PART II.

“WHAT did you say?” This last sentence was addressed to a customer who

had been standing for some seconds. “Green braid? No, we haven’t any to

match that.”

“Are you sure?” questioned the young girl anxiously. “Haven’t you a

little darker, then? that will do.”

[Illustration: THE LIBERTY BELL.]

“No, we haven’t!” sharp-voiced and spiteful.

“Saucy thing!” she added, as the girl turned away; “I told her I

hadn’t; what business had she to ask again?”

“O, Nellie! I don’t think you are sure. I think I found some in your

upper row of boxes yesterday which would answer for the sample.”

“Nonsense! as if you could tell without looking. I know I haven’t; I

tumbled the whole lot over yesterday for a fussy woman, and I remember

every shade in it. It is of no consequence, anyhow; a seven-cent braid!

“O, Jean! look here; let me see your photographs. Are they good?”

She had darted away to the counter below.

Marion stood for a moment irresolute, then moved toward the girl. “Let

me see it, please; I think I can match it.”

The woman to whom she had sold a spool of thread turned at the sound

of her voice and smiled on the girl. “Give it to her, Jennie, she will

match it; she knows how,” she said. Marion answered the smile; her

heart was warm over the simple words of commendation. She sought among

the upper row of boxes for the one which her memory associated with

yesterday’s shades, and found it. The girl made her seven-cent purchase

and went away pleased, just as Nellie came back from her photographs.

“Such a stupid day!” she yawned toward its close. “Not a person of

importance has even passed our counter. I’ve sold about a dollar’s

worth of goods to-day. How much have you done?”

“Hardly that,” said Marion, smiling. “It has all been spools of cotton

and darning needles. It has rained, you know, all day.”

The next morning’s sun shone brightly, and the large store was thronged

early in the day with shoppers. Both Marion and Nellie were busy, the

latter not much pleasanter than she had been the day before; it all

seemed such trivial work to her.

“Are you sure you are not mistaken in the name?” one of the chiefs was

saying, in a perplexed tone, to a lady who stood near Marion’s counter.

“We have but one clerk of that name, and she is the youngest in the

store.”

“This one is quite young, and she sells spool cotton,” said the lady,

catching Marion’s eye and smiling a recognition. She had laid aside the

long gossamer, and was carefully dressed. “I have a fancy to be waited

on by her.”

“Marion,” said the chief, turning to her, “this lady wants to look at

the light trimming silks; do you know anything about them?”

“Yes, sir,” said Marion promptly; “I know the shades and prices.”

“I thought so,” the lady said, and Marion moved down the archway at her

side.

“I have a fancy that you can match silks,” the lady said; “at least I

think you will patiently try. A girl who could do her best on a rainy

day for a spool of cotton, can be depended upon for silk, I believe.”

From the silk department they went to the glove counter, and from there

to the millinery, in each of which departments the young girl with

wide-open eyes and deft fingers and careful taste gave satisfaction.

“You ought to be in this room,” said the head milliner, smiling on her

as she saw her select the right shade of velvet. “Where do you belong?”

She laughed when told, and said that the spool-cotton department was

fortunate.

“That Marion Wilkes,” said the chief on Saturday evening, “what about

her?” The clerk told briefly what he knew about her.

“Promote her,” said the chief briefly. “Keep watch of her; if she

succeeds in other departments as well, keep pushing her. She has been

worth several hundred dollars to us this week. Miss Lamson told me

she had expected to buy her niece’s outfit over at Breck’s, but was

attracted here by that little girl selling her a spool of cotton on a

rainy day. And Jennie Packard brought her mother here for the winter

supplies for their family, because that girl matched a dress braid; in

fact, I have heard half a dozen stories of the kind about her. She is

valuable; we cannot spare her for spool cotton.”

It was four years ago that this true story happened. Last Saturday,

as I stood near the spool counter in the fashionable store, I heard a

voice ask: “And what has become of Marion Wilkes? She used to be here

next to you, didn’t she, Nellie?”

“Why, yes, she was the spool-cotton girl; but she didn’t stay here

long; she got to be a favorite with the proprietors somehow. I never

understood it. She was a sly little thing; they promoted her all the

while; you never saw anything like it. She gets the largest salary of

any saleswoman in the store now, and I heard last week that they were

going to put her at the head of the art department. That’s just the way

with some people, always in luck. Here I have been at this tape and

braid counter for years, and expect to be until my eyes are too dim to

pick out the stupid things. I told you I had no tape of that width;

what is the use in asking again?” This last sentence was addressed to a

little girl who was waiting to be served.

PANSY.

THE SPOILED FACE.

(_Character Studies._)

“ISN’T he lovely?” asked Miss Henderson, as we three stood in front of

Charlie’s portrait, which had just come from the artist’s hand. “He has

such great expressive eyes, so soft, and yet so full of intelligence.

The artist has caught the very expression. I think I never saw a more

beautiful boy.”

“I think I never saw a greater nuisance,” said Miss Maylie, speaking

with a good deal of energy and with a slight frown on her face, as

though some unpleasant memory was stirred by the sight of the lovely

face in the frame. We both turned and looked at her in surprise.

“Nuisance!” repeated Miss Henderson. “Why, what can you mean? I have

heard that his character is as lovely as his face. He is one of the

most generous little fellows, always dividing his goodies with the

children.”

“Oh! I don’t doubt it,” said Miss Maylie; “but there are other traits

in children to be sought after besides that of dividing their goodies.”

Then she laughed, as if half-ashamed of the warmth of her manner,

and said: “I’ve been a recent victim to one of his habits, and feel

somewhat deeply, perhaps. I had an important engagement with his mother

yesterday—a business matter for which I had asked an interview—and

told her I was pressed for time, and had but a half-hour. I suppose we

had been together about two minutes when the door opened without the

ceremony of a knock, and Charlie appeared to ask if he might go over to

Uncle Harry’s. He was told that he could not, it looked too much like

rain; and he argued the matter, assuring his mother that the wind had

changed and was blowing from the west; that the cook said it was not

going to rain any more; that he would put on his rubbers and bundle up,

and I don’t know what else. He was listened to patiently by his mother,

and impatiently by me, for my precious half-hour was slipping away. He

shut the door at last with a frown on his face which, if it had been

painted, would have made this picture much less beautiful, but I am

afraid more natural.

“It was certainly not five minutes before he was back, and this time it

was, ‘Mamma, may I call Jerry to bring in the kittens?’

“‘O, no, dear! not this afternoon; you are dressed for dinner, you

know.’

“‘That won’t make any difference; I won’t soil my clothes. The kittens

haven’t been out in the mud. Do, mamma, let me.’

“‘No, Charlie; I do not want them in the parlor, you know.’

“‘Then I’ll go to the kitchen and play with them; Jane won’t care.’

“‘Yes, Jane cares very much; the kittens annoy her. Charlie will have

to get along without them this afternoon.’

“Another slam to the door, with the scowl deepened. But we were by

no means to be left in peace. I was just in the midst of the most

intricate part of my business explanation, when Charlie arrived again.

Now he was hungry; could not wait another minute, and wanted some

bread and butter and syrup, and a piece of cake and a glass of milk.

It was carefully explained to him that dinner would be served within

the hour, and that syrup was not good for him, the doctor said—to which

he replied that he did not care what the old doctor said—and that cake

would be given him at the table when it was passed to the others.

To each of these explanations he returned an answer which had to be

answered, and when all was settled, he began over again to coax for

something to eat! The fourth time he came he wanted the gas lighted

in the library, and the fifth he wanted a certain great book which he

could not lift placed conveniently for him to look at the pictures.

When at last even his mother felt the strain on her patience and told

him he must run away and not interrupt her again, he burst into a loud

howl, and slammed the door after him so that my nerves all shivered at

the jar.

“I must say it would be difficult for me to admire his face to-day; my

annoyances are too recent. Seven times during a single half-hour to be

interrupted by a little boy, when you are trying to transact important

business with his mother, has spoiled his face for me. If he had

wanted one single thing which it was important to have at that moment,

it would have made a difference.”

“They all seemed important to him, I suppose,” said gentle Miss

Henderson, who always tried to apologize for everybody.

“Yes, they did,” said Miss Maylie; “that is just the trouble; he

evidently considered himself a very important person, and thought that

his mother should leave her business and her caller and attend to him.

I should call him a spoiled child.”

MYRA SPAFFORD.

[Illustration: CHARLIE’S PORTRAIT.]

MY LITTLE MAID.

THIS is my little maid, Eva ——, though that is not her Chinese name.

She will be a woman one of these bright days, and who knows but she may

become a real princess or empress of great China?

“What of that?”

[Illustration: EVA.]

Much every way, if she now loves the Lord Jesus, and grows up a noble

Christian woman. Can’t you see how she could help the Gospel among her

people if she had the great power of an empress? I hope you remember

how the good Queen of Madagascar led her nation to give up idolatry

and choose the Bible. And now they are doing things so cruel to their

neighbors who have become Christians we wish our little Eva were the

grand good empress to stop these wicked Chinese doings.

L.

* * * * *

THINK well over your important steps in life; having

made up your mind never look behind.

SACRED ANIMALS.

SOME nations think certain animals sacred; that is, they are so much

better than other animals that they must not be harmed; of course they

must not be killed. If they can they treat them almost as if they were

human beings, dressing them up nicely, even richly. Just think of one

of our bull-dogs dressed and fed and housed almost as well as a king!

“Why do certain tribes of Africa almost worship the Lion of Lhiamba?”

Perhaps because he is so strong and wise and terrible. He seems like a

very god to them, they fear him so.

“Now maybe,” they say to themselves, “if we respect this great, fierce

beast, never lifting a hand to harm him, maybe he will not harm us.”

“Does he ever harm them?”

Always, if they cross his path when he is hungry.

“Are there any other sacred animals?”

Yes; the bull, the white elephant, the monkey, even the serpent, and

how many more it is hard to say.

Maybe you can guess which is sacred to the Egyptians, Chinese, etc.

We should not needlessly harm any animal. Shooting birds for mere fun

is wrong. Animals have a hard time in this world. Let us not make it

harder. But we must worship God only.

They are mere creatures, passing away after a short stay here; God

lives forever. “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.”

L.

* * * * *

EACH one of us is bound to make the little circle

in which he lives better and happier; each of us is

bound to see that out of that small circle the widest

good may flow; each of us may have fixed in his mind

the thought that out of a single household may flow

influences that shall stimulate the whole commonwealth

and the whole civilized world.—_Selected._

[Illustration: THE LION OF LHIAMBA.]

SADIE’S “HEATHEN.”

NOBODY knew or even dreamed how large a thought was puzzling the brains

of little Sadie Wilmot. It had begun at family worship that morning.

Or no; perhaps it began back of that, at the meeting of “Cheerful

Givers,” on Thursday. Mr. Wilmot said it was an absurd idea for such

little dots as Sadie to be going to missionary meeting, but grandmamma

quoted to him: “As the twig is bent, the tree is inclined,” and herself

dressed Sadie for the gathering. Then Miss Harlowe, the leader, had

told a story about a little heathen boy who prayed to an ugly little

wooden image, with a hideous face; she showed a model of the little

heathen’s god, and Sadie was shocked and distressed. She thought

about the heathen a good deal that day. Now, this Saturday morning

grandfather, at family worship, had read a Psalm. Sadie had not been

listening very closely; in fact, it was hard for her to listen to Bible

reading, some way, unless it had a story in it. This was not in the

least like a story, and Sadie’s thoughts were, if the truth must be

told, upon her dollie’s new hat and how she should make it, when she

heard these words: “Ask of me, and I will give thee the heathen for

thine inheritance.” It was that word “heathen” which caught her ear.

Who was talking? To whom were the heathen to be given? Had some naughty

king given them away to a bad man, and was that why they prayed to ugly

wooden dollies? Sadie’s thoughts were in a turmoil; she could hardly

wait until the prayer was over, before she was at grandpapa’s knee

questioning.

“Why, child,” said grandpapa, with a puzzled air, for he was not used

to explaining the Bible to little people, “it means what it says; the

heathen are to be given to Jesus.”

“Given to Jesus!” said Sadie, amazed, “then why do they pray to ugly

wooden dollies?”

“Because He hasn’t got them yet; they don’t know they belong to him.”

“Why doesn’t somebody tell them?”

“They do. People are at work telling them. Did you never hear about the

missionaries, child? I thought you belonged to a Mission Band?”

Of course she did, and had heard about missionaries, and assured her

grandfather that she gave five cents a month to support them. He did

not say that that was a larger sum than he gave regularly for the same

purpose; for some reason he did not care to do so; he only said:

“Very well, then, you understand all about it. The Bible says the

heathen will be given to Jesus, and the missionaries have gone over

there to tell them about it, and show them how to serve the Lord.”

“Has every single one of them heard it?” questioned Sadie, in great

earnestness.

“Well, no,” said grandfather; “I believe they haven’t yet.”

“Why don’t they do it faster? Why don’t lots more missionaries go, and

take Bibles, and hurry? Because maybe some of them will die before they

hear it.”

Sadie was in intense earnest, but her father laughed, and said: “That’s

the question, father. Puts some of you Christians in a tight place,

doesn’t it?”

Sadie could not imagine what he meant; her grandfather sat at ease in

his big leather-covered chair, and was not in a tight place at all.

But she was disappointed at his telling her to run away and not ask

any more questions for five minutes. If she only had a mamma, Sadie

thought, she would ask her all the questions she pleased, for her

friend Trudie Brown said that mammas never got tired of answering. But

Sadie’s mamma went to heaven when she was a wee baby.

She went away to think it over, as she had to do with so many of

her puzzles, only to have it added to presently by words from her

grandmother.

“I declare!” said that good woman, coming in from the back yard, where

she had been talking to Tony, the errand-boy, “that boy is a perfect

heathen.”

Sadie nearly dropped her dollie with a china head on the floor, in her

dismay. “Is he truly, Grandma?” she asked.

“Yes, he is,” said grandmamma, with emphasis; “I don’t believe there is

a greater heathen in the depths of Africa than Tony. I have been trying

to explain the simplest matter to him, and he does not understand me as

well as a child of three ought to.”

“How should he?” asked grandfather, to whom this sentence was chiefly

addressed; “he has never had any chance to learn. The whole settlement

over there where he came from live like heathen, and know no better.”

Then came one of Sadie’s startling questions: “Grandfather, is he one

of those who were given to Jesus?”

[Illustration: THINKING IT OVER.]

“What?” asked grandfather, in astonishment. He had already forgotten

the morning’s questions.

“Why, isn’t he one that you read about, out of the Bible, that was

given to Jesus?”

“Oh!” said grandfather, “I suppose so; why, yes, child, certainly.

Jesus came to save him, as well as other heathen.”

“Does he know it?”

“What a child you are!” said grandmother; but as this was no answer

Sadie waited, looking at her grandfather.

“I doubt if he does,” he said at last, “or would understand if he was

told.”

“Why, then he ought to be told over and over, ever so many times, as

you said you had to do with Bruce before he understood that he was to

stand on his hind feet and ask for a bone, oughtn’t he?”

Both grandfather and grandmother began to laugh, though Sadie had no

knowledge of what there was to laugh about; she was often treated in

this way, and did not understand it. She turned away with a dignified

air, a trifle hurt that her logic should produce only laughter; but

there was decision as well as dignity in the tone in which she said: “I

mean to tell him.”

That was the beginning of effort for Tony Black, as he was called for

convenience, though his full name was Antony Blackwell.

Faithfully did Sadie pour information on him and ply him with questions

until, from staring and being stupidly amused, and then half-vexed with

her, he at last became interested, and listened and asked questions

himself, and began to think. “Sadie’s heathen,” he was familiarly

called by certain amused friends, who were told the story.

He was called so long after the name had ceased to fit him; for this

is a true story of something which happened years ago. The years went

by, and Tony Black became so utterly changed that people forgot that

they had ever called him heathen, or even Tony. “Young Blackwell”

was the name by which he began to be known; then, after a time,

“Mr. Blackwell.” And one evening, when there was a great meeting in

one of the largest churches of a certain city, he was introduced as

“The Rev. Mr. Blackwell, who is under appointment to go to Africa

as a missionary.” Who do you think went with him? Sadie herself! He

told on the platform something of his story; of the time when he was

called “Sadie’s heathen,” and of his joy and pride in having the name

altered, until now, by her friends, he was called “Sadie’s minister.”

But by mere acquaintances they were spoken of as Rev. and Mrs. Antony

Blackwell.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

QUEER CREATURES.

THIS is a scene in Africa. Those queer creatures scampering up the

tree, are monkeys, to be sure; the other big lizards are crocodiles,

you see. The way of it was that one of the crocodiles was sleeping—or

pretending to sleep—on the bank of the river, when along came a

careless little monkey, and his eyes were not where they should have

been, or they did not look sharply at this thing that seemed to be but

a log; when, before he knew what he was about, this “log” opened his

big mouth, and with a sudden flap of his tail, in went the thoughtless

monkey. That was the end of that young monkey. That’s about the way the

saloons swallow folks. Don’t go near them!

“But tell the rest. What did the mother monkey say?”

She was mad as—“a setting hen.” She shouted at the top of her voice,

and a great army of monkeys came galloping to her to know what was the

matter. Now one monkey knows just how to tell the others what’s the

matter; so they all set up such a hue and cry as you never heard. They

scolded and insulted the crocodile, and twitched their faces and shook

their fists at him, and jabbered such a bedlam that all the crocodiles

ran together to see what was to pay. Upon the bank out of the water

they climbed, and with open mouths and loud hisses, hurried after the

scampering monkeys; but those spry creatures bounded up that big high

tree, and from the lofty limbs looked down and scolded with all their

might and main, and again shook their fists and snapped their long

finger-nails to show how they would tear every hair out of the crock’s

hide if they could get a chance—if there were any hair.

It would have been better if they all, monks and crocks, had come

kindly together and asked one another’s pardon and settled their

differences, and signed a pledge never to eat or scold one another any

more. Read this:

“We had a grand temperance rally here last night.

The children marched around the neighborhood, before

the meeting, with banner and song. The church was

beautifully decorated with vines, branches of

palm-trees, maidenhair ferns, calla lilies, white

orchid blossoms, etc. The place was filled. . . . There

were songs, dialogues, temperance catechism, temperance

stories and speeches. Over twenty came forward and

took the blue ribbon. One had been a ‘hard case.’

Among the natives pledging is almost equal to coming

to Christ. . . . Every day began with a sunrise prayer

meeting. A chorus of young people, the girls dressed in

white, occupied the platform. They enjoy music.”

[Illustration: SCAMPERING UP THE TREE.]

So writes Rev. Mr. Dorward of Umzumbe, Africa. You see there is a

difference between the young folks of Africa and the monks and crocks.

What is the difference? And which of the two meetings do you prefer?

L.

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xiii. 57.)

YOU would think people would be proud of a neighbor who does well.

They are often jealous of him. When he becomes very great they often

are all the more jealous, and say hard things about him, and he must

sometimes actually get away to get peace and respect. When Columbus

told his neighbors he was sure he could get to the East Indies by

sailing westward they laughed him to scorn. He asked his own nation for

ships and men to sail away on a voyage of discovery. He got nothing but

opposition. He was compelled to go away to Spain for honor and ships.

Jesus’ neighbors ought to have been proud of him; but they drove him

away. They tried even to kill him, so jealous were they of him. But he

got honor elsewhere. So it usually is. Do you honor him or drive him

away?

L.

WHAT HE COULD DO.

I READ not long ago of a little fellow who was employed in a Boston

office as errand boy. Four young men had the office together, and liked

to spend their leisure moments in teasing the boy, who was very small

for his years.

One day, after they had been chatting together, and using many oaths,

with which they were in the habit of mixing their conversation, one

of them turned to the boy and said: “Dick, what do you expect to do

for a living, anyhow? You can’t be a business man; there is no sort of

business that you can do; you are too small. The fact is you’ll be a

dwarf, and I don’t see how you are to get your living.”

Said Dick, “I can do something now which you four gentlemen can’t do.”

“You can, eh? What in the world is that?”

“I can keep from swearing,” said the boy, in a firm, clear voice.

One of the young men laughed, another whistled, and all turned and

walked away, leaving Dick master of the situation.

EASTER.

LONG nights she wept!

Sad days and weary weeks went by,

And life resumed its routine mournfully;

The tasks that once were easy to perform

Did seem vast mountains to the strength so worn;

And if the sun did shine, or if it not,

In shadow’s dwelt her heart; no ray, no spot

Of light or hope did penetrate the gloom—

This life seemed sadder far than death or tomb.

And still she wept!

’Till to her tear-washed eyes there came,

Like “bow of promise” after summer rain,

A vision beauteous from that “other land”—

Sleep and a “maiden” walking hand in hand.

They passed among those homes of “silent dead,”

They found “her darling’s grave,” the “name” they read,

Then, bending on her soulful, tender eyes,

The “maiden” whispered: “Did our dear Lord rise?

Then wherefore fall these teardrops from thine eyes?

If ‘Christ is risen indeed,’ then shall not we,

His ‘friends,’ his ‘heirs,’ live through eternity?

“Why should the Christians fear, who thus believe?

Why will they not the ‘Comforter’ receive?

I come each year to raise the drooping head,

To whisper to the mourner, Is Christ dead,

That you so mourn your loved? Look upward, sing!

Behold yon butterfly on gorgeous wing!

Know that this grave is but the chrysalis—

Then light, and glory, where the Saviour is;

And ‘where I am, there ye shall also be’;

‘Come, weary, heavy laden, come to me!’”

The vision fled,

But to her heart there softly came

Abiding faith in Jesus’ precious name;

A joy, that all her sorrow she could rest

Upon her Saviour’s sympathizing breast,

And, in the place of gloom and fear, was born

A perfect trust—on that fair Easter morn.

—_Exchange._

[Illustration: HAVE A BITE?]

[Illustration: SHALL I BITE OFF THIS BUTTON?]

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

ABOUT three hundred years ago England’s great queen died. She was not

very beautiful. Some said this was a great trial to her, and that she

took marvelous pains to “fix” herself up to look as well as any lady

in the land. Fine feathers often make pretty birds, but all Queen

Bess’ efforts failed to make her handsome. However, as she had royal

power she had many admirers. They called her “charming,” “lovely,”

“lily,” “rose,” and such other words to flatter her. She liked it,

and persuaded herself that after all her features and complexion were

nearly exquisite.

However that be she had not a few offers of marriage. But none suited

her, or may be she, as a queen, did not want to be bothered with a

husband, who would be continually interfering in the government.

It is sad to think of some things this woman did. Of course you will

read about it. Sometimes she would have outbursts of anger so great

that she would actually box the ears of those around her, no matter how

distinguished they were.

The great stain upon her character was her treatment of Mary, Queen of

Scots, her own relative. Mary was imprisoned eighteen years, then put

to death on charge of conspiracy.

But England arose to extraordinary prosperity under the long reign of

“Queen Bess.” There were great scholars in her day, and she encouraged

all sorts of improvements. You Pansy girls must some day dress your P.

S. President up in the Elizabethan style and say if you would like it

nowadays.

L.

* * * * *

(_Sent with the gift of a Canary Bird in Cage._)

IN memory of the birdlings fair

Who from your nest have flown,

To try in Heaven’s serener air

The wings earth could not own.

M. S. B.

[Illustration]

ELSIE’S PLAN.—I.

(_Something for Mamma._)

THE thought grew in Elsie’s mind, nourished by three remarks made by

her mother and sisters. They were all at work except Irma, who was

trying to teach Leoline to jump gracefully from her shoulder, instead

of giving such a rude bound. Leoline was the cat. Irma was not apt to

be at work, if the truth must be told; she was the only one of the

little household who did not seem to understand the need for being

industrious. She was two years older than Elsie, but the grown-up

sisters often said of her that Elsie was at least three years ahead

of Irma in judgment. I have sometimes thought if they had said in

conscientiousness it would have been nearer the truth.

At this particular time, while Irma struggled with the cat’s education,

Elsie took neat stitches in the apron she was mending, her face looking

thoughtful the while. Margaret, the oldest sister, was sewing swiftly

on a dress of Irma’s, setting in new sleeves, and in other ways trying

to make the half-worn garment look like a new one. Nannie came in,

dustpan in hand, and with a handkerchief bound about her hair to

protect it from the dust, just as her mother opened the door of the

kitchen, with her hands filled with soiled napkins and towels.

“Mother, where can I put that roll of matting?” Nannie asked, a touch

of irritation in her voice; “I have reached the end of my resources in

tucking things away. If I ever do build a house I will have all the

closets I want; good-sized ones, too—and if there is any space left for

rooms, there may be a few tucked in; but the closets I will have.”

Mrs. Harding sighed. “Closets are certainly very scarce in this house,”

she said wearily, “as well as many other things. I don’t know what to

do with the soiled clothes; we need a clothes hamper very much. There

is a corner in the upper back hall where one might stand, if we had

it.” The sentence ended as it had begun, with a little sigh.

Irma echoed the sigh in a sort of groan. “I saw such a pretty one,

mother, last night, at Turner’s. It was only two dollars; I thought of

you when I saw them unpacking it. And to think that we cannot afford

even two dollars for a basket!”

“There are worse trials in life than even that, I suspect,” said

Nannie, darting an angry glance at Irma, as she saw the flush spread

and deepen over her mother’s face. Margaret made haste to change the

subject.

“We each have our perplexities, it seems,” she said, with a light

laugh; “mine has to do with dress. I don’t know what to do with that

light sateen of mine; it is too gay to wear about the house at work,

even if it were long enough, which it isn’t. It is not worth giving

away, it is too good to throw into the rag bag, and there isn’t room

for it in my closet. Now what is to be done in such a case?”

Then Elsie spoke for the first time, eagerly, a bright look flashing

over her face, as though some perplexity had just then been

delightfully solved. “O, Margaret! will you give the dress to me to do

just what I please with?”

“To you, child! what can you do with it? It isn’t just the thing for a

dollie, I should say.”

“No,” said Irma scornfully, “I should think not. Do let us have our

dolls dressed in good taste and decent style, even if we cannot afford

anything for ourselves.”

“I don’t want it for my doll, Margaret. I have a plan, a real nice one,

if you will let me have the dress, and if mother will give me the

matting Nannie cannot find a place for. Will you, mother? There is only

a little of it left.”

“Is it the yellow plaid, Nannie? Why, yes, dear, if there is any

pleasure to be gotten out of that yard and a half of cheap matting, by

all means use it; especially since there is no place to store it.”

Then Mrs. Harding left the room, giving Nannie a chance to say what she

was longing to.

“I never saw such a girl as you are, Irma; you omit no opportunity

to remind mother of our poverty. Even so trivial a thing as a soiled

clothes hamper must draw from you a woe-begone sigh. Why can’t you

remember that it is hard enough for mother, at the best, without trying

to keep the thought of our troubles ever before her?”

“Why, dear me!” said Irma, “what did I say? Mother knew before I spoke

of it that we could not afford even two dollars to buy a clothes

hamper. I don’t think she is very likely to forget that we have lost

our money.”

“Not if you are around,” answered Nannie angrily. “I think you are a

selfish girl; you do nothing but groan and regret, for your share.

Well, I can’t help it,” she added, in answer to Margaret’s warning

look; “that child’s selfish frettings do try me so!”

“We must not expect old heads on young shoulders, remember,” Margaret

said gently, as Irma put Leoline down with a decided bounce, and

slammed the door the least bit after her, as she left the room.

“It is the contrast that makes one notice it so,” answered Nannie, with

a significant nod of her head toward Elsie. But Elsie neither heard the

words, nor saw the nod; her mind was busy elsewhere.

“O, Margaret!” she said eagerly, “I have the loveliest plan. You

know to-morrow will be mother’s birthday, and I was all the evening

wondering what I could give her; now I know. Nannie, I will take the

matting out of your way. I mean to make a clothes hamper for mother out

of that and Margaret’s dress.”

Nannie laughed outright, and even Margaret smiled as she said: “Why,

dear child, how can you? I am afraid that is a very large undertaking.”

“No,” said Elsie positively; “I see just how I can do it. The plan

flashed into my mind as soon as you and Nannie began to talk about the

two things in the way. I almost know I can do it. If you will help to

keep mother away from our room this afternoon, and she won’t give me

anything special to do, I can make it and have it ready for to-morrow

morning. I know just how to go to work.”

“Let her try it,” said Nannie, with a wise nod of her head. “The child

will make something; I never knew her to fail when she had undertaken

to do a thing, and mother’s birthday ought to be noticed in some

way, even though we cannot do as we used. I’m going to fix over her

sewing-chair; I believe in useful presents myself. We will agree to

keep mother in order, Elsie, and the sooner the matting disappears from

the front hall the better.”

So the little room occupied by the two younger girls was locked all the

afternoon, while Elsie worked steadily, and Irma lounged on the bed

with a book, encouraging her sister occasionally with: “You never can

do it in the world, Elsie Harding! I don’t see any sense in trying. For

my part I would rather give her no present than a bungling thing like

that. You can’t sew matting decently; it ravels so.”

PANSY.

* * * * *

[Illustration: AN OLD-TIME MAY-DAY.]

[Illustration: THE CUSTOM HOUSE, NEW YORK.]

ABOUT NEW YORK.

BY THE PANSIES.

[Illustration: COOPER INSTITUTE.]

I READ about it when it was called New Amsterdam. A thousand people,

and it was just a straggling little town. Pearl Street they called “De

Perel Straat.” The folks were very proud of this street; there were

forty-three houses on it! One man thought his fortune was made because

he had bought a lot two years before for fifty dollars, and was offered

two hundred and fifty for it. And the lot was thirty feet wide and over

a hundred feet deep! Think of a New York man to-day buying a lot of

that size for two hundred and fifty dollars! My father says it would

take a fortune to buy such a lot.

HENRY STUART.

* * * * *

MY cousin and I had great fun reading about a family who took a long

journey from New York to Albany. They went on a river steamer; started

at daylight and reached Albany at sunset, and thought they had done

a big thing. There were no railroads to ride on; not a single train

going out of New York City! That was in 1827. It seems strange that

such wonderful things can take place in one century. I think this is

the grandest century we ever had.

ROBERT CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

I SPENT a week in New York, and boarded very near Madison Square. I

was on Twenty-third Street, pretty near to Fifth Avenue, and Broadway

streaks across the city right there, so I had a chance to see almost

everything; because those who know anything about New York City know

that if you see what is on those streets, why, you have seen a good

deal. It is Broadway and Fifth Avenue going criss-cross that make

Madison Square. There are lots of hotels around there. The park is just

magnificent; I like it better than Central Park, because it is right

there, you know. There is a splendid fountain in the middle, and a

drinking fountain somewhere else, and statues of Seward and Farragut.

Seward is sitting down, and looks as though he didn’t care.

If I had room I could tell you lots of things about Madison Square; but

since you only let us have a few lines, what will a fellow do? I’m

going to the Christian Endeavor meeting in July, and that will give a

good chance to study up that part of the city, because the meeting is

to be in Madison Square.

DAVID G. DUNLAP.

* * * * *

MY mother used to be a pupil in Cooper Institute, and when I went to

New York a few months ago father took me to see it. It is very large;

it cost more than six hundred thousand dollars. Peter Cooper built it

about thirty-five years ago; and then he gave three hundred thousand

dollars to keep the free library going which belongs to it. They have

all sorts of schools in the building. You can learn how to telegraph,

and to write on the type-writer, and how to draw and paint. My mother

was in the painting school, and she paints beautifully. We went up to

the reading-room; it is on the third floor; there are rows and rows and

rows of books! It makes me dizzy to think of so many. The books are all

covered, so they don’t look very pretty. There are long tables and lots

of chairs; you are given a check made of brass, or tin, or something,

when you go into the room; then if you want a book or magazine you go

to the desk and ask for it, and give that check in return; you cannot

get out of the room without that check, so you are apt to carry your

book back when you are done with it, and get your check again. After

all there are only about twenty thousand books on the shelves. I was

disappointed; I thought there were millions.

EMMELINE ANDREWS.

* * * * *

DICK WALTERS is in our “General Information” class, and when

Trinity Church was talked about Dick declared he had been in the

old building which was put there in 1697. I knew better, because my

great-grandfather told about its being burned in the fire of 1776. But

we couldn’t make Dick Walters give up the notion that he was in the

very identical church built two hundred years ago. At last Professor

Townley explained that it was the old site, but a new church built in

1846. Since we had our fuss about it I have been there myself. It is

a splendid building, I think, if it isn’t two hundred years old. The

steeple is two hundred and eighty-four feet high, and the chimes are

lovely. It is an old brown church, and looks solemn and still; it is

right on Broadway, but when you step inside it seems just as still! You

can hear the birds chirp on the trees in the churchyard, though there

is a terrible roar of noise outside. Alexander Hamilton is buried in

Trinity churchyard.

ROBERT PAXTON.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE OBELISK.]

I SUPPOSE everybody will write about Central Park; but I can’t help

it, I want to tell some things about it myself. I was there in June.

We went up to Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue and took a carriage.

We drove through the Scholars’ Gate; this took us straight to the

menagerie, and we saw the bear-pits and everything, though they say

they don’t have the menagerie there any more. We took a row on the

lake, and we saw the Bethesda Fountain with its real angel—well, I mean

a carved one, of course—bending over the water. Then we walked through

The Ramble, which I think is the loveliest part of the park, only they

won’t let you break off the least little speck of a flower or leaf.

There are lots of birds, and they seemed busier and happier than any

birds I ever saw. We saw a sign directing us to the “Dairy,” so we went

there and got some splendid milk and some bread and butter. We children

wanted to go to “The Carousal”; that is a sign which points out the way

to the children’s playground, where there are swings and everything;

but father said we hadn’t time, and that we could have “carousals”

enough at home.

LAURA J. WESTOVER.

* * * * *

LAURA has written a letter about Central Park, and hasn’t mentioned

the obelisk. Ho, ho! if that isn’t just like a girl. I have studied up

about it since I was there. They had an awful time bringing it over

here from Egypt. They had to cut a hole in the bow of the boat that

brought it to get it in; and then mend the hole, of course, before they

could start. And when the steamer reached New York it took thirty-two

horses to draw just the pedestal down to Central Park!

[Illustration: VIEW OF MADISON SQUARE.]

The carvings on the obelisk are called hieroglyphics, and used to mean

writing; but scholars have had a great time trying to find out what the

writing says. They don’t agree about it, but they think it is a lot of

stuff about some heathen gods. There are carved hawks on the top of the

column, and these are said to be the birds that belonged to one of the

gods, because they could fly the highest and could look at the sun.

The obelisk is sixty-nine feet high, and it weighs three hundred and

twenty tons. I don’t exactly see what we wanted of it; but it is rather

nice to look at it and think it came all the way from Egypt and was

presented to us by Ismail Pasha.

REUBEN T. WESTOVER.

* * * * *

THE nicest ride I had while in New York was along Fifth Avenue. We

started at Washington Square and went up to Central Park. It is

almost three miles, and all the way there were such beautiful houses

and churches to look at, and the road was as smooth as the floor. We

passed the white marble house built by A. T. Stewart; it cost three

million dollars, and the people who now rent it pay thirty-seven

thousand dollars a year for it. Only think! and we get three hundred a

year for our house, and call it a good rent; but then, it didn’t cost

three millions. Then we passed the elegant Vanderbilt houses, and the

magnificent Lenox Library building, and O, dear! I can’t think what

others. I thought I knew a great deal about them when I began, but

they are all mixed up in my mind. But what I wanted to say was, that

the drive from Washington Square away up to Eighty-first Street must

certainly be the very splendidest in the world. I know I never saw so

many beautiful buildings before; and I do like grand houses and grand

churches and everything.

KATE W. GLOVER.

[Illustration: FIFTH AVENUE.]

[It has been very difficult to select items for this

paper, because of the wealth of objects to choose from.

We could make the article twice as long just as well as

not, out of the material we have, if there were only

room for it in the magazine. Also, some of the best and

brightest items have been omitted, and others perhaps

not quite so interesting chosen in their place, because

they spoke of some building which we could show you in

picture. The Pansies will understand, I hope, that we

fully appreciate their efforts to help us, and that we

enjoy the many items which we do not use quite as much

as those we select. But do please be more prompt with

your letters.—EDITORS.]

THE MORROW.

OF all the tender guards which Jesus drew

About our frail humanity, to stay

The pressure and the jostle that alway

Are ready to disturb, whate’er we do,

And mar the work our hands would carry through,

None more than this environs us each day

With kindly wardenship—“Therefore, I say,

Take no thought for the morrow.” Yet we pay

The wisdom scanty heed, and impotent

To bear the burden of the imperious Now,

Assume the future’s exigence unsent.

God grants no overplus of power; ’tis shed

Like morning manna. Yet we dare to bow

And ask, “Give us to-day our morrow’s bread!”

—_Selected._

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

III.

IT is a nice light night, and if you youngsters have stared long enough

at the moon, since neighbor Sport has come to call we will try to be a

little more social.

Pet and Spot and Curley may play on the lawn if they choose, and have

as good a time as they like.

You have come to ask my advice, have you, Sport?

Well, it doesn’t cost much to give advice, but it isn’t always so easy

to take it.

What is the question in mind?

Have been slighted and abused, have you? Tell us about it.

Scolded you after you hunted birds all day for him, and then forgot to

give you any supper. That was pretty hard; pretty mean treatment, I

should say.

Had your master been drinking?

No? How came it about?

“Why, just before time to start for home I found a big flock of quail,

and showed him just where they were; and he crept up, gun in hand, and

tried to fire, but for some reason the gun did not go off.

“That put him out of humor, and he scolded the gun, and by that

frightened the birds so they flew away.

“Then he sent me to find them, and I could get no snuff of them,

hunt as hard as I could. Then he spoke to me as he never did before,

and throwing the gun upon his shoulder started for the house, never

noticing me by any word, whistle or sign.

“Well, I dropped my tail between my legs, and followed at a good

distance.

“He didn’t forget the cow, or the pig, or the pony, but took no notice

of me, and I don’t believe I could eat now if I had a chance.”

Poor fellow! come here and lie down by me. Never mind, never mind;

these men seem sometimes to have no heart for us, no matter how

faithful we have been.

I am so thankful we have a master of another kind.

One of you run and bring some of that supper that was left.

We had a very nice supply this evening, and there is enough for two

hungry fellows yet.

You just say no more till you have had the meat from that bone, and

see if you don’t feel better. Things hurt worse when one is tired and

hungry.

There, now rest a while, and I will tell you a story about a

great-uncle of mine, who lived in Groton.

He was pretty well educated, and did a great many things that some of

his four-footed friends would not be trusted to do, even if they knew

enough.

Well, Diamond—that was his name—was pretty good-natured, but a little

sensitive. Being very affectionate, it was easy for those whom he loved

to hurt his feelings.

His master was a mechanic, and had to go to his shop every day. The

distance was so great that he did not come home to dinner; so his wife

would prepare his dinner, put it in a pail, or in a basket, as it might

happen, lay in the bottom a nice bone for Diamond, and give it all to

him to take to his master. That he would do as faithfully as any one.

When the master had finished eating what had been brought, or as much

as he wanted, he would take the bone, and any scraps left, and give

them to his faithful carrier, who had been, the while, lying under the

bench, patiently waiting.

But one day there was a break. The mistress said she was going shopping

that day, and would take the dinner to her husband herself.

That rather hurt Diamond’s feelings, though he said nothing, but

followed on, and lay down in his usual place to wait for his bone. The

master sat down to his dinner with no word for his faithful servant who

was not permitted to bring the basket, finished his meal, closed the

basket, and handed it to his wife.

No bone was there, nothing for the one who had been waiting, hungry,

but patient. The only notice taken of him was a call to follow the lady

and carry the empty basket. With a heavy heart and drooping tail he

obeyed. When the purchases were made and put into the basket, Diamond

was ordered to go ahead of his mistress and take the burden home.

On he trudged until he neared a bridge which they must cross, when a

thought came suddenly into Diamond’s mind, and quickly darting forward

to the middle of the bridge he went to one side of it, and deliberately

let the basket and its contents fall into the stream; then ran for home

as fast as his four legs could carry him.

I am not telling you this because I think he did right, but that you

may see that others are treated as badly as you have been.

I suppose I am sorry that a relative of mine ever resorted to revenge;

but it does sometimes seem very strange to me that more dogs do not

revenge themselves in some way for the hard treatment they so often

receive.

You would not like to be guilty of such an act as that?

Well, I am glad of it. Indeed, I think my kinsman was soon sorry for

what he had done.

Let me tell you how he proved it. His master had been out nearly all

day with Diamond hunting. The next morning he discovered that he had

somewhere lost a key. So he showed Diamond another, and told him his

trouble, and ordered him to go and hunt for it.

Off he went, and at three o’clock that afternoon returned, bringing the

lost key.

He was tired and hungry, but a good dinner was ready for him, and kind

words soon made him forget his fatigue.

In fact, I believe both master and dog were ashamed and sorry for the

past, and inwardly determined to do right in the future.

Now after these true stories of my great-uncle, I hope you feel better,

and will go home, not to plan how you can be revenged, but how you can

be true and faithful, and, if possible, win better treatment in future.

R.

* * * * *

OF the four hundred and thirteen species of trees in

the United States sixteen will sink in water. The

heaviest is the black-iron wood of Southern California.

BARNYARD ILLUSIONS.

SOMEBODY in one of our exchanges tells an amusing story of his attempt

at studying human nature in the barnyard. He placed a large piece

of looking-glass against the trunk of a tree, and scattered corn in

front of it, then took a convenient position and watched. Some of the

hens came up with cautious tread, to meet what they supposed were new

acquaintances, and were simply astonished and bewildered by the result.

Others pecked at the glass, and were anxious to get up a fight with the

supposed intruders.

The high-stepping rooster was bent on a victory. He advanced with

skillful side steps, according to rooster fashion, and was amazed to

lose sight of his enemy. Of course he had stepped too far to the left

or right, and so gotten out of range of the glass, but this he did not

understand. He gave an astonished crow, looked about him fiercely,

saw no one, finally gave up and went back for a kernel of corn;

behold, just in front of it was that other rooster, looking fierce.

He made another attempt for a fight, with exactly the same result as

before; but the second surrender to mystery brought him quite near to

the mirror and his enemy. He ruffled his feathers, so did the other

rooster. He made a dash forward, so did the other, and—the rooster was

astonished; but you are prepared to hear that the mirror was broken

into bits. The question which seemed to puzzle that rooster for hours

afterwards was, What became of his enemy, that he could not find even a

feather of him lying about the yard?

* * * * *

A GOOD man in France is said to have invented an instrument with a very

fine tube to be inserted into the ear, by means of which sounds can be

heard by the deaf.

Professor Dussouchet saw the experiment tried upon many deaf mutes, and

in every case with success. Sounds are sent into a large bell-shaped

contrivance; thence they pass down the fine tube and strike the

tympanum (ear drum).

L.

[Illustration: A SONG FROM THE HEART.]

[Illustration: I NEED A CHRISTMAS DINNER.]

THE BOYHOOD OF TITIAN (_Tish’-yan_).

_Pœta nascitur, non fit._

THERE, that is not Greek or German, but Latin, and some day your

Pansy tongue will talk it off as readily, no doubt, as it now casts

English to your cat. Won’t it be just splendid for you to be in the

High School—and not at the foot of your class, either—reading Cæsar or

Cicero or Horace?

[Illustration: STUDYING ITS CHARACTER.]

“But what does that Latin mean?”

It means, “A poet is born, not made.”

“So is every one ‘born.’”

No, not born a poet, neither can be made into a poet by study; that is,

a real true poet. Almost everybody can read poetry, and love it and

make rhymes; but that is not being a poet.

You might just as well now learn that bit of Latin and surprise your

mamma some day at the dinner-table by saying: “_Pœta nascitur, non

fit._” The next time you can say: “_Orator nascitur, non fit,_” for

that is true too. It is true of an artist, and many, many others. We

all have different gifts at birth. (See Rom. xii. 6.) Johnny Brown can

sing and play upon almost any instrument. He is a born musician. His

brother can’t play even upon a jew’s-harp, but he can make one. He can

make a watch. His fingers can do all sorts of wonderful things such as

Johnny’s cannot. Boys differ; girls differ. They can’t be made alike.

One has one gift, one another.

Titian was born an artist.

What do you suppose he is doing there, one hand upon the limb of that

tree?

“Going up for chestnuts.”

No; try again.

“Going to climb for a crow’s nest.”

Not he. See that bit of a branch in his right hand. He is looking at

it to see its shape, the form and color of the leaves, and all about

it. He will paint that whole tree in a little while—no, no; paint one

on canvas just like it. When he is a few years older he will paint

portraits, then great elegant pictures.

He was an Italian boy, born in 1477.

Columbus was then about thirty-five years old. He had just made his

great voyage to Iceland and got back when Titian was a baby. I guess

Titian saw the born voyager and discoverer, and as likely as not

painted his portrait or ships. But one of his masterpieces, or greatest

works, is St. Peter, Martyr; another, The Presentation of the Virgin.

L.

HANNIBAL’S VOW.

MANY hundred years ago there were two magnificent cities on opposite

sides of the Mediterranean Sea. One was Carthage and the other was

Rome. But they were jealous of each other, and shook their fists at

each other and went to war, each trying to do the other all the harm it

was possible.

In Carthage was a man by the name of Hannibal. He hated Rome bitterly.

A little before his death he took his son out to the altar, where they

burned sacrifice to the gods, and made him lift up his hands in a vow

or promise to always hate and harm the Romans.

It was an awful thing for any one to do, but how dreadful for a dying

man. So young Hannibal swore by the gods, Jupiter, Juno, Apollo,

Hercules, Mars, Triton and Neptune, and all the other Dæmons.

The old man died. When young Hannibal was now twenty-four he was made

commander of the troops, and, dressed in a coat of armor, he started

from Carthage with a mighty army. Away he marched toward Spain,

conquering and slaying his enemies on the way. On and on he went, over

rivers and highest mountains. The Romans, when they heard that he was

in Spain, laughed at the thought of his coming to Rome; they said none

but gods could do such a thing. But they had not long to laugh. He and

his conquering host clambered over the Pyrenees, then over the high

steep Alps, then “down upon the soft and smiling plains of Italy.”

Then all was excitement in great Rome. Every one became a soldier of

some sort. “To arms! to arms!” was the cry. The city was turned into a

fort. Mighty armies went out to meet Hannibal, but one after another

was slaughtered or put to flight. In one of the great battles forty

thousand Romans were slain!

The Roman general, Fabius, was a great man, but he was compelled to

retreat before Hannibal. But just then, when the people in the great

city were trembling lest Hannibal would be upon them to burn the whole

city and put the inhabitants to death, word came from Carthage that

he must hurry home with his army and save Carthage from a Roman army

coming upon it, led by a wonderful general, Scipio. Soon these two

conquering hosts met at Zama, not far from Carthage, and here for the

first time poor Hannibal was defeated, and in the course of time proud

Carthage was utterly destroyed.

L.

THE WAR OF THE ROSES.

FIVE hundred years ago began very troublous times in England, and it

went on many bloody years. You see, there were two great parties, as in

this country, each struggling to rule. In this country they fight it

out at the ballot box, with bits of paper upon which names are printed.

The man or party which gets the greater number of ballots rules. In

England years ago they fought it out with blows. The party which could

strike the harder blows ruled.

The names of these two great parties were York and Lancaster. The

Yorkers wore the white rose, the Lancastrians the red rose, so it was

called the War of the Roses. Oh! the fierce battles, the groans of the

dying and the banners rolled in blood; neighbors, sometimes brothers,

killing each other.

And their homes, the mothers and children, what happened to them during

all those hundred years? You must not know. But what must the Lord

Jesus have thought of it all?

If it had been for some great good—to put an end to stealing, cruelty,

drunkenness or some such dreadful thing—it would not seem so bad; but

it was just to get upon a throne and then to be cruel to the defeated

party. The great trouble was that this man or that wanted to be king

just as in America a man wants to be president. Richard the Third

wanted it so much that he caused his two little nephews to be smothered

to death while asleep, lest they would grow up and trouble him! This

was four hundred years ago.

L.

BABY’S CORNER.

COME TO SUPPER.

ONE pleasant summer day Jamie’s mamma said they would have tea out

under the trees, because it was papa’s birthday.

[Illustration: THE NAUGHTY ROOSTER.]

She spread a pink cloth on the table, and brought out some pretty

dishes. Jamie thought it was fine fun.

He helped to carry out the biscuits and strawberries, and he put the

knives and spoons by the side of the plates.

They had to hurry, because pretty soon the five o’clock train would

come in, and papa would be on it.

When mamma went into the house to make the tea she gave Jamie a piece

of cake and told him to sit down on the grass and rest his tired little

feet.

Jamie liked to sit in that pretty spot. There were green grass and

daisies and buttercups all about him, and oh! how good the cake tasted.

Pretty soon the old rooster saw that Jamie was alone, and that he had

something good to eat.

So he called to his family: “Come quick! come to supper.”

Then the gray hen and the yellow hen and the speckled hen and the white

banties came running as fast as they could run to get some of Jamie’s

cake.

Old Speckle got the first bite, a great big one, and carried it off to

eat it. Then Old Yellow came up one side and the rooster came the other

side, and one took a bite, and the other took a bite.

Jamie began to cry. Mamma heard him. She came out, and said: “Shoo!

shoo!”

[Illustration: JAMIE BEGAN TO CRY.]

And away went the chickabiddies as fast as they could fly, and no more

supper for them that night.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

* * * * *

OUT in the garden, wee Elsie

Was gathering flowers for me;

“O, mamma!” she cried, “hurry, hurry,

Here’s something I want you to see.”

I went to the window; before her

A velvet-winged butterfly flew,

And the pansies themselves were not brighter

Than the beautiful creature in hue.

“Oh! isn’t it pretty?” cried Elsie,

With eager and wondering eyes,

As she watched it soar lazily upward

Against the soft blue of the skies.

“I know what it is, don’t you, mamma?”

Oh! the wisdom of these little things

When the soul of a poet is in them.

“It’s a pansy—a pansy with wings.”

—_Selected._

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xiii. 12.)

NO, it does not seem fair at all to give to him that has something, and

to refuse it to one that hasn’t anything scarcely, and even to take

away what little that one has! Just think of giving a rich Pansy five

hundred dollars more, and then snatching away the last penny from a

poor Pansy!

Surely you don’t suppose the loving, gentle, merciful Lord Jesus meant

any such thing? Of course he didn’t.

“What did He mean?” Why, simply this, my dear; that one who makes good

use of his gifts will have more gifts. He will grow wiser and better,

and go up higher all the time, just like a tree that uses well the good

ground and good air and good dew around it. And the tree, that for some

reason won’t send its roots down and this way and that and set every

one of its leaves to breathing, such a lazy tree will lose all its life

and die, the first wide-awake tree sucking up that very life.

It may be just so with two Pansies. One is good, true, active, the

other one isn’t; how one will go up and the other down; how one will

increase and the other decrease until one seems to have all the good,

even the little the other started out with.

You borrow from a bank one hundred dollars and pay it back with

interest when your note is due, and quite likely the bank will loan you

two hundred dollars then, if you want it, and so on, increasing it just

as you are faithful. But if you don’t pay as you promised, because you

were lazy, your one hundred dollars will be taken from you and loaned

to one who may have ten thousand dollars, because he makes good use of

it. We are all on trial. How happy we should be to be trusted by the

Lord! It’s a fearful thing when he will not loan us any more.

L.

* * * * *

GOOD temper, like a sunny day, sheds brightness over

everything. It is the sweetener of toil and the soother

of disquietude.

INASMUCH.

“IF I had dwelt”—so mused a tender woman,

All fine emotions stirred

Through pondering o’er that Life, divine yet human,

Told in the sacred Word—

“If I had dwelt of old, a Jewish maiden,

In some Judean street,

Where Jesus walked, and heard his word so laden

With comfort strangely sweet,

“And seen the face where utmost pity blended,

With each rebuke of wrong;

I would have left my lattice and descended,

And followed with the throng.

“If I had been the daughter, jewel-girdled,

Of some rich rabbi there;

Seeing the sick, blind, halt, my blood had curdled

At the sight of such despair.

“And I had wrenched the sapphires from my fillet,

Nor let one spark remain;

Snatched up my gold, amid the crowd to spill it,

For pity of their pain.

“I would have let the palsied fingers hold me;

I would have walked between

The Marys and Salome, while they told me

About the Magdalene.

“‘Foxes have holes’—I think my heart had broken

To hear the words so said,

While Christ had not—were sadder ever spoken?—

‘A place to lay his head.’

“I would have flung abroad my doors before Him,

And in my joy have been

First on the threshold, eager to adore Him,

And crave his entrance in!”

Ah, would you so? Without a recognition

You passed Him yesterday;

Jostled aside, unhelped his mute petition,

And calmly went your way.

With warmth and comfort garmented and girdled,

Before your window-sill

Sweep heart-sick crowds; and if your blood is curdled

You wear your jewels still.

You catch aside your robes, lest want should clutch them

In its imploring wild;

Or else some woful penitent might touch them,

And you be thus defiled.

O, dreamers! dreaming that your faith is keeping

All service free from blot,

Christ daily walks your streets, sick, suffering, weeping,

And ye perceive him not!

M. J. PRESTON, _in The Independent_.

* * * * *

I READ of a boy who had a remarkable dream. He thought that the richest

man in town came to him and said: “I am tired of my house and grounds;

come and take care of them and I will give them to you.” Then came an

honored judge and said: “I want you to take my place; I am weary of

being in court day after day; I will give you my seat on the bench if

you will do my work.”

Then the doctor proposed that he take his extensive practice and let

him rest, and so on. At last up shambled old Tommy, and said: “I’m

wanted to fill a drunkard’s grave; I have come to see if you will take

my place in these saloons and on these streets?”

Harold laughed about his dream, but somebody who knew how Harold was

being brought up, said: “Do you know, I shouldn’t be surprised if of

all the offers he accepted the last? He has talent enough to become a

judge, or a physician, or to make his fortune, but I am afraid he will

grow up to take old Tommy’s place.”

Who is willing to help fill “Old Tommy’s” place?

FROM BIRDLAND.

IF we only knew how to understand bird language, I fancy we might be

made acquainted with a great many pretty secrets which now they keep to

themselves.

[Illustration]

I have been reading lately about a gentleman in New York who has a

collection of birds, and who makes a study of those who flit about

his home in summer. At one time he had a blind sparrow among his

collection, and a little bird named Dick seemed to have adopted it. He

waited at the door of its house for it to come out, calling it with

tender little chirps, and when the blind one finally appeared he would

lead the way to the seeds and water.

When his friend was ready to return home to rest Dick would shove him

gently along the perch until he was opposite his own door, then give

a chirp which seemed to say: “There you are, jump in,” and in would

spring the little sparrow, safe at home. Surely Dick ought to be

elected as at least an honorary member of the “Helping Hand Society.”

What if he hasn’t any hands? He succeeds in being a very efficient

helper.

EFIL SREDNOW.

* * * * *

THERE are a few who make their life “a song,”

A silvery call to urge tired souls along,

A clear bell o’er the cope

Of the steep mountain they have had to climb

With such a patience, they have made sublime

The soul’s forlornest hope.

And when these dear ones hidden pass adown

“The other side,” beyond the mountain’s crown,

The silvery tinkling vein

Of gladness comes aback to touch us so—

New courage in our sinking heart doth grow,

We urge us on again.

—_Selected._

[Illustration: AN OLD QUACK.]

ANGIE’S CROSS.—I.

(_Character Studies._)

EVERYBODY said Angie Conran had a “perfectly lovely voice,” extremely

well cultivated for one so young. Her music teacher was in the habit

of patting her hand in a patronizing way, at the close of almost every

lesson, and saying, in broken French: “Mees Angie, you will make what

you Americans call a mark in the world; remember I tell you.”

Angie was a member of the choir, and a very faithful one; a member

of the “Choral Club,” and practiced early and late to help make it a

success. On the particular evening of which I wish to tell you she was

seated at the piano, giving a last half-hour of practice to the anthem

before she went to rehearsal. Her mother and I sat in the back parlor,

where we could have the full benefit of the music. How the exquisite

melody filled the room, and how distinctly was every word spoken.

“Nearer, my God, to thee,

Nearer to thee,

E’en though it be a cross

That raiseth me;

Still all my song shall be,

Nearer, my God, to thee,

Nearer to thee!”

“That is as good as a recitation,” I said. “How very distinctly Angie

speaks her words.”

“Yes,” said the proud mother; “she prides herself on being heard. She

says she would never have any pleasure in singing Italian songs; that

she would want the words as well as the music to be uplifting. Angie

prefers sacred music, I think; her heart seems to echo the sentiment

of the words. What she is practicing now is to be sung to-morrow

morning, just before the sermon. Our pastor requested it. This is a new

arrangement, with solo and quartette, and Angie takes the solo. If the

other parts are as beautiful as the soprano, I think it will be lovely.

Angie dear, isn’t it time you were going?”

“In a minute, mamma; I want to try this minor strain first.” The

sweet, tender sounds filled the room:

“Though like a wanderer,

Daylight all gone,

Darkness be over me,

My rest a stone.”

“Isn’t that exquisite?” whispered the mother, when the last notes

had died away. Then, in almost the same breath, “Angie dear, it is

beginning to rain; are you prepared for rain?”

“O, dear, how provoking! No, ma’am, I can’t say I am in the least

prepared for it.”

The mother arose and moved toward the music-room. “Why, dear child!”

she said, in surprise, “you ought not to have that dress on to-night.

Even if it were not a rainy evening it is not suitable to wear to a

rehearsal.”

“Why not, pray? ever so many people come to the rehearsals. I want to

be as well dressed as I am on Sunday.”

“My dear, that is a pretty evening dress, and the rain will spot it,

you know. You would have to wear your gossamer, and that would crush

the trimmings. Besides, it doesn’t look at all suitable for this

evening. If you were going out to a social gathering you could not

dress more than that. Do go and change it, dear; it won’t take you

long.”

“I assure you, mamma, it is quite out of the question that I should

change my dress now. It is already late; you just said I ought to be

going. It was quite a work of art to get this dress on, and I haven’t

the least desire to change it; I am not at all afraid of it.”

“But, my dear child, just consider how unsuitable it is. Those laces

at the neck and wrists are real, you know, and as fine as cobwebs;

you certainly could not dress more than that if you were going to a

reception.”

“O, mamma! how absurd. As though anybody would take notice of me, or

care whether my laces were real or not. They fit the dress, any way,

and as long as I don’t object to them I don’t see why anybody else

should.”

“My daughter, your mother objects to them. Moreover, the dress is lower

in the neck than you have been wearing all day, and it is quite a cool

evening; that in itself should be sufficient to make you change it. I

really must insist on your putting on a more proper dress.”

Angie’s pretty fingers came down upon the keys with a crash which

made me start in my chair; then she whirled herself about on the

music-stool. “Really, mamma,” she said, and the voice was so sharp it

hardly seemed possible that it could be the same which had filled the

room with melody, “I should think I was old enough to decide what dress

to wear; I am almost fifteen, and I think I might have the privilege of

choosing my own clothes once in a while.”

“Do not speak in that tone, dear,” said her mother gently. “You shall

have all the privileges I can give you; but we haven’t time to discuss

it now. Run and slip on your gray cashmere, it is in order; I fixed

that place in the sleeve this morning, and brushed it and got it all

ready to put on.”

“Mamma Conran! that old gray cashmere. As if I would go out in it

to-night! Why, the Barnards come to rehearsal, and the Needhams, and

their cousin from New York. The idea of rigging up in that old thing

and standing out there to sing, the most prominent person in the choir.

I just can’t do it! If I can’t wear the dress I have on I’m not going

at all.”

“My daughter, don’t be so foolish; the rehearsal surely doesn’t depend

upon the dress you wear. You are wasting time; I cannot think of

letting you go in that dress. If I had noticed it before I should have

called your attention to it; but I hadn’t the least idea you would

think of putting it on. The gray cashmere is entirely suitable, my

dear. Your mother has not lost all sense of propriety, even though she

is older than fifteen. You must allow yourself to be guided by her. I

would not make a scene if I were you, and spoil the beauty of the music

you have given us. There is ample time just to slip on another dress.

Run along, and I will get out your wraps and have them ready for you

when you come down.”

“Mamma, I’m not going to do it. I told you if I had to wear that old

cashmere dress I shouldn’t go out of the house to-night, and I meant

it. Other girls can wear decent dresses. Carrie Wheeler wears a white

silk to rehearsal often, and here I have got to rig up like an old

woman and sing the leading part. You don’t know anything about it,

mamma; it is so long since you were a girl you don’t realize how girls

dress now. I wouldn’t hurt this dress and you know it. It is just too

mean for anything. You always spoil my pleasure.”

“Angeline!”—the mother’s gentle voice was growing stern at last—“I

cannot allow you to speak to your mother in that way. There are the

Wheeler girls coming up the walk now, to call for you. If you will go

immediately and change your dress I will explain to them that you will

be down in a few minutes.”

A loud, angry cry from Angie, a sound like that from a naughty child

who had lost all control of herself, and between the sobs she managed

to get out: “I won’t go a single step, and you can tell them so; and

you can tell them the reason, if you choose; then they will understand

just what hard times I have.” And with another jarring crash of the

keys the angry girl left the room, slamming the door after her.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THE SCHOOL-GIRL OF 1830.]

[Illustration: THE BLOSSOMVILLE BAND.]

ELSIE’S PLAN.—II.

(_Something for Mamma._)

“I’M going to stop its raveling,” said Elsie serenely. “I’m going

to overcast it, as mother does dress seams, and then line it with

Margaret’s dress skirt; that is real strong, and will make it stand up

beautifully.”

Sure enough, by dint of patient, painstaking effort, a circle of

matting measuring nearly a yard around was cut off, the raw edges

“overcast” with a large needle and strong linen thread, then the dress

skirt was ripped and carefully smoothed. A journey to the kitchen,

where Mrs. Hobbs, the woman who washed and ironed on the same day for

this fallen family, was at work. Elsie hinted that it would save her

time if Irma would see to the ironing, but at that moment Irma was in

the depths of her book, and seemed to be deaf. Back again with her

ironed skirt, the yard of matting was laid on the floor, the cloth

spread over it and neatly tacked at sides and ends; then the long side

seam was sewed, amid statements from Irma that it could not be done,

because whose arms could be expected to reach down such a ridiculous

cylinder as that to sew! It was hard work. Twice Elsie gave up with a

sigh, and once was on the point of going to Margaret for advice, but

the strong desire to do the work herself held her, and she actually did

accomplish it! To stand the cylinder on one end, and draw with white

chalk a “head” for it, and then another a trifle larger for a cover,

was comparatively easy. These two were lined by cutting out a circle

of cloth three inches larger than the matting circle, running a strong

gathering string around the edge, and drawing it up around the matting.

“What is the use of that?” Irma demanded; and upon being informed that

it was for strength and also to give something substantial to sew to,

she said, with a little sniff, “Such a lot of trouble for what will

only be an ugly bungle when you get it done.”

“It will be a bungle that will hold the clothes nicely,” Elsie said

merrily.

She was so sure now of succeeding that she could afford to be merry.

The small patient fingers sewed away, and Irma, watching, grew

interested in spite of herself. “You are not making a true round for

the cover,” she presently exclaimed. “The thing wiggles in and out so,

it is hard to make a true circle; you ought to cut a paper pattern

first, and work at it until you get it true, then cut the matting by

it. Here, I’ll make a pattern for you; and if I were you I would wire

the creature around the top; that would make it stay in place.”

“That is an excellent idea,” Elsie said, “and I know just where there

is a bit of wire that will do; I’ll run and get it.” She smothered a

wee sigh as she went; it was a good plan to cut a pattern, and Irma’s

eye for cutting was better than her own, but she had wanted to do this

work entirely herself. The pattern was troublesome, but at last a fair

circle was made, an edge of matting four inches deep sewed around it,

the whole carefully lined, and the thing was done.

“It really looks very well,” Irma said, “and will do to stand in the

back hall. That wire around the top was a good scheme.”

“Yes,” said Elsie heartily, “it was.”

Mrs. Harding gave no faint praise the next morning when the matting

“hamper,” duly addressed and wrapped, stood close to her seat at table.

She examined the workmanship most minutely, declared that the idea was

original, and the completed work most useful.

“You have no idea how much more precious it is to me than anything

bought with money could possibly be,” she said, kissing again the rosy

cheeks of her youngest daughter, while the others looked on, smiling.

Then truthful Elsie bethought herself. “Irma helped me,” she said

quickly; “she made the circle true, and planned the wire for the top;

it would not have been nearly so nice without her help.”

“I didn’t do the least thing, mother, except to cut a paper pattern for

her, and to propose that some wire be sewed around the top. She had it

nearly done before I said a word. It is all nonsense to say I helped.

All I did was to give a little advice.”

The older daughters laughed merrily, for Irma was very fond of giving

advice; but Mrs. Harding drew Irma to her side and kissed her lovingly,

while she said: “There spoke my truthful girl. She is not going to be

commended for what she has not done.”

“Oh! but, mother, she did truly help,” was Elsie’s eager explanation.

“Of course she did,” declared Margaret; “I have seen the time when I

needed a little good advice more than any other kind of help.”

PANSY.

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY

IV.

I AM glad you do not get tired of my talking so much about myself, and

what I have seen and heard. It shows how you have been brought up, so

far; and if we old dogs live a great deal in the past you may pick up

a little wisdom from us, after all, and be none the worse for what

we say, if you only learn to profit by our experiences and avoid our

mistakes.

You want to hear more? Well, let me see, what shall I tell you about

this time? I am reminded by the talk I overheard about the family going

to the seaside, of the summer when I was two years old. I spent it with

my old master at a place on the New Jersey coast. There did not seem

to be any one with whom I could well stay at home; besides, my young

master’s little girl was very anxious to have me go with them, so they

finally agreed to it, and were not sorry afterwards.

As I remember, I enjoyed the bathing as well as any of the party, or

would have done so had I not been anxious all the time about little

Lucy’s drowning. When those big waves would roll in, it seemed to me

they meant to carry my little friend out of my sight forever.

The summer proved to be one which we could all remember without trying.

For the first few weeks there was nothing very unusual happened, and

some seemed to think it was going to be very dull and monotonous. But

it “is a long road that has no turn,” and a “turn” finally came which

was exciting enough for all of us.

The old settlers near the beach said we were to have a storm which

would afford us a chance for a vacation in our bathing, and give us a

sight of some “big seas,” for we would probably see the Atlantic in one

of his angry moods before many hours.

We felt ready for the change, and lay down at night thinking what a

good time we would have the next day looking at the great waves roll in.

I knew the wind was blowing pretty fresh, but had such a protected

place that I did not know how the storm had arisen until towards

morning I heard the sound of a big gun. It sounded again and again, and

then there was a noise in the house, and a general turn out and rush

for the beach. Of course I followed the crowd, and soon learned what

was the matter. There was a ship in distress, and being driven upon the

shore.

The men were there with the life-saving apparatus, and soon a line was

got out to the ship, and they were running a kind of boat back and

forth upon it, bringing the passengers from the ship to the shore.

Well, the people were all safety landed, but there was a splendid big

dog on that ship, and no one had seemed to think of or to care for him.

O, yes! he knew how to swim, but that was a terribly angry water, and

the distance was great, and they said there was an ugly undertow. That

means that water which has come pouring in upon the shore runs back on

the bottom with such power sometimes as to carry anything with it that

it can get hold of.

Poor Hercules—that was the dog’s name—had seen himself left there

alone, the while the great waves were breaking all over the ship. If

the poor fellow had been a fool he might have suffered less, for he

would have thrown himself into the water at once; but as it was he

knew the danger. Why, we could hear his howl above the noise of the

breakers! and some of the men were almost wild with anxiety to try to

save him. I suppose none of them thought the poor dog would know enough

to get into that little car which had brought the people to the shore;

and if he had he could not have shut himself in. So there he was. His

owner, having several children besides his wife and the nurse to look

after, had entirely forgotten the dog.

Hercules ran up and down the deck until there finally came a wave much

bigger than any which had preceded it, and he was washed overboard. Of

course he did then the best he could, and that was saying a great deal,

for he was a powerful fellow; but those were terrible waves, and what

could anything but a fish do in such a sea? We could see him now and

then upon the crest of a wave, and then he would disappear. Every time

we saw him he seemed to be nearer the shore, and we had a little hope

that some big sea would throw him near enough for us to help him.

[Illustration: HERCULES.]

But the women and children must be cared for, so the people were soon

gone, only a few of the boarders remaining to watch the sea, all

believing the four-footed passenger to have been drowned. Looking

steadily, I thought I caught sight of the fellow once, then again, and

much nearer the shore. Yes, there he was, and a big wave landed him so

near that his body actually rolled over on the sand, as the waves ran

back to their home again. He was too weak to help himself; but I ran

down, and before the next wave came seized him by the back of the neck

and stopped his rolling; but he was too heavy for me to drag alone. My

presence, however, seemed to give him courage, and he got upon his feet

again; then came another wave and covered us both. This did not prove

to be so heavy as most of them, and the men came to our assistance, so

brave Hercules was saved.

Those who had remained to see this part of the scene sent up a rousing

shout, and both of us were petted at a great rate.

I have never seen many happier moments in my long life than those which

followed for a little while. I was so glad to see this stranger safe,

and glad that I had been able to help save him!

He understood it all, too, though he did not understand English very

well. I need not tell you that we were together that summer all we

could be. The man who owned the dog had gone off and left him, and my

master said that Hercules belonged to him more than to any one else,

because I had been the means of saving his life.

But after a while the dog’s master came down there from New York to

look after the wreck, and see if he could not find anything of value

washed ashore which belonged to him. The place proved so pleasant

that he sent for his family to come and spend a few weeks. They had

experienced such a fright from the ocean the day of the wreck that at

first they were very shy of the water, but it was not long before they

were in with the others, enjoying the bathing.

This lasted for some time, and the children became very careless,

venturing out where they ought not. My new friend and his master had

not met since the day of the storm, as they were bathing at another

part of the beach. For some reason my master decided not to go into

the water one day, and we took a stroll along the beach to where those

people were bathing. We had hardly reached the place, and my master

seated himself in a comfortable position to watch the bathers, when

Hercules gave a loud bark, as much as to say “Come,” and bounded into

the breakers. Of course I followed fast after him, on, on, out into

the sea; and he had his master’s little Gretchen by the back of her

bathing-suit and was starting for the shore. It was a hard struggle; it

was all both of us could do to save her.

The poor child was almost gone when we got to her, for no one had

noticed her trouble and danger except Hercules.

Well, there was a scene on the shore again, and for a time one could

hardly tell which the father was most rejoiced over, the saving of his

child, or the sight of the dog who had saved her life.

Yes, we had a good time the rest of the summer, and then we had to

part; for of course the man had his dog back again.

How I have wished I might see the brave fellow once more. I think he

will never be forsaken again.

They went away from the coast a little earlier than we did. The

children all bade me good-by, and Hercules’ master invited me to go

with them. We had a long visit the night before they went, and both

of us felt very sorry to part company; but some way people do not

think that we dogs have much heart, or ever mourn for absent friends.

There, excuse that tear, but it always makes me feel badly to talk of

Hercules, and that delightful summer by the sea.

R.

FLY-LEAF WISDOM FOUND IN AN OLD BOOK.

READ slowly, pause frequently,

Think seriously,

Keep cleanly, return daily,

With the corners of the leaves

Not turned down.

ABOUT CHICAGO.

BY THE PANSIES.

I THINK it is great fun to go to Chicago on a visit, and then come back

and hear about it as it used to be. My grandfather went there in 1833.

He was just a boy, but he remembers lots of queer things. He went to

church in a kind of a barn; the front part was the church, and there

was a curtain in the middle, and behind it the minister lived—slept,

you know, and ate, and everything. Think of that for Chicago! There was

a school kept in a little room on Water Street; the woman who taught

it had twenty scholars. The mail was brought once a week by a man on

horseback, and the postmaster had a row of old boots nailed up on the

wall for mail boxes. Grandfather says the place had begun to grow real

fast when he went there, and as many as two hundred frame houses were

built within a short time. He was there when they voted to make it a

regular town, with officers and laws. One law was that pigs must not

run in the streets, and that people must not cut holes in their outside

walls and poke stove-pipe through them.

ROBERT CHAPPELL.

[Illustration: CHICAGO IN 1820.]

* * * * *

THE word “Chicago” used to be spelled “Chicagoux.” Some people think

it was named for the “Cheagomeinan River,” which is the Indian name

for the Chicago River. The Indians called the Mississippi River

“Chacaqua,” which means “divine river,” and I think they worked the

name Chicago out of all these notions. My uncle says the name of the

French fort in 1688 was Fort Checagou. I like to study about names, and

find what they mean, and how many changes they have had before we got

hold of them. I have never been to Chicago, but I expect to attend the

Columbian Exposition. If you will wait until after that I will tell you

something about the city. It is larger than it used to be.

THOMAS L. WOOD, JR.

* * * * *

MY father knows about a man who bought a lot in Chicago in the year

1832 for one hundred dollars, and sold it again about three years

afterwards for fifteen thousand dollars! I think that tells a boy

better than anything else could, how fast the town grew for a while. Of

course it was a nice choice lot, in what suddenly became the business

part of the town. I know I should like to have been its first owner.

ROBERT TOWNSEND.

* * * * *

I READ about how Chicago came to be called the “Garden City.” It grew

out of hard times. They had what is called a business panic, when

everybody owed everybody else, and could not pay them, and business was

awfully dull, and people thought the town was going to ruin. The most

people had to do was to take care of their grounds. They whitewashed

the fences, cleaned up the yards, planted fruits and vines, and did

everything they could think of to make their places look pretty. I

suppose they hoped somebody would come along and buy them. And that is

the way they got the name of “Garden City.”

ALICE PETERSON.

* * * * *

THE people who lived in Chicago about the year 1843 certainly could not

have had so high an opinion of the city as people do who live there

now. A Mr. Miltimore built a schoolhouse on Madison Street which was

called “Miltimore’s Folly,” because people did not believe that there

would ever be children enough in the town to fill so large a building.

The mayor of the city urged the Council to have it turned into an

insane asylum, or sold, and the money from it used to build and care

for a smaller building, suited to the present and future needs of the

city! I don’t think he could have been a very bright man, because in

less than four years from that time the building was not only crowded

with scholars, but three others had to be opened in different parts of

the city.

ROGER SHERMANN.

* * * * *

CHICAGO is a great place for manufactories. It seems to me as though

almost everything was made there. I know they make brooms, and bricks,

and boilers, and hats and caps, and saws, and scales, and nails, and

paint, and gloves, and carpets, and I am sure I don’t know what else; I

guess they make everything. Once I went to the car-wheel factory where

they make three hundred wheels every day. It was great fun to see the

men work. I like to see things made, and that is what I am going to do

when I am a man.

ROBBIE WILSON.

[We are almost certain Robbie means that when he is

a man he is going to help make things; not merely

stand still and see them made. Good for Robbie! What

would become of us if all the people who are hard

at work making things should grow tired of their

work, and conclude to—write books, for instance,

instead?—EDITORS.]

* * * * *

WE are reading in school about the Chicago fire, which was in 1871. I

think it is perfectly dreadful to read about it. Just think! it all

came from a woman milking after dark, when she ought to have done it

before, I suppose; or maybe her little boy ought to have done it for

her, and did not come home in time—well, the cow kicked her lamp over

and set the hay in the barn on fire, and all that awful ruin came!

I think that woman must have felt dreadfully. As for the cow, I don’t

suppose she cared a bit.

LAURA JONES.

* * * * *

I KNOW a man who was in Chicago at the time of the fire, and he

paid fifteen dollars for a hack to drive him half a mile! He says

a hundred thousand people were made homeless that night. Folks ran

through the streets as if they were crazy. Everybody was trying to

carry something of theirs to a safe place. One woman tried to save her

sewing-machine; she dragged it through the streets a long distance. One

man walked along quietly, carrying an ice-pitcher. He said it was all

he had left in the world.

[Illustration: PICTORIAL CHICAGO.

PALMER HOUSE

STATE ST. LOOKING So.

COURT-HOUSE & CITY HALL

CUSTOM HOUSE & POST-OFFICE

CHICAGO RIVER

NO. SIDE WATER WORKS]

The poor man had been made crazy by his losses, and did not know what

he was about.

THOMAS JONES.

* * * * *

WE lived in Terre Haute, Ind., at the time of the great Chicago fire—at

least my folks did—and my father says that on Monday, the ninth, while

the fire was still burning, a train loaded full of provisions went

out of Terre Haute for them. I think that was nice. There is a boy

in school who says that his folks, who lived in Pittsburg, raised a

hundred thousand dollars before Wednesday night, and sent it to the

Chicago sufferers, and another fellow said that was nothing; that his

uncle in Louisville raised most a hundred thousand within ten hours

after the fire began! He talked as though his uncle did it all, but I

suppose some others helped.

WILLARD J. MOONEY.

* * * * *

I THINK the great big splendid temperance temple is the grandest

building in Chicago, and I helped build it. I gave two dollars and

seventeen cents that I earned myself, for it. In 1893 I am going to see

it, and some other things. I think you ought to have waited until after

the Columbian Exposition for letters about Chicago. Then we could have

told lots of things.

MARY CLARKSON.

* * * * *

I WENT to Chicago with my grown-up sisters when the Y. P. S. C. E. had

its big meeting there. We stopped at the Sherman House. That is one

of the nicest hotels in the city. At seven o’clock Sunday morning we

had a prayer meeting in the billiard-room; more than a hundred young

ladies and gentlemen spoke at that meeting in less than a half-hour,

and the singing was lovely. The big meetings were held in Battery

D. Ever so many thousand people were there all the time. Some of the

speeches were splendid. Chicago is very large. My cousin and I took a

ride on a street car as far as it went, then got out and took another

line and went as far as its route, just to see the city. They have very

tall buildings. I went to the Herald office; that is the handsomest

newspaper building in the world, I guess.

LUCY J. HARTMANN.

* * * * *

ONCE I went to the church where Mr. Moody used to preach. I heard the

Rev. Charles Goss; he is young. I liked him. I went to a splendid

store, but I don’t remember where it was. There was a newsboys’ dinner

given while we were there, and I went to look at the boys eating their

cake and cream. There were hundreds of them, and they ate fast and

seemed to like it.

A great many benevolent things like that are done in Chicago, but I

think they need a temperance temple; I saw lots of drunken men, and one

drunken woman.

ALICE PETERS.

[We have still more, about incidents which happened

in Chicago rather than about the city itself, but we

have already crowded our space. If the Pansies could

be induced to get their letters in earlier they would

stand a better chance of being selected from.—EDITORS.]

THINGS WHICH SOME PEOPLE REGRET.

HOW many of the Pansies have heard the “silver-tongued orator” lecture

on his special theme, Temperance? All of you who have will be sure to

hear him again at the first opportunity. Those of you who have not,

let me urge to keep on the watch for a chance. Meantime, listen to

his hint, which ought to help every boy who reads it to be a better

educated man.

“I regret that the many hours of youth I gave to idle

pleasures were not used in storing my mind with useful

knowledge.”

Yours truly,

GEORGE W. BAIN.

THE LAPPS.

FRANCE is “sunny.” It loves shade-trees, fans and fountains. Laplanders

must need have furs and fire and fat food. Of course you know why.

Those Lapp faces would look equally well as Mr. William’s, if they

were to exchange dresses, putting a Lapp where the Emperor now sits so

loftily. Give the Lapp the very same chance, and maybe he would make

just as wise a ruler of Prussia. People are not so unlike, after all.

When God would raise up the greatest Prophet that ever appeared on

the earth, he found him in the despised Nazareth. Maybe he is nursing

a little child of one of these Lapps who will one day be as great as

young Master Wilhelm of Prussia.

L.

[Illustration: INTERESTING FACES.]

* * * * *

ALTHOUGH the printing presses at Beirut are working

night and day they cannot supply the demand for the

Arabic Bible.

EDMUND SPENSER.

(_English Literature Papers._)

JUST three hundred years ago, and just one hundred years after Columbus

discovered America and planted his flag on San Salvador, there stood in

the middle of a wide, boggy Irish plain a building better than most of

those anywhere near it, called Kilcolman Castle. It was a time when the

English Government was having a hard time to keep the Irish under their

control, and we shall see after a while how the poor people of the

castle suffered on account of this fact. But there lived at Kilcolman,

in those days from 1586 to 1598, one of the most celebrated of the

poets about whom we shall talk in our English Literature Papers. It was

Edmund Spenser, and the old picture of him that has come down to us

shows him to be a kind, gentle looking man, with a long thin nose and

a high forehead, dressed in a black robe, and with a great lace collar

coming up above his ears, which must have been very uncomfortable in

warm weather.

Spenser was born in a part of London called East Smithfield, right

under the shadow of the great Tower; and it is a very disagreeable

fact to one who is trying to write about him, that we know almost

nothing about the little events of his life, and especially of his

boyhood. Three hundred years ago, you know, people did not take notes

of themselves so much as we do nowadays, or as they did even in the

last century; or if they did they have not been kept for us. Just a few

people have told us anything about Edmund Spenser, and the probability

is that even his picture is not any better than many of those which we

see nowadays in the newspapers.

One of the few things which we find about him was that he entered

one of the colleges at Cambridge when he was seventeen, as what was

then called a “sizar.” These sizars were the poorer students, who had

to work for their living in a much more disagreeable way than any

students do now, by waiting on the older and richer ones at their

meals and elsewhere, and were paid by their tuition in the college and

the fragments of food which their employers left for them. I suppose

if the student on whom Edmund Spenser waited could come back to earth

for a little while he would be considerably surprised and perplexed to

find that the only reason why the world would like to know more about

him would be on account of the little sizar whom he used to have at

Cambridge!

When he had left college, in which we find that he was a very good

scholar, Spenser taught for a while in the northern part of England,

and began to write the first poetry which made him at all famous; it

was a long poem in twelve parts, about the twelve months of the year,

and he called it at first “The Poet’s Year,” and afterward the name

by which we know it, “The Shepherd’s Calendar.” It was a very pretty

poem, and described the scenery and the country life of England in a

way that made all good Englishmen like the author. So Spenser fell in

with some good friends, and was introduced to Queen Elizabeth. It is a

curious thing that in those days the best writers did not depend for

their payment upon the number of books which were sold, or what their

publishers paid them; but it was the custom of the king or queen,

whenever an especially good writer appeared, to support him at the

royal court or elsewhere, in return for which the writer served his

sovereign in any way he could, especially by paying him any number

of compliments in his writings. It is as though whenever a promising

young author should appear in New York or Boston, he should find a

Congressman who would introduce him to the President at Washington; and

if he found that he was likely to be a pleasing writer and a convenient

friend to have near him, he should invite him to stay in the city, and

should see that he had all the money he needed.

[Illustration: THE AUTHOR OF THE FAERY QUEENE.]

But we shall be sorry to find that although Queen Elizabeth received

Spenser very pleasantly, and although he paid her any number of pretty

compliments in his after life, she never did very much for him. The

first piece of good fortune which seemed to come to him was when he was

appointed secretary to Lord Grey de Wilton, who was the Governor of

Ireland. After that he was also given Kilcolman Castle, which we spoke

of at the beginning, where he spent so many years. We shall see that

he did a good deal of writing while there, and also acted as the agent

of the English Government, in looking after whatever matters needed

his attention. It was this that probably made the Irishmen dislike

him, rather than any one thing which he did, for when he had been

there twelve years there was a rebellion among them, and they burned

the castle and forced the poet to run away to England. The saddest

thing about it was that his baby was burned at the same time, and they

tell us that the lonely father never recovered from his sorrow over

this event. At any rate he died the next year in London, in a small

lodging-house, and probably with very little money left. It was with

him as with so many, many others, both in those days and now: the

people did not begin to think enough of him until he was dead, and then

they gave him a magnificent funeral, and buried him in Westminster

Abbey, where the graves of all the greatest Englishmen are.

We know nothing but what is good about Edmund Spenser; he seems to have

been a kind man, loving everything true and beautiful, and when we

have a chance to read his writings we shall feel certain that this is

so. Besides the “Shepherd’s Calendar” he wrote a book in prose about

Ireland while he was there, and it was also at Kilcolman Castle that

his great poem, “The Faery Queene,” or as we should say “The Fairy

Queen,” was written. This is a long, long poem, and was planned to

be written in twelve parts, but it is probable that only six of them

were ever finished. At any rate that is all which has come down to us;

and some one has said that in this work “the half is better than the

whole,” meaning that although Spenser wrote six very nice books, he

could scarcely have written six more anywhere nearly so good.

The “Fairy Queen” is what people call an allegory; those of us who have

read “The Pilgrim’s Progress” have probably found out what is meant by

that. In allegories the story seems to be about real people, but all

the time the people stand for good or bad qualities, or something of

that sort—like Christian and Mr. Greatheart, or the Fairy Queen and the

Red Cross Knight. If we look in Webster’s Dictionary under “allegory,”

we shall find that the “Pilgrim’s Progress” and “The Faery Queene” are

spoken of as the most celebrated examples.

I am sorry to say that we shall find the “Faery Queene” rather hard

reading; not because the story is not interesting, but because there

were so many good English words in those days that we have forgotten

all about now. Then the spelling, as we have already guessed from the

name of the poem, seems more like one of our PANSY “Queer Stories” than

anything else. We will try to read just one very pretty verse, at the

beginning of the second Canto, which describes the sunrise. Spenser put

quaint little rhymed headings at the top of his cantos; the one here is—

“The guilefull great Enchaunter parts

The Redcrosse Knight from Truth:

Into whose stead faire Falshood steps,

And workes him woefull ruth.”

In reading the description of the sunrise we shall want to remember

that there was an old story that the sun was a golden wagon driven

up the sky by the god Phœbus, and also that “chanticleer,” or

“chaunticlere,” was the old-fashioned word for rooster. Here is the

verse, and we will bid Spenser good-by with it:

“By this the northerne wagoner had set

His sevenfold teme behind the stedfast starre

That was in ocean waves yet never wet,

But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre

To all that in the wide deepe wandring arre:

And chearefull Chaunticlere with his note shrill

Had warned once that Phœbus’ fiery carre

In hast was climbing up the easterne hill,

Full envious that night so long his roome did fill.”

ELIZABETH ABBOTT.

* * * * *

AN Englishman visiting Sweden and noticing their care for children, who

were gathered up from the streets and highways and placed in school,

inquired if it was not costly. “Yes,” was the answer, “it is costly,

but not dear. We are not rich enough to allow a child to grow up in

ignorance, misery and crime, to become a scourge to society as well as

a disgrace to himself.”

A COMING RULER.

THE little fellow at the left of the man on a big dark horse, is the

one for you to study. He looks like a prince already. He certainly

rides like a soldier.

What is the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, or the kind of

clothes on his back, and many more such things you would like to know.

Perhaps you will know these and many more things about him when you see

him in Boston, New York, San Francisco or at the Chicago World’s Fair.

[Illustration: A STATELY RIDER.]

“Will he be there?”

As likely as not.

“But who is he?”

Ah! now you ask something. He is Master Friedrich Wilhelm, the Crown

Prince of Germany. If he live long enough, he will do something more

than hold the reins of that pretty, proud white pony; he will hold the

reins of Prussia, one of the most powerful nations of Europe.

His grandfather, Emperor William, died a few years ago, at a great age,

greatly beloved by all Germans, and respected by other nations.

That man, sitting in the carriage, dressed like a soldier, with folded

arms and a stern look on his face, is the present Emperor William.

There is the mother, the Empress, with the other children. Their faces

are all turned toward you, so you can get a good look at them. But you

need not expect to see so many princes and princesses at Chicago.

It is the fashion nowadays for kings, rulers and coming rulers to visit

other lands. Which of our presidents went around the world?

L.

* * * * *

IT is said that the native Christians in Japan, with less than

one shilling a day as an average for wages, contributed last year

twenty-five thousand dollars to mission work.

[Illustration: JUST MOVED IN.]

[Illustration]

BABY’S CORNER.

ROSY POSY.

AT last July came, and Rose went to grandpapa’s to stay a week.

She loved to go to the farm, because grandmamma let her work.

Rose could shell peas and sweep the floor with a pretty little broom.

She took up the dust on a bright new dust-pan.

[Illustration]

The first day she went out in the field with grandpapa and raked hay.

Then she took a little watering-pot and wet the flowers.

[Illustration]

By and by Grandmamma put the kettle on to boil.

“Now we will get supper,” she said.

[Illustration]

She spread a white cloth on the table, and Rose put on the cups and

plates and spoons and knives and forks.

[Illustration]

They had apples and cream for supper.

When the clock struck eight Grandmamma lighted a candle and went

upstairs with Rose to put her to bed.

[Illustration]

Grandpapa said, “Good-night, dear Rosy Posy.”

Rose lay still as a mouse, and soon she was fast asleep.

[Illustration]

In the morning when Rose opened her eyes the sun was shining in at the

window. There was a big fly buzzing about trying to warm himself in the

sunlight. Rose liked to watch him.

[Illustration]

And then a funny voice cried out: “Get up, Rosy Posy.”

It was Poll. Grandpapa had taught her to say it.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

[Illustration]