consist of a star of six rays, or a plate of six angles. There is a
reason for this, or rather there is a well-known property of ice in
respect to the law of its crystallization which throws some light upon
the subject. The law is this: that whereas every crystallizable
substance has its own primitive crystalline form, that of ice is a
rhomboid with angles of 60° and 120°, and consequently all the secondary
forms which this substance assumes are controlled by these angles, and
derive from them their hexagonal character.
The most striking of the methods adopted for the inspection of ice
crystals is one discovered by Professor Tyndall, and consists of melting
the ice from _within_. This is done by means of a lens, by which the
sun's rays are brought to a focus within the mass of ice, so as to
liquefy a portion of it in the interior without disturbing that at the
surface.
[Illustration: Bottom Border]
NETTIE'S VALENTINE.
BY AGNES CARR.
"They are all so lovely, I hardly know which to choose," said Nettie
Almer to herself, as she paused at the entrance of a large stationer's
shop to gaze in at the window, where was spread a tempting display of
valentines of all kinds and sizes, from the rich, expensive ones in
handsome embossed boxes to the cheap penny pictures strung on a line
across the entire casement.
"I want them to be the prettiest ones there," continued Nettie to
herself, and she gave her little pocket-book a squeeze inside her muff
as she thought of the bright two dollar and a half gold piece which
Uncle John had given her that morning to spend all for valentines; for
Nettie was invited that evening to a large party, given by one of her
school-mates, and after supper a post-office was to be opened, through
which all her class were to send valentines to each other. Great fun was
anticipated, while at the same time there was considerable rivalry as to
who should send the handsomest missives, and at school nothing else had
been talked of amongst the scholars for a week.
"Please, miss, buy just a little bunch." The words sounded close to
Nettie's ear, and she turned to encounter a pair of pleading blue eyes
gazing into hers, while the plaintive voice repeated, "Please buy a
little bunch of flowers; I haven't sold one to-day, and Minna wants an
orange so much."
It was a pitiful little figure that stood there, with an old shawl over
her head, and her feet hardly protected from the icy pavement by a pair
of miserable ragged shoes, while the tiny hands, purple with cold, held
a small pine board on which were fastened small bouquets of rose-buds,
violets, and other flowers, which she tried to sell to the passers-by,
most of whom, however, pushed her rudely aside or passed indifferently
by.
"Who is Minna?" asked Nettie, gently, after a moment's survey of the
little girl.
"She is mine sister, and she is so bad, so very bad, with the fever. She
cried all last night with thirst, and begged me to bring her an orange
to cool her tongue. Please, miss, buy some of my flowers."
Nettie's tender heart was touched, and her eyes filled with tears in
sympathy with the poor child, who was now crying bitterly. "Has she been
sick very long?" she asked.
"Oh yes; and the Herr Doctor says she will die if she does not have wine
to strengthen her. But where could we get wine? The mother can hardly
pay the rent, and I sell flowers to buy bread; but I can only make two
or three cents on a bunch, and some bad days they fade before I can get
rid of them; so I'm afraid Minna must die. But please give me enough to
get her an orange."
"An orange! of course I will," exclaimed Nettie; "and more than one.
Come with me;" and she caught the child eagerly by the hand, and drew
her toward the street. At this moment, however, her eye fell on the
valentines in the window, and she stopped, hesitating. Should she give
up the pretty gifts for her little friends, and lose half of the
evening's anticipated enjoyment, or should she let this poor girl--of
whose existence she was ignorant five minutes before--go home
empty-handed to her sick sister? There was an instant of sharp conflict
as she thought of how mean she should appear in her school-mates' eyes,
and then, with a resolute air, Nettie turned her back on the fascinating
window, and conducted the little flower girl to a fruit store near at
hand.
A basket was supplied by the kind-hearted proprietor of the store, to
whom Nettie explained what she wanted, and this she filled with golden
Havana oranges and rich clusters of white grapes--a delicious basketful
for a feverish invalid. This, Nettie found, took nearly half the money,
and the remainder she gave to the grocer, begging him to get her a
bottle of the best sherry wine, which was quickly done, and added to the
basket.
"Now," she said, turning to her poor companion, who had stood meanwhile,
hardly believing the evidence of her eyes, "take me home with you, and
we will carry these to Minna right away."
"Oh, miss, thou art too heavenly kind! It will save Minna; she need not
die now." And with smiles chasing away the tears, the happy child took
hold of one side of the basket, while Nettie carried the other, and
together they wended their way to a poor tenement-house in a dark narrow
street, and climbed the rickety stairs to a back room on the fourth
floor.
As they pushed open the door, a low moan was heard from within, and a
weak voice asked, "Gretel, is it thou? Hast thou brought the orange?"
Gretel sprang to the bedside, and in an eager voice exclaimed: "Oh,
Minna, yes, yes, I have the oranges, and so much more! See this good
little lady, and what she has brought thee. Look! oranges--grapes--wine!
Oh, Minna, sweetheart, thou wilt soon be well now!"
The pale child, reclining among the pillows, her golden hair brushed
back from a brow on which the blue veins showed painfully distinct,
stretched forth a thin little hand for the grapes, and said to Nettie,
"Oh, I have dreamed of fruit like this; thou art an angel to bring it to
me."
Gently Nettie brushed back the fair hair of the little patient, and
pressed the cool grapes to her parched lips, while Gretel poured some of
the wine into a cracked tumbler, and administered it to the sick girl,
who, being too weak to talk much, soon sank into a quiet, refreshing
slumber, with one of Nettie's hands clasped tightly in both her own; and
as Nettie sat by the humble pallet she felt fully repaid for the loss of
her valentines.
And Minna still slept when the German mother entered, who, after
listening to Gretel's whispered story, exclaimed, as Nettie rose to
depart, and stole softly from the room: "May Gott in Himmel bless thee,
young lady, for what thou hast done this day! It is weeks since my Minna
has slept like that." And throwing her apron over her head, the poor
woman burst into happy tears.
It was with a light heart that Nettie tripped homeward, and she never
even glanced at the great window where the brilliant hearts and Cupids
gleamed as gayly as ever in the bright sunlight.
"Well, Pussie, how many valentines have you bought?" asked Uncle John,
meeting Nettie in the hall as she entered the house.
"Only one; but it was a very nice one, and you mustn't ask any
questions," answered Nettie, with a blush, as she ran up stairs to avoid
further questioning.
It was rather trying, though, when evening came, and Nettie, dressed in
her white dress and blue ribbons, stood among the other girls in the
dressing-room, and they all crowded round inquiring how many valentines
she had for the post-office, to be obliged to confess that she had none,
and to hear the whispered comments of, "How mean!" "I didn't think that
of Nettie Almer."
She kept her spirits up, however, by thinking of Minna, and the joy of
her mother and sister, and soon forgot the valentines entirely, while
dancing and joining in the merry games with which the first part of the
evening was passed.
But after supper the mortification and almost regretful feelings
returned, when the other children drew forth mysterious packages, and
confided them to Mrs. Hope, the mother of the young hostess; and she was
becoming quite unhappy when a servant entered, saying some one wished to
see Miss Nettie Almer.
Gladly she hastened from the room; but what was her surprise when a
messenger handed her a box addressed to "Nettie, from St. Valentine, in
return for the valentine she sent Minna and Gretel."
On removing the lid, the box was found to contain a dozen small bouquets
of sweet, fragrant flowers, and a card saying they were intended as
valentines for her little friends. Nettie shrewdly suspected them to be
the same bouquets Gretel had tried so unavailingly to sell in the
morning; but she did not know that Uncle John had been an unobserved
spectator of the little episode in front of the stationer's, and that he
had made a later call at the humble tenement, and gladdened the poor
family a second time that day by buying all Gretel's flowers, and paying
a good price for them, too.
It was with very much happier feelings that Nettie re-entered the
parlor, and handed in her contribution for the letter-box; and when the
office was opened in the back drawing-room, and Mr. Hope, disguised as
St. Valentine, distributed the mail, all said none of the valentines
could equal Nettie's, for in the centre of each bouquet was hidden a
tiny golden heart, inclosing a motto appropriate to the occasion.
Nettie always said that that 14th of February was the happiest day she
had ever spent; and it was also a turning-point in the fortunes of the
German family, for Mrs. Almer having heard from Uncle John of her little
daughter's _protégés_, interested some of her friends in them, who gave
work to the mother, and when summer came, found a pleasant cottage on a
farm for them in the country; and with the mother now happy and hopeful,
Gretel well clad and rosy, and Minna quite restored to health, they were
sent away from the dark, dreary tenement to a happy home among "green
fields and pastures fair." And it all came about through Nettie's
valentine.
AUNT SUKEY'S FIRST SLEIGH-RIDE.
"Oh, Nan, look how the snow comes down! I thought it would never snow at
all this winter. Just look at it! Now that's what I call tip-top," said
Tom Chandler, gazing at the fast-whitening landscape, and drumming a
cheerful tattoo on the window-panes with his fingers.
For some time the children stood in silence, watching the snow-flakes as
they whirled and danced and floated like so many feathers, only to fall
and pile up and cover the brown earth and the bare branches as with a
lovely mantle of swan's-down.
Suddenly a thought seemed to have entered Tom's curly head, and he broke
the silence with an air of profound mystery, saying: "I say, Nan, can
you keep a secret? Well, look square in my face and say, 'Upon my word
and sacred honor, I'll never, never, never tell anybody what Tom's going
to tell me!' There! do you think you could keep it? It's the awfulest
jolliest thing you ever heard of."
"Why, Tom," returned Nan, with dignity, "did I ever tell anybody
anything that is a secret when you told me not to? Now do tell me this
one."
"Let me see, now; haven't you told lots of my secrets, madam? Who went
and told pa about my painting the white gobbler's feathers black, hey?
Who told about my putting the mouse into Aunt Sukey's soup? Who told
about my tying the clothes-line across the grass last summer? Who told
about my--"
"That's real mean; you know I couldn't help it, ma was so vexed. You can
keep your old secret; I won't listen to it--there!"
Seeing there was danger of one of Nan's showers, as Tom called her
sudden tears, that young gentleman lowering his voice said, soothingly,
"Never mind, old girl; just say, ''Pon honor' once more, and that you
will never tell if you are shot for it, and I'll tell you what it is."
"That's what I call a solemn promise," exclaimed Tom, as Nanny concluded
the prescribed speech. "Well, here goes!"
Just what was said in Nan's ear we may never know, but that it was
pleasing to both parties may be judged by what followed. The moment the
grand secret became the property of two, there was such a clapping of
hands, and whooping and laughing, and such a dancing up and down the
room as made the boards tremble, and brought old Aunt Susan from her
realms in the kitchen to the dining-room door.
"Bress de Lor', chillun, what dose yer mean cuttin' up like dat! yous'll
bring de roof down, an' no mistake! Stop dat noise! I guess yese
disremember dere's comp'ny in de spare room yonder, gettin' ready fo'
tea."
"Now you never mind the company, Aunt Sukey. Nan and I are only
practicing a war jig we've got to dance for Miss Almira to-night."
"Drat your war jigs, an' 'have like 'spectable chillun! Ring de
tea-bell, and make you'selves useful; you's got younger bones dan dis
ole Susan, tank de Lor'!"
"Remember!" said Tom, with a warning gesture to Nan, for he heard
footsteps coming.
The next morning after breakfast Tom walked into the kitchen, where Aunt
Sukey was putting the finishing touches to a dozen or more pies, for it
was baking-day.
"Look here, Aunt Susan," exclaimed the youngster, "I've heard you say
how much you would like to see 'Marse Linkum,' haven't I? Well, you've
never had a sleigh-ride since you come North, have you? And I was just
thinking last night that I'd take you for one when Nan and I go to
school this morning. There! it won't take more'n a few minutes. Get your
hood and shawl, and come along; it's only beyond Deacon Johnson's. Marse
Lincoln would like to see you first-rate."
"Oh, bress de Lor', honey, who tole you dat? Has ole aunty libbed to lay
her eyes on de savior ob her people? Yous two dun wait for ole Aunt
Susan, and she'll be wid you in a jiffy."
"Hurry up! Jocko's waiting," screamed Tom, as the old lady bustled off
to get her "fixin's."
"But, Tom, what'll ma say? and she's got company, too," asked Nan,
uneasily.
"Why, it's all the better for our fun. She'll have some one to help her.
Miss Almira can turn to and do up the pies and things, and make herself
useful as well as ornamental."
The war of the great rebellion was nearly over, and the old woman, like
many of her people, had made her way North, and this was her first
winter; so Tom and Nan expected great sport over her new experience--a
sleigh-ride. With considerable trouble, for aunty was stout and
unwieldy, and the little cutter was narrow and high, she was at last
bundled in, Nan and Tom following, to the infinite satisfaction of
Jocko, the pony, which was pawing the snow and jingling his bells
impatiently.
[Illustration: "AWAY THEY RUSHED DOWN THE LANE."]
When the robes were all tucked in, Tom gave the word, and away they
rushed down the lane into the road. Speeding on, they turned a curve so
sharply that Aunt Sukey was wild with alarm; her eyes rolled, and her
teeth glistened from ear to ear, as, with mouth distended, she screamed,
"Oh, Marse Tommy, fo' de Lor's sake, hole in dat beast! I's done gone
an' bin a fool to trust my mutton to a hoss like dat! Oh, Marse Tommy,
Massa Tommy, yous'll be de deff of ole Aunt Susan! Oh, fo' de Lor's
sake, stop 'im!"
"Hooray, Jocko! go it, old boy!" was Tommy's laughing response.
"Oh, bress us an' save us! Missy Nanny, be a good chile, an' make Marse
Tom stop dat yere beast, or we'll be upsot, an' break ebbery bone in our
bodies!"
"Don't mind, aunty. Jocko knows every step of the way, and _we_ won't
let you get hurt," cried Nan, with a patronizing air.
"O Lor' hab mussy on a poor ole niggur, an' bring her safely to her
journey's end, for mussy dese chillun hab none!" ejaculated Aunt Susan,
as another sharp curve was so rapidly turned that the very trees and
fences seemed rushing madly away in an opposite direction.
In less than twenty minutes, and the minutes seemed ages to affrighted
Susan, Jocko, with a snort and an extra jingle of his bells, stood
stock-still in front of the school-house.
A score of eyes peeped from the windows as Tom, alighting, with mock
ceremony handed out Nan and Aunt Susan, exclaiming, "Ladies, we shall
soon be in the presence of 'Marse Linkum.'"
"Oh, tank de Lor', dar's no bones broken! and we's really gwine to see
de blessed Marse Linkum, arter all!"
"There, now, Nan, take Aunt Susan up on the stoop, till I blanket Jocko
and put him in the shed."
"Now, Missy Nan," whispered Aunt Susan, when they found themselves alone
on the piazza, "does I look 'spectable nuff to see de President?"
"You look awful nice, aunty," replied Nanny, turning away her head to
conceal her laughter. "Ah! here comes Tom."
"Now, Aunt Susan," exclaimed that youngster, "when I introduce you, say
this: 'I hope I find your Excellency well, and all the people of color
in the South send you greeting.'"
"Wa'al, now, what a genius dat chile is, to be shuah!" muttered Susan,
walking behind Tom and Nanny.
"Mr. Lincoln," exclaimed Tom, advancing toward that gentleman, with a
merry twinkle in his roguish eyes, "allow me to present to you a new
pupil, Aunt Susan Whittingham; she has come all the way from Louisiana
to see you."
"Oh, bress de Lor' dat hab given dis ole woman de privilege ob laying
her eyes on de gloriousness ob de man who hab saved all her people, an'
has strucken off de chains what held dem fast, an' made dem free
forebber and forebber! Hallelujah! hallelujah! amen! Oh, bress me, I's
done gone an' make a mistake arter all. Oh, your Presidency--no, your
Elegancy, I hopes I find you well. All de people ob color in de Souf
send you--send you--greetin'!"
"Aunt Susan, I am very sorry; but that little rascal, Tom, has been
deceiving you all the time. I'm not the 'Marse Linkum' you take me for,
I'm sorry to tell you, for I am only plain James Lincoln, school-master
of the district. Tom, I say, how did you dare to treat Aunt Susan and
myself in this way? I have a mind to punish you."
"Oh, de Lor' forgib Marse Tommy dat he fool a 'spectable ole body like
me; an' de Lor' save me! all my pies an' tings goin' to construction,
an' de missus all alone to hum wid comp'ny! It's too much--it's too much
fo' shuah!"
"Come, aunty," cried Tom, soothingly, for he was beginning to be afraid
himself, "we'll drive home ever so slow. Come, now, forgive us, and
don't get us a whipping."
"I's mos' ready to forgib yous now; but jes you disremember how de
chillun in de Bible war eaten up along o' de bars for sayin', 'Go up,
ole bal'-head!' an' don't you nebber, nebber agin fool ole Aunt Susan."
Almira had "turned to," as Tom predicted, and was helping his mother
with the dinner, when that lady exclaimed: "This is another of that
boy's tricks; but boys are boys, and there's no help for it. I hope Aunt
Susan's enjoying the ride."
Everything was in "apple-pie order" when the party returned, apparently
in fine spirits. Tom thought it mighty queer that nothing was said about
his escapade, and dying to tell it, he felt his way cautiously for an
opportunity, and it came. In the evening, when the family were
discussing nuts and cider around the glowing fire, he related the
morning's adventure with such gay good humor that Pa and Ma Chandler and
Augustus and Almira made the walls ring again with their laughter,
bringing old Aunt Susan to the sitting-room door, where, poking her head
in, she had courage to say, "'Pears to me yous folks is havin' great
sport over Aunt Susan's fust sleigh-ride."
[Illustration: RUINS OF TRINITY CHURCH, 1776.]
NEW YORK'S FIRST GREAT FIRE.
The first great fire in New York happened in September, 1776, just after
Washington had been driven from the city. New York was then a small but
beautiful town; it reached only to the lower end of the Park, but
Broadway was lined with shade trees, and its fine houses stretched away
on both sides to the Battery. Trinity Church stood, as now, at the head
of Wall Street. St. Paul's--a building of great cost and beauty for the
times--almost bounded the upper end of Broadway. The British soldiers
marched into the pleasant but terrified city, the leading patriots fled
with Washington's army, and in the hot days of the autumn of 1776 New
York seemed to offer a pleasant home for the officers and men of the
invading forces. They took possession of the deserted country-seats of
the patriots at Bloomingdale or Murray Hill, and occupied the finest
houses on the best streets of the town. Here they hoped to pass a winter
of ease, and in the spring complete without difficulty the rout of the
disheartened Americans.
But one night in September the cry of fire was heard, and the flames
began to spread from some low wooden buildings near Whitehall, where now
are the Produce Exchange and Staten Island ferries. In those days there
were no steam-engines nor hydrants, no Croton water nor well-organized
fire-companies. But as the flames continued to advance, the British
soldiers sprang from their beds and began to labor to check the fire
with all the means in their power. They used, no doubt, buckets of water
brought from the cisterns and the river. They found, it was said,
several persons setting houses on fire, and in their rage threw them
into the flames. But their labor was all in vain. All night the fire
spread over the finest quarter of New York. From Whitehall it passed up
Broadway on the eastern side, devouring everything, until it was stopped
by a large new brick house near Wall Street. It crossed to the western
side, and laid nearly the whole street in ruins. It fastened on the roof
and tower of Trinity Church, and soon, of all its graceful proportions,
only a few shattered fragments remained. Then the flames passed rapidly
up to the west of Broadway from Trinity as far as St. Paul's; houses and
shops crumbled before them; a long array of buildings seem to have fed
the raging fires, until at last they reached the walls of the great
church itself, and were about to envelop it in ruins. But here, it is
said, the zeal of the people checked their progress. They mounted the
roof of the church, covered it with streams of water, put out the sparks
that fell on it, until at last the building was saved, the flames died
out, and St. Paul's stands to-day almost as it stood in 1776, the
monument of the close of the great fire.
It is not difficult to imagine the melancholy change wrought in the
appearance of the city. Broadway, once so beautiful, remained until the
end of the war in great part a street of ruins. From Wall Street to the
Battery, from St. Paul's Church to the Bowling Green, the miserable
waste was never repaired. Up its desolate track paraded each morning the
British officers and their followers, shining in red and gold, to the
sound of martial music; but they had no leisure nor wish to repair the
ravages of war. On the wasted district arose a collection of tents and
hovels, called "Canvas Town." Here lived the miserable poor, the
wretched, the vile; robbers who at night made the ruins unsafe, and
incendiaries who never ceased to terrify the unlucky city. The British
garrison was never suffered to remain long at ease.
It was said that the great fire of 1776 was the work of the patriots,
who had resolved to burn New York, and drive the invaders from their
safe resting-place. The question of its origin has never been decided.
It may have been altogether accidental, or possibly the work of design.
But it was followed by a singular succession of other fires, during the
period of the British ascendency, that seem to show some settled plan to
annoy and discourage the invaders. The newspapers of the time are filled
with accounts of the misfortunes of the garrison and the royalists.
TO MY VALENTINE.
BY M. M.
In love and hope
These blossoms fair
I lay at your dear feet!
[Illustration]
Deep-folded
In the rose's heart
You'll find my secret, sweet!
[Illustration]
OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.
LOWELL, MASSACHUSETTS.
I would like to know how old is the festival of St. Valentine's
Day. I have painted some little cards myself, and am going to send
them to my school-mates. I think that is better than buying them,
even if I can not make them quite so pretty. I am going to copy a
little verse on the back of each one. Mamma has chosen the verses
for me.
S. F. W.