pleasant little room in a country boarding-house.
The scenery all around was very beautiful. There were fields, a meadow,
a brook and some woods." (I very much wanted to interrupt again, but I
bit my tongue, and squealed instead.)
"My master took long walks, and would sit down every little while on
stone, stump, or fence, and write. One day as he was going out he asked
the lady of the house to give him some lunch, as he would probably not
be back for a good while"--
"My mother!" I burst forth.
"I think you are very impolite," the pin replied. "However, to pacify
you, I will tell you that you are correct--it was your mother, and she
put him up a nice lunch. He took quite a little walk, meditating the
while, and every few moments he would lift up his arms, and discourse
enthusiastically on the beauty of Nature. These talks were very
uninteresting to me, as I felt quite competent to decide for myself
what I thought of Nature, but I listened silently and patiently. At one
point in the road the gentleman saw a good seat ahead, in the form of
a stump, and so he slung his satchel on his arm, after getting some
papers out, which he commenced to pin together with me. But at this
point, as he was not engaged in looking where he was going, his toe
unfortunately collided with the root of a stump which was firmly fixed
in the ground, and he fell flat! A breeze coming up at the time, his
papers, and so forth, were scattered to the four winds as you might say
(though there was but one at the time), and he probably will never find
the most of them again. His pens flew into a hollow stump near by, I
flew over to the roots of another stump, and he fell on the satchel of
lunch that your mother had prepared for him, squeezing it all out on
the ground. Then he picked himself up and went home.
"As for me, I remained where I fell until you kindly brought me home
with you this afternoon.
[Illustration: "I COULD SEE THE BUSY STREET OF A LARGE CITY."]
"Now, my young friend, I will conclude. I have done my work in this
world, so far, as faithfully as I knew how, and I think I have
fulfilled the purposes for which I was made. I hope I have proved to
you that pins are of some importance, for I came very near causing
the death of one person and saved the life of another. If you do your
work, no matter how small it may be, as well as I have, you will be as
happy as I am, perhaps not joyful, but you will at least be satisfied
with yourself, which is a great deal better than being satisfied with
others. I am through."
The pin stopped.
"Now shall I take you back to the stump?" I asked. But there was no
answer given. I repeated the question, but still I received no reply.
Then I took my acquaintance up carefully, and carried it back to the
stump, laying it in a place sheltered from the wet, as that worthy had
requested.
"Here is your friend the pin," I said. But the stump made no reply. So
I turned sadly and went home, and up to my room, to meditate on the
singular silence of both the pin and the stump.
The supper bell startled me and I arose from my chair and my reverie,
and hastened down stairs.
As I entered the dining-room, one of the boarders said: "Why, where
have you been all the afternoon?"
"Oh, I took a walk down to Racket Brook, and then I stayed up in my
room the rest of the time."
(_I_ was not going to tell about the pin and his story.)
"Are you sure you didn't come down again after you went up just after
dinner?"
"Yes, I did," I indignantly replied.
"I peeped into your room this afternoon, and you were asleep by your
desk."
"You were, I know," assented my little brother. "I saw you way down in
the orchard, and you were asleep with your head on the window sill."
I made no reply, but went up to my room as soon as I had finished my
supper, and spent the evening in writing my composition. And what do
you think it was? Why, just the story of the pin as he told it to me
that afternoon. The children wanted to know if it was true, after I
had come down from the platform, having been greatly applauded by the
audience (the fat author being in it). I replied that, every word of it
was true, and went with them to the shore of the brook, where we found
the identical stump with the young beech-tree growing beside it. Where
was the pin? I do not know. It wasn't there, though, much to my chagrin.
When I got home, the fat author wanted to know if I would let him have
my composition for one chapter of his book. I was perfectly willing,
but when he showed me the chapter afterward it was headed "A Boy's
Dream." And he had it that a boy had gone to sleep on the window-sill,
and had dreamed--my composition!
When I returned it to him he asked me what I thought of it.
"I like it."
"And the title?"
I was silent for a moment--then I said,
"Perhaps it is so."
NOTE TO ALL THE PANSIES.--In my composition about the
pin, I mentioned several interesting things about the
early history of his family, etc., which he probably
didn't know, or he would have told me. If you would
like to know about them, just hunt up the word "pin" in
the encyclopædia, and it will tell you.
PARANETE.
OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.
P.--PENN, WILLIAM.
THE other day I was looking at a map of Philadelphia, and at once my
thoughts went back to my schooldays and the primary geography in which
occurred the question, "What can you say of Philadelphia?" And the
answer, "It is regularly laid out, the streets crossing each other at
right angles like the lines on a checker-board." And again, "What is
Philadelphia sometimes called?" Answer, "The City of Brotherly Love."
And now I wish I could set before you the calm, sweet, yet strong face
of the man who founded and named this city, who truly desired it to be
a city of love.
William Penn was a native of London. He was born nearly a quarter of a
century after the Pilgrims landed upon Plymouth Rock; he belonged to a
good family, his father being Admiral Sir William Penn of the British
Navy. It appears that the son was of a religious turn of mind, and when
he was a boy of twelve years he believed himself to have been specially
called to a life of holiness. He was very carefully educated, but he
offended his father by joining the Quakers; indeed, it seems that
several times in the course of his life his father became very much
displeased with him, but a reconciliation always followed, and at last
the Admiral left all his estate to the son who had been such a trial
to him. While a student at the University, Penn and his Quaker friends
rebelled against the authority of the college and was expelled. The
occasion of the rebellion was in the matter of wearing surplices and
of uncovering the head in the presence of superiors. You know that the
Quakers always keep their hats on, thinking it wrong to show to man the
honor which they consider belongs only to God. And this reminds me to
tell you that in the _Wide Awake_ for February, I think, Mr. Brooks has
told a pretty story of William Penn and St. Valentine's Day, in which
he mentions this refusal to uncover in the presence of the king even,
as one cause of trouble between the father and son.
I cannot follow with you all the vicissitudes of Penn's life; after
leaving the University he travelled upon the Continent. Afterwards he
studied law in London; he became a soldier. This strikes us as being
somewhat curious when we remember that the sect to which he belonged
are opposed to war, and preach the doctrine of love and peace. However,
he was not long in service, and meeting a noted Quaker preacher he
became firmly fixed in his devotion to the society of Friends, and
was ever after a strong advocate of its doctrines; nothing could turn
him from the path he had chosen. He was several times imprisoned on
account of his religious opinions and suffered persecution and abuse.
Through all he adhered to his views, and stood by his Quaker friends
in the dark days of persecution. He had inherited from his father a
claim against the British Government of several thousand pounds, and
in settlement of this claim he received a large tract of land in the
then New World. With the title to the land he secured the privilege
of founding a colony upon principles in accordance with his religious
views. And in 1682 he came to America and laid the foundations not only
of the City of Brotherly Love, but of the State of Pennsylvania. His
object was to provide a place of refuge for the oppressed of his own
sect, but all denominations were welcomed, and many Swedes as well as
English people came. While other colonies suffered from the attacks of
the Indians, for more than seventy years, so long as the colony was
under the control of the Quakers, no Indian ever raised his hatchet
against a Pennsylvania settler. Under a great elm-tree, long known as
Penn's elm, he met the Indians in council, soon after his arrival in
the territory which had been ceded to him. He said to them:
"My friends, we have met on the broad pathway of good faith. We are all
one flesh and blood. Being brethren, no advantage shall be taken on
either side. Between us there shall be nothing but openness and love."
And they replied, "While the rivers run and the sun shines, we will
live in peace with the children of William Penn."
It has been said that this is the only treaty never sworn to and never
broken.
William Penn lived to see his enterprise achieve a grand success.
Philadelphia had grown to be a city of no small dimensions and no
little importance. The colony had grown to be a strong, self-supporting
State, capable of self-government.
"I will found a free colony for all mankind," said William Penn. Were
these the words of a great man?
Unswerving integrity, undaunted courage, adherence to duty, and
devotion to the service of God--are these the characteristics of a
great man? Then William Penn may well be placed in our Alphabet of
Great Men.
FAYE HUNTINGTON.
MY GIFT.
ARBUTUS SENDS GREETING TO PANSY.
A GIFT she held from the Father;
It was pansies fresh with dew;
Sweet messengers of Heaven,
They bear a blessing true.
But her hand too lightly clasped,
And could not hold them all,
So to the ground unheeded,
She let the fairest fall.
The uplifted lips of the flower
Did not mutely plead in vain;
From the dust the blossom I raised,
And gave to the owner again.
Sweet Pansy's robe is purple,
Her crown of the purest gold;
All hearts who know, enthrone her,
All love her who behold.
But I'll away to the forest,
And seek my treasures there;
'Tis there Arbutus hideth,
Her blossoms I may wear.
This is my gift from the Father,
Arbutus buds are mine;
I'll sing their modest beauty,
In them read Heaven's design.
And I will bear to the Giver
The fragrance and the song
That fills my life with blessing--
To Him my blooms belong.
ROCKVILLE, MASS. _With love of_ ARBUTUS.
[Illustration: SNIPE AND NEST.]
_Volume 13, Number 29._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO
_May 22, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: SHEPHERD BOY OF THE ALPS.]
ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.
BY MARGARET SIDNEY.
VII.