ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.
BY MARGARET SIDNEY.
V.
IT seemed an age to the three frantic passengers before the train ran
into Brigham--but it was in reality five minutes ahead of time. St.
George and his faithful adherent bade good-by with a heavy heart to
Thomas, longing to stay and help him, but knowing that home they must
go. Thomas tumbled out on the snowy platform more dead than alive
from fear, and realizing that betrayal of a trust wasn't after all so
productive of ease as it might be thought to be, he gathered himself up
and walked uncertainly to the waiting-room door; a man standing within
eyed him narrowly.
"We don't allow drunken people in here," he said coldly, "you'll have
to stay outside."
"I ain't drunk," cried Thomas, roused to action; "I'm blest if I am;
I'm only unfortunate."
The man laughed loud and long, and called to another, "See here; here's
a chap got off his train--not half seas over, you know, oh no! only
he's unfortunate."
Thomas' face blazed in an instant. That he, Mr. Bang's man, who
had filled one place for a good dozen years, and was saving and
industrious, with no taste for the company of low-lived fellows and no
leaning toward their habits, should be brought face to face with one of
them in this unlucky moment of his life when courage was at its lowest
ebb, seemed to him the cruelest blow of Fate, and it deprived him of
what little remaining sense he had.
"If anyone says that to me again I'll pitch right into him," he shouted.
"Good--hurrah! he knows what's what!" cried the fellow, a stalwart
lounger whose only interest had been in seeing the train come in and
depart. When that was over, he had nothing else for his active mind to
work upon, and he hailed with delight this new excitement. "Come on,
fellows, this chap is _de_termined to fight. So we won't disappoint
him. You're a drunken, good-for-nothing sot," he cried in Thomas' face.
Thomas gave one plunge and struck the quarrelsome man squarely in the
face.
"Take that, and that, and that," he cried, beside himself in a passion.
Never in his life engaged in a quarrel involving blows, now that he was
in one, it was purely delicious to give free rein to his anger, and for
the first few moments he felt a man indeed.
The young fellow thus struck and two or three other men now closed
around him, and he was soon occupied in warding off as best he might
the shower of blows, kicks and cuffs that fell to his portion. The
noise brought speedily to the spot, the depot officials, one or two
farmers riding by, and all the boys in the vicinity.
"Stop--hold--I won't have any of that!" cried the ticket agent, puffing
up in authority.
"Oh! won't you?" cried one of the men whose blood was up, and pounding
away at Thomas, whom they had succeeded in getting to the ground.
"No, I won't," cried the ticket agent, "I'll have you all arrested."
"Who's going to do it, I'd like to know," asked another man derisively.
Meanwhile Thomas was shouting out his case, and succeeded in catching
the ear of a farmer who sitting on the bags of meal in his wagon had
paused to see what the trouble was about.
"It's my opinion," said the farmer deliberately, and stopping to clear
his throat now and then with a sharp _Hem!_ "that you want me to give
you three chaps a poundin' that man, a taste of my whip, and it's also
my opinion that I shall do it." With that he sprang from his wagon with
surprising alertness considering he looked so old, and, whip in hand,
he advanced upon the crowd.
They all fell back. He had "whip" in his eye, and beside, every one
knew Jacob Bassett, and that there was no reason to think he would fail
to do as he said.
Before all could desert Thomas, however, the last man had the benefit
of the leather lash, and he ran off rubbing his leg, and uttering
several ejaculations as if he had received enough.
"My man," said Farmer Bassett, tucking up his long whip under his arm
and helping Thomas to his feet, "now what's the matter with you?"
"I'm in trouble," said Thomas briefly.
"So I should think," said the old farmer with a wise nod.
"I don't care about myself," said Thomas not regarding certain flapping
portions of his once neat suit, nor mindful of the other signs of his
predicament, "but it's young master and those other boys who were left
to my care." At mention of them, he became helpless once more, and
began to bemoan his fate.
"Hah!" said the old farmer. He had boys of his own, not so very long
ago either, although he looked so old, and though they were all but one
out in the world and promising to be successful men, his heart went
back to the time when they were little chaps and running about the farm.
The one who was not out in the world was safe at rest from all
temptation and suffering. There was a tiny grave on the hill-top back
of the old homestead, and here the farmer often stole in an odd moment,
and Betsey his wife went of an afternoon when the work was done up, for
a quiet time with her darling--the little Richard, so early folded away
from her care, and Sundays they always went together to get peace and
resignation for the coming week.
"What's the trouble with the boys?" asked the farmer, quickly.
Thomas looked into his face and the first gleam of hope he had known,
now radiated his own countenance. Here was a man who evidently meant to
help, and that right speedily.
"Oh sir," he cried, "they're over at Sachem Hill, and locked out of
their house."
"Over at Sachem Hill and locked out of their house," repeated the
farmer. "How did that happen?"
"'Twas me," cried Thomas miserably, and then he laid bare his
confession.
Farmer Bassett said never a word, only as Thomas finished, "Come," he
commanded, and motioning him to the green wagon, he climbed in, and
seated himself again on his bags.
"I'm goin' to stop a minute an' tell Betsey to put us up a few things,
an' while she's doin' it, I'll hitch into the sleigh. I took the wagon
to mill, as 'twas poor draggin' along one piece o' bare ground--an'
then, says I, we'll be off for them youngsters of yours."
Thomas gave a long breath of relief--and the wagon rolled on in silence
till it came to a stop before a large red house.
OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.
N.--NEWTON, SIR ISAAC.
"EVERY body in nature attracts every other body with a force directly
as its mass and inversely as the square of its distance." This has
been called "The magnificent theory of universal gravitation which was
the crowning glory of Newton's life." I doubt not many of you have
struggled manfully with this law as laid down in your school-books,
and, having conquered it, and fixed the principle in your minds to
stay, you may like to know something about the philosopher himself. In
1642, a puny, sickly baby was supposed to be moaning away its young
life in Lincolnshire, England.
This child's name was Isaac Newton. He belonged to a country
gentleman's family. His father having died, his mother's second
marriage occasioned the giving of the child into the care of his
grandmother. As he grew older he gained in health and was sent to
school. Having inherited a small estate, as soon as he had acquired
an education which was considered sufficient to enable him to attend
to the duties of one in his position, he was removed from school and
entrusted with the management of his estate. However, this young Newton
developed a passion for mathematical studies which led him to neglect
the business connected with his estate. He busied himself in the
construction of toys illustrating the principles of mechanics. These
were not the clumsy work which might be expected from the hands of a
schoolboy, but were finished with exceeding care and delicacy. It is
said there is still in existence two at least of these toys; one is an
hour-glass kept in the rooms of the Royal Society in London.
Isaac Newton's mother was a wise woman in that she did not discourage
his desire for the pursuing of his studies and for investigation. She
did not say, "Now, my son, you must put away these notions and attend
to your business. You have a property here which it is your duty to
manage and enjoy. You should find satisfaction in your position as a
country squire and consider that you have no need of further study."
On the contrary, this mother allowed her son to continue his studies;
he was prepared for and entered the college at Cambridge when he was
eighteen. From that period until his death, at eighty-five, he devoted
himself unweariedly to mathematical and philosophical studies.
[Illustration: SIR ISAAC NEWTON.]
You all know the story of the falling apple. He had been driven by the
plague in London to spend some time at his country-seat in Woolstrop,
and while resting one day in his garden he saw an apple fall to the
ground. Suddenly the question occurred, Why should the apple fall to
the ground? Why, when detached from the branch, did it not fly off in
some other direction?
And where do you suppose he found the answer? Read the first sentence
of this article and see if _you_ find it there! The truth had been the
controlling power of all the falling apples since the creation, but it
had never before been understood or formulated; perhaps this discovery
of the law of universal gravitation gave him more renown than all his
other labors put together.
He met with a sad misfortune, later, when, by the accidental upsetting
of a lighted candle, the work of twenty years was destroyed. The story
as told by a biographer is, that Sir Isaac left his pet dog alone in
his study for a few moments, and during this brief absence the dog
overturned the candle amongst the papers on the study table. It is
further told as an evidence of the calmness and patience of the great
man, that he only said, "Ah! Fido, you little know of the mischief you
have done!"
But although he was so quiet under the great loss, the trial was almost
too much for him; for a time his health seemed to give way, and his
mental powers suffered from the effects of the shock. He died in 1725,
and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
FAYE HUNTINGTON.
SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.
K.--KAUFFMAN, MARIA ANNA ANGELICA.
AMONG the women of history we find not a few artists; and of these Anna
Maria Angelica Kauffman gained no mean reputation. She lived and worked
and suffered during the latter half of the eighteenth century, dying in
1807. Her early life was spent in Switzerland, that land of romantic
scenery. She opened her eyes in this world first among the mountains
that rise above the beautiful and fertile valleys whose southern slopes
teem with vines, whose highlands afford pasturage for the flocks of
the farmers. Our artist's father was a travelling painter. Of his work
we have no account. He is known to us only as the father of a gifted
woman. Inheriting a love of art, she found in her father a ready
sympathizer and willing helper. He gave her such instruction as he was
able, and when he could carry her no farther in her studies, the family
removed to Milan that she might have the opportunity of studying under
more competent teachers. She had, however, before this--and she was
only thirteen years old when they went to Milan--painted a portrait of
the Bishop of Como, which gave her quite a reputation. At Milan she had
an opportunity of mingling with other artists, and also the privilege
of copying the finest pictures.
She excelled in portrait painting; when she went to London she was
engaged to paint the portraits of "the most distinguished and beautiful
ladies of the court." She everywhere received much attention, both
on account of her talents as an artist, and her beauty and charming
manner. Some of her pictures are in the Royal Gallery in Dresden;
others may be seen in the Louvre in Paris.
FAYE HUNTINGTON.
SIR JOHN AND THE EREBUS.
II.
FORTY years ago last May, England fitted Sir John out with two fine
ships. They were the _Erebus_ and _Terror_.
Away they sailed from the wharf where many came to see them off, among
them Lady Franklin, Sir John's wife.
Away they pushed through the sea toward the North. On they went,
further and further from their home, to see if they could find the
North Pole or what was called the "Northwest Passage."
Soon they met icebergs, or great mountain castles, moving down from the
north. But the _Erebus_ and _Terror_ turned aside and sailed north,
north, north, hundreds of miles.
Then the winter came on. The two ships were soon hedged in by the ice.
They could neither go forward nor backward. The ice became thicker and
thicker; the nights longer and colder. The men were clothed in fur,
and there were stoves in the ships, but they shivered with the cold.
No word came to them from their friends. They, however, tried to be
cheerful, hoping for spring and the breaking up of the ice so they
could sail out of their prison and find the Northwest Passage.
They sang, told stories, read, celebrated each other's birthday; good
Sir John read sermons and prayers to his men as was his custom and
exhorted them to be of good cheer. It was a joyful thought to them of
making wonderful discoveries in that strange land and then coming back
some day with the news.
But the spring came and went, another and another, but no tidings of
Sir John. Then there was alarm. Meetings were called, speeches made,
great sums of money raised; brave captains and crews offered to go
in search of him. Vessel after vessel went and came, only to report
failure.
Five years passed; seven; nine; ten--Hope was dying--eleven. Lady
Franklin did not give up, but fitted out, at her own expense, a little
ship.
Captain and sailors bid good-by to wives and friends, not knowing they
would ever see them again, as they resolved not to come back till they
found out something as to the fate of Sir John.
So this little ship disappeared far away northward, and, like the
others, in a few weeks, was in the midst of majestic palaces of ice.
But it worked its way on, when, lo! one day as the captain was hunting
here and there, he came upon parts of a ship, and he knew it was Sir
John's. He also found Sir John's own handwriting and many other things
that told of great sufferings and death.
[Illustration: John Franklin]
It appeared that he had died June 11th, 1847; but he was not found till
1857. All had perished.
He was a noble Christian man, with a heart tender as a woman's.
When the little ship came back with the news, England mourned as did
this nation over the fate of Sir John Franklin.
C. M. L.
[Illustration: ROUND THE FAMILY LAMP]
FOLLOW MY LEADER.
HAVE each of the company put on a sheet, securing it around himself
like the pictures of a Roman toga. Put on his head a pillowslip, making
it assume any fanciful shape desired, and bringing it closely around
his face, concealing features as much as possible. All this must be
done _before_ assembling, as it is the object to have players disguised
as far as possible from each other. Have your Leader chosen. Then you
must follow him implicitly; whoever fails to, must be counted out of
the game. Those who do not wish to dress in sheet-and-pillow-case
costume must form audience. The Leader must wear high above his
pillow-case-enveloped head, a small United States flag, so that all can
recognize him as Leader.
(You will remember that the fourth of March is always the Inauguration
Day, when the President of the United States goes into the White House
as Leader for four years.)
Now let the Leader start to music from the piano--through the
parlors, halls, dining-room--perhaps if the cook is pleasant, to the
kitchen. These little games do a great deal to draw all the family
together with a happy feeling. If he stops a minute to examine
anything, the company following him in Indian file must stop too
and imitate his movements, as if examining something closely. If
he says in the course of his travels "ooh--ooh!" just like a pig,
each one of the pillow-slip-and-sheet brigade must say "ooh--ooh!"
also in the same tone _without smiling_, unless he laughs. If he
says "cock-a-doodle-_doo-o!_" each one must say it. Whoever fails to
follow his Leader imitating him in everything, and whoever smiles
or laughs, or says anything unless the Leader does, must be pointed
out by the audience, dropped out of ranks, set up in a corner, told
to stand there until the game is played out, and all take off sheets
and pillow-slips--to sit down and laugh over it all, before plates of
apples and cracked walnuts.
May you have a jolly time with your March game. I wish I could play one
with the Pansies.
MARGARET SIDNEY.
SIR EDWIN LANDSEER.
YEARS ago, a man now living in Cincinnati was sent by the President to
South America to look after the interests of our country there. The
people were very kind to him, and, among other gifts, presented him a
parrot on his return home.
I spent a day at his house and had many funny talks with Poll; parrots
can talk after a fashion.
She was a fine lady, not so large as some you may have seen at the New
Orleans Exposition. Some of them were from two to three feet long. One
was perfectly green; another, white; a third, nearly all bright colors.
The one I saw in Cincinnati was fond of her friends, but sulky and
cross to me, a stranger.
She had learned many wicked words from passers-by, swearing words even.
When she could not have her own way and, like other folks, was out of
humor, she would "let fly" her worst opinions of people and things in
her bad language.
At such times she did not seem so beautiful with all her gay plumage.
Few folks do appear well when out of sorts, no matter how rich and
fashionable their clothes. Remember that.
In the picture you see a parrot sitting upon a perch. It is another one
and there is a long story about it. But all stories can't be put into
THE PANSY without bursting its covers. However, you may hear a little
about this one and think out the rest when your thinkers get time.
This Pol came from a distant land. She had such rich feathers, and
could talk and sing so well, and, withal, her manners and behavior were
so correct that she made friends of everybody.
So in due time Pol was treated like one of the family and as one of the
first ladies in society--so far as a parrot could be. Her bread and
drink and bed were all any bird could wish. She had the freedom of the
house. Without asking, she could go up stairs or down, out door, into
the barn, to the top of the highest trees, sometimes to the neighbors.
She always came home at meal and bed time. Every one, nearly, knew
her and treated her politely. Thus she forgot her far-away relations
and became happy "as happy can be." She was now a maiden lady of
sixty years. Some parrots live to be one hundred. Pol's life had been
pleasant as a June morning. But June doesn't last forever. Trouble came.
One day she went out to call and was quietly walking home. A bad boy
met her and made some provoking remarks. Instead of paying no attention
to such creatures and going right on her way, she stopped, listened,
lost her temper and "sauced him back." Then what should the fellow do
but strike Pol and tear out some of her finest feathers and, leaving
her half-dead, went his way. Pol managed to drag herself home, and, as
best she could, tell what had happened.
How grieved they all were and wondered who could have treated her so
cruelly. They suspected who had done it; for that boy was given to such
things. Some seem to delight in giving pain to animals. I need not say
what was done to that hateful boy. He deserved punishment and received
it. But Poor Pol, what of her? She was tenderly washed and coaxed to
eat and tell more about it. Her appetite left her in spite of all that
could be done and she became sad and silent and wished to retire to bed.
It was hoped that she would feel better in the morning; but when
morning came, there she sat, her wings drooping and her eyes cast down
like one that is passing through great sorrow.
Near by lived a lad by the name of Eddie Landseer. He thought the world
of Pol. As soon as he heard of her misfortune he came running in with
a playmate, a bright little girl, to see what they could do for their
afflicted neighbor.
Eddie was a great lover of horses, dogs, birds and almost all animals.
Some say that when he went into the woods he would always carry
something good for animals to eat and he would somehow call the
squirrels and birds down around him from the trees. They would come
and eat from his hands and let him handle them as tame animals do. He
really seemed to know just how some animals feel and to cheer them
in trouble. He took pains to study them as you do your Sunday-school
lesson. So in he came with a most dainty dish for Pol.
He and his little friend were prettily dressed, not to show themselves,
but to please Pol, for Eddie believed that she had an eye for beautiful
clothes like her own. But when he saw Pol, how sad her countenance was
and how she mourned over her lost feathers, he and Bertha could hardly
keep back their tears.
However, they put on cheerful faces and sang so sweetly and begged so
hard Pol actually got out of bed, arranged her feathers neatly, talking
away as though nothing had happened.
Now, what if I should tell you that this Eddie became a great painter
of animals! When he was but five years old he could draw pretty good
pictures of cows and pigs; at eighteen he made that famous picture
"Dogs of St. Gothard rescuing Travellers." Queen Victoria was so
pleased with it she put honor upon his name and everywhere he was
called Sir Edwin Landseer.
Some day you may see his famous picture "Peace and War." Ten years ago
was seen in Philadelphia his wonderful painting "The Sick Monkey." Many
people would stop a long while looking at it; the mother monkey had the
sick one in her arms. The poor thing seemed ready to cry, while all the
other monkeys looked at the sick one with such sad eyes. It is said no
artist has done so much to teach us how to love animals.
Did you ever hear of Mr. Henry Bergh? He has spent many years writing,
speaking and pleading with law-makers to pass laws to protect animals
from cruelty. I suppose if the horses of New York City, where he lives,
could speak, they would all daily shout to him as they see him on
Broadway, "Thank you, dear friend Bergh. No living man has ever cared so
much for our race as you have."
If they knew how, they would surely shake hands with him, and when he
comes to die build a grand monument to his memory. It would seem as
though God's love is in his heart. Jesus came to save the worst people,
even those who nailed him to the cruel cross. Surely Jesus pitied the
poor helpless animals. Not one sparrow falls to the ground without his
notice. Try to be a friend to animals, won't you?
C. M. L.
[Illustration: "EDDIE AND BERTHA COULD HARDLY KEEP BACK THEIR TEARS."]
[Illustration: The P. S. Corner]
ARE you having a good time with the March winds, my Blossoms? But
then, you are so scattered that you can have all sorts of times. Some
of you may be blowing around the street corners in a way to make you
think of balloons, while others of you are picking wild-wood flowers
in the sunny South; and away down in Maine, the boys are snowballing,
while away on the southern slopes of California the girls are gathering
roses! What a wonderful world it is!
Oh! do you know, my dear Pansies, I am going West this summer? I can't
tell you much about it until the summer is over and I am settled down
again for winter work; but I mean to keep my eyes wide open on purpose
for you. I shall be in Utah, I think, and in Kansas, and Wisconsin, and
Nebraska, and I don't know just where, but you shall know all about it
after I have been, and returned. Wide-open eyes; that is our motto for
the summer. I know a great many of you are going away, to the seaside,
to the mountains, to Chautauqua, to Europe, where not? Will you be
selfish, dwarfed-up little Pansies, keeping all your delights of travel
to yourselves, or will you keep diaries of all the interesting things
you see, and hear, and learn, and write beautiful letters for the
stay-at-homes? Why not? Let us join hands and see how much we can use
our eyes and ears for others during the long bright summer.
Lovingly, PANSY.
_Louie_ from New York. My dear, I hope THE PANSY came in time for the
"little brother's birthday." We made all possible speed. Yes, Faye
Huntington is to continue her work for THE PANSY during another year.
I am glad you love her. So do I. Please give my kind regards to your
mamma, whom I remember very well.