THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xiv. 1-10.)

HEROD seemed to think one must keep a promise, no matter what it is,

so he put good, honest John the Baptist to death! One reason he gave

was because of what his guests would say. But how did he know but they

would say it was right for him to break such a bad promise? But why did

he not think: “What will people all the coming years say to this wicked

deed? What will the angels say? What will the holy mighty God say?”

“But shouldn’t one keep his promises?”

You see Herod should not in this case. Suppose the girl had said: “Give

me your crown,” or “Let me cut your head or tongue off,” how then about

Mr. Herod’s keeping his promise? Guess he would have found a way—not to

keep his oath.

No, it is never right to keep a wrong promise. That would be doing two

wrong things instead of one. Herod had no business to take such an

oath. How could he know what this artful dancer might ask? No one may

make a promise about which one cannot know.

Don’t ever do such a thing.

“If you have done it?” Break it. Break it, and repent over your

rashness. Beware of the state of your mind when you make a pledge. See

that you know what you are about.

Perhaps Herod would never have taken such an awful oath had he not

been intoxicated with wine and this dancing girl. “When wine is in wit

is out.” Many a person has lost his reason and committed some great

crime by being in such society. Wine and dancing never helped any one

heavenward.

Take care!

L.

* * * * *

MANY blessings will occur to him who is in search of

them. Let us dwell lovingly and gratefully upon these;

let us weigh and consider how to make the most of them,

by neglecting no opportunity and shutting out nothing

from our life that can brighten and invigorate it.

ANGIE’S CROSS.—II.

(_Character Studies._)

I WAS sorry for the mother. I heard her gentle, troubled voice in

the hall, trying to make explanations. “Not going!” was the startled

response of the girls; “what is the matter? O, dear me! what shall we

do without her? Celia Lewis might sing the part if she had only known;

but she thought she wouldn’t be needed, and she isn’t feeling very

well, so she didn’t come out. Dear Mrs. Conran, cannot you coax Angie

to come? I am afraid we shall have to give up the anthem altogether if

you don’t. Harold says he cannot sing it without having one rehearsal.”

“I am very sorry,” said gentle Mrs. Conran, “but I am afraid it is

quite out of the question, Angie is so sure she cannot go to-night.

Perhaps you can arrange a rehearsal early in the morning?”

“No, ma’am, we can’t do that, because the Bible classes occupy the

room, you know, until the last minute. O, dear! how I wish we had known

it before. I don’t know what we shall do. Is Angie feeling very ill,

Mrs. Conran?”

“N-o,” said the mother hesitatingly, and I knew that her face flushed

to her temples; “she isn’t sick, but she is very much—out of sorts. I

regret it exceedingly, but you know how Angie is. When she once settles

in her own mind that she can’t do a thing it doesn’t seem possible for

her to get the consent of her will to do it.”

“Well,” they said, turning away, “it seems too bad, when Dr. Brand

asked for that particular anthem, and Angie is the only one who has

sung it; but I suppose we shall manage some way. Good-evening.”

Mrs. Conran closed the door after them and came slowly back to the

parlor, I, meantime, wishing there had been some excuse for me to slip

away, so that she need not have the embarrassment of meeting me. There

was a weary attempt at a smile on her face, which had grown pale

again, and she said apologetically:

“Poor Angie! she is the victim of her own strong will. I sometimes feel

very sorry that she matured in some things so early; she has an idea

that her mother does not know what is suitable for young people to

wear, and is growing a little too fond of dress, I am afraid. She has

been put forward so much in her music that it has injured her. It seems

strange that a sweet voice should lead one into temptation, doesn’t it?”

I murmured something about girls being fond of their own way and about

their having to learn by experience, the more to give the mother a

chance to recover herself than because I felt that I had anything worth

saying. I do not think she heard all I said, but the words “learn by

experience” caught her attention.

“Yes,” she said, after a moment, speaking with a long-drawn sigh, “that

is it. Poor child! she must learn by experience, and experience is a

bitter teacher sometimes. Often, when I hear her sweet voice roll out

on those solemn words:

“‘Nearer, my God, to thee,

. . . . . .

E’en though it be a cross

That leadeth me,’

I wonder what the ‘cross’ will be that will lead Angie to think less

of her own will and more of Christ. She is so strong-willed, so

passionate, and has such a way of giving vent to the thoughts that come

into her mind at the moment, without stopping to realize how they will

sound.

“In some way the child must be taught. It seems to me I have tried

hard to teach her, but I have failed. I do not often speak in this way

of her,” she added, with a sad smile; “I do not like to talk about

her faults before any one, but to-night you heard all the talk, and I

want you to understand that her words do not mean all they seem to.

She would be startled and frightened at herself if she could have them

photographed in some way and spread out before her.

“But every exhibition of this kind only proves to me more clearly that

she is in need of a solemn lesson, and I do not know how it is coming.

“‘Though like a wanderer,

Daylight all gone,

Darkness be over me,

My rest a stone.’

“It makes my heart ache sometimes to hear her sing those words, because

I cannot help wondering if she must have the ‘darkness’ and the ‘stone’

to bring her to the true Light.”

I did not know what to say to the pale mother, so I said nothing; but

as I thought of her unnatural pallor, in sharp contrast with the two

burning spots on her wasted cheeks, and remembered how constantly that

little cough annoyed her, I felt sorry for Angie. I thought I could see

the way in which the “cross” must come.

I could feel how much heavier she was making it for herself; because

some day, perhaps soon, her memory would recall with bitter tears the

harsh, cruel words she had spoken to her mother, absorbed as she was in

the eager desire to have her own way. If she would only consent to be

led “nearer” by a pleasanter path!

MYRA SPAFFORD.

THINGS WHICH SOME PEOPLE REGRET.

NOW we have something unique. Read the “Regrets” over carefully, and

you will discover that we have had nothing like this. You recognize the

writer, I presume, as an author who has interested a great many people.

Let us hope that he will never have occasion to regret the regret which

he has so kindly given us.

“I have regrets for the past, of course; but I have

rarely expressed regrets without afterward regretting

that I had expressed them.”

Yours truly,

GEORGE W. CABLE.

[Illustration: WHO’S AFRAID?]

THE FIRST FLAG.

WOULD the Pansies like to see a picture of the first United States flag

which ever floated from a vessel? Count the stars. Why do you suppose

there are only twelve, when everybody knows that thirteen was the

original number? The explanation is said to be that at the time this

particular flag was made—that is in 1779—the Legislature of Maryland

had not yet formally joined the Union, so her star was omitted.

The flag was made by some Philadelphia ladies, and presented to Captain

Jones. For a time it sailed proudly up and down the Schuylkill, fresh

and beautiful. Then it went to war, and was shot and fell into the

sea. A young lieutenant, Stafford by name, jumped overboard to save

the flag. When it fell the British thought the Yankees had “struck

their colors,” but in a little time it waved aloft again, trimmed with

bullet holes. You must read in our United States history about the

great victory which Captain Jones and his brave vessel, the _Bonhomme

Richard_, gained at that time.

When the war was over the flag was sent to Lieutenant Stafford as

a memento of his faithfulness and bravery. It has been kept in the

Stafford family ever since, although they have been urged many times to

sell it, and as many as three thousand dollars have been offered for it.

When the lieutenant’s daughter Sarah died the old flag was draped

about her coffin. When President Harrison was inaugurated it came

to Washington, and was carried by one of the Stafford family in the

procession.

We show you, also, the picture of Mrs. James Bayard Stafford, the wife

of the lieutenant. She was over eighty years old when this picture was

taken, but the face shows a sweet brave woman, strong for the right

and the true, which was the character she bore. I do not know whether

she is still living, but a few years ago she was the light of the home

in Cottage City, Mass., and guarded the old historic flag as a sacred

relic.

PANSY.

* * * * *

AN Indian arrow is quite a work of art. The head, or point, is made

from a barrel hoop about three inches long, tapered to a point,

and sharpened on both sides. In a bunch of arrows these points are

absolutely uniform. The shaft is made of ash about twenty-three inches

long. The feathers are glued on and lashed at each end with sinew. The

head or point is inserted in the wood, and also lashed with sinew.

And running along the arrow are three wave-like grooves from the head

to the feathers. This, the Indians explain, is to make the arrow go

straight. The bow is also made of ash, and with a string of twisted

sinew taken from along the back of a beef. So that with an ordinary

butcher knife and a file, if it is to be had, an Indian can make his

own arms.

[Illustration: PAUL JONES’S “STARRY FLAG.”]

The penetrating force of an arrow is wonderful. An Indian can shoot an

arrow right through a buffalo. I have heard it stated that bows and

arrows would be much more effective weapons in the hands of Indians

than such guns as they surrendered to General Miles.—_Selected._

[Illustration: AN UNWELCOME BILL.]

ABOUT BUFFALO.

BY THE PANSIES.

I HAVE been waiting for the time to come to write about Buffalo,

because I knew something queer to write. Three of the nice streets

there are named Niagara St., Erie St., and Church St.; but their names

used to be Schimmelpennick Avenue, Vollenhoven Avenue and Stadnitski

Avenue! Isn’t it a good thing they were changed?

MARGARET L. JOHNSON.

* * * * *

THE Indian name for Buffalo is Teosahway. I think it is much prettier

than Buffalo. Some people say the city was named for an old Indian

chief who lived in a hut in the center of where the main business part

is now located; the Indian’s name was Buffaloe. But others think it was

named after the “creek,” where the buffaloes used to come in droves.

HENRY RICE.

* * * * *

THE city of Buffalo used to be spelled with an _e_, and the citizens

had a great time getting rid of that final _e_. Father says that years

after it had been dropped the city of Binghamton, N. Y., which used to

be spelled “Binghampton,” set to work to get rid of that unnecessary

_p_. Buffalo, forgetting the trouble it had had, was the last to

remember the change; long after others were pretty well educated, the

Buffalo postmaster would send the Binghamton mail in a package marked

“Bingham_p_ton.” At last the Binghamton postmaster made up a package

for Buffalo and addressed it in very large letters, “Buffalop,” then

wrote underneath: “If you are so fond of the letter _p_ take it.”

Father says he believes this cured them.

SARAH H. ATCHISON.

* * * * *

MY grandmother used to live in Buffalo when the water supply was very

different from what it is now. There used to be an old man whom they

called “Water John.” He had a cart and an old horse, and he used to

fill a hogshead with water at the lake, and go through the streets

peddling it for a shilling a barrel. A shilling was twelve and a half

cents. Grandmother says they always used to have to give Water John

thirteen cents; and I don’t see why they did not call it thirteen cents

a barrel, instead of a price which nobody could exactly pay.

LAURA HOLMAN.

* * * * *

I HAD a great-uncle who used to live in Buffalo when there were only

about forty houses there, all built of logs; and I have an uncle living

in Buffalo now who went there in 1825, when there were about two

thousand inhabitants, and has seen it grow to its present size—about

two hundred and fifty thousand; some say more than that. It must be a

great thing to be able to look back on such changes.

JAMES CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

MY grandmother went to Buffalo when she was a little girl and took a

ride on the “Black Rock Railroad”; that was what they called it, but

it was just a street car. Grandmother thinks it was the first horse

railroad used in this country. There was a car for pleasant weather

and one for storms. The pleasant weather one was like a great box,

with an outside seat for the driver. The seats were just boards with

straight backs. There was no cover, and the sun could pelt down on you

as much as it pleased. For bad weather they had one with a top, and

canvas curtains that buttoned down. The car was drawn by one horse, and

Grandmother says they did not use any time table, but came along just

whenever it happened. The fare was a shilling.

LUCY STEVENSON.

* * * * *

IT is great fun to read about Buffalo as it used to be. I was there

last summer and stopped at an elegant hotel. I forget its name, but

I know they said it was the handsomest in the city, and it was just

splendid, I tell you! A little while after I came home I read about

“The Farmers’ Hotel,” which was the grand hotel of Buffalo in 1832.

I saw a picture of it; the queerest looking little old building you

ever saw, with a bell on the top like a great cow bell; it was rung by

a rope, and that is the way people used to be called to their meals.

The book I was reading said it was a very useful bell, for it not only

told when breakfast or dinner was ready at the Farmers’ Hotel, but was

useful as a time-keeper in every house in the neighborhood; for there

were very few people indeed in those days who carried watches, and

clocks were very rare and costly.

REUBEN S. BENTON.

* * * * *

I HAVE a letter which was written to my grandmother in 1836, by a lady

who lived in Buffalo. Grandmother lived in New York, and the amount of

postage which it took to carry the letter from Buffalo to New York was

two shillings. This was marked in red ink on the outside of the letter;

not on an envelope, for none were used, but one side of the paper was

left blank, and the letter was folded in a curious way, and marked

“Paid 2 s.” Grandmother said her sister in Albany used to get letters

from the same lady, and hers were marked: “Paid 18¾.” At that time it

cost less to write from Buffalo to Albany than it did from Buffalo to

New York; and I must say that seems reasonable. Why should letters be

two cents now, whether they travel ten miles or a thousand? But I am

glad they are not twenty-five cents.

CARRIE FOSTER.

* * * * *

BUFFALO is a great city. You can start from it and go anywhere you want

to, at most any hour of the day or night. There are as many as thirteen

different railroad lines to choose from, to say nothing of steamboats

and all that sort of thing. But it is the queerest laid out city in

this country. A man Ellicott planned it almost a century ago, and meant

to build a palace for himself right in the center, but he never did.

JOHN JONES.

* * * * *

MOTHER says I ought to be able to write you a letter about Buffalo,

because I’ve been there lots of times. But I can’t. What is there to

write about a city, I should like to know? They are all alike; great

long streets with big houses on both sides, or big stores or something,

and churches every little way, and crowds of people in the streets

getting in a fellow’s way all the time, and carts running over you,

and carriages that you want to take a ride in and can’t; and an awful

noise and smoke and hurly-burly. I’d rather spend one afternoon in

the country in an apple orchard or a strawberry field, or by a trout

stream, than to be a whole week in any city I ever saw. Buffalo has

some splendid-looking houses and parks, and there is a lunatic asylum

that I was interested in, because the people acted so queer. I don’t

like Buffalo, however, nor any other big place.

TOM HURST.

* * * * *

I THINK they must make flour enough in Buffalo to supply the world

with bread. My father says that twelve years ago there were eleven

great flouring mills there, and he doesn’t know how many more have been

started since. At that time they made every year about two hundred and

fifty thousand barrels of flour; but dear me! it would take more flour

than that to feed the world, wouldn’t it? What a lot of things we do

have to eat!

JIMMIE TUCKER.

* * * * *

I SHOULD think Buffalo would be called the “City of Churches.” There

must be hundreds of churches there. I went with my uncle and brother to

look at different ones, and it took us two days just to see those which

were on three streets of the city. Some of them are lovely, and some

were great, dark-looking buildings, like jails.

LUCY STONE.

* * * * *

[On the whole we consider these Buffalo letters

decidedly unique. A little ahead of anything in that

line which the Pansies have yet given us. Certainly

some rather original ideas in regard to cities in

general have been advanced, and we have been given a

better chance than usual to mark the progress which

time has made. We are somewhat surprised that no one

has described a ride to or from the city on one of the

canal packets. That is a vivid memory of our childhood

which we would like to tell you about were there time.

Our material is as usual not exhausted, but our space

is. I presume Buffalo will fare like the cities which

have preceded it—that is, some of the best letters will

come too late to use. If our Pansies could only learn

to start three months ahead!—EDITORS.]

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

V.

THIS is a beautiful moonlight evening, but you would rather listen to

me than bark at the moon?

All right; I don’t mind talking when I have good listeners, but to try

to tell a story and be constantly reminded that those to whom you talk

are thinking of something else, is not pleasant.

What shall I talk about to-night?

“Something concerning our relatives away back?”

So you want to know what kind of blood there is in our veins? That is

an interesting theme for some, and why not for us?

It is not three days since I heard our master boast that he had

descended from the Pilgrim Fathers. We do not all claim to be related,

but we are of one family now, and so interested in each other.

I like to think that some of my relatives have done good and

been faithful; so I think I will tell you what one of my

great-great-great-uncles did a long time ago.

His name was Sport, and at the time to which I refer he lived with a

man by the name of Stillman. He was thought much of for hunting, and

because of his skill in this direction he had a chance to earn the

reputation which so many envied; that is, to earn it in just the way he

did.

I want my young friends to remember that the way is always open for

any dog to get a good name if he will only try. Why, even a little

insignificant poodle can be of use. There is our neighbor, Mr. Fellows;

he had two or three dog sentinels all about his place, and the other

night a man got clear to his front door, and none of these big fellows

said or knew any thing of it; but the moment the man reached the door

little Tip, the poodle, notified the whole house.

Well, this dog Sport was taken by his master, one fall, away off into

the wood. They went miles and miles beyond where anybody pretended

to live, and there in a little hut they staid for days and days, the

master hunting and fishing and resting.

This was all well enough so long as nothing unusual occurred, though

it was pretty lonesome for the four-footed one. The master seemed to

take it for granted that his dog knew nothing but how to follow game,

so said little to him, sometimes hardly noticing him from morning till

night.

As I said, matters moved on very well for a time, but there came a

change. Mr. Stillman awoke one night feeling very ill, and by morning

was sick enough.

He took such medicine as he had, but grew worse and worse. The poor man

could not sit up to write, and if he could have written, who would be

mail carrier for him?

He lay there and thought, and tried to plan. “If I only had a St.

Bernard dog I might send him for help; but Sport is nothing but a

hunting dog, and he cannot understand anything but how to follow a

track.”

In the meantime Sport was feeling badly, and trying to think what he

might do, for his master was getting worse all the time. Walking around

the room he saw an envelope with something in it, and while his master

was seemingly asleep, he took the package in his mouth and started upon

the run in the direction in which they came into the woods.

He made pretty fast time for eight or ten miles; then he came to a

trail, and knew a party had passed there not long before. So, putting

his nose to the ground, he soon learned which way they had gone, and

followed them at good speed.

Fortunately he came upon them where they had encamped for the night. It

proved to be quite a large party with an experienced guide.

Sport dashed in among them and laid down his package and barked, to

call their attention to it. The men examined the writing, and while it

did not tell them how it was sent—it not having been sent—it seemed to

be an attempt of some one to leave on record the condition he was in,

his name and address, so that if he should die, any one finding this

might be able to inform his friends.

No one of those who first composed the party knew what to think of the

paper, for there was little of it which could be read, more than the

name; but the guide was not long in interpreting Sport’s meaning, and

told them that the faithful dog had without doubt come from some one in

distress, and that they must try to find him.

“If I don’t miss my guess by a shot or two this four-legged

mail-carrier will be dreadful glad to pilot us back the way he came;

won’t you, old fellow?”

Sport showed his readiness by jumping up and starting; but

Simpkins—that was the guide’s name—called him back, patted him on the

head, and gave him something to eat, promising to go with him pretty

soon.

[Illustration: SPORT BEFRIENDS HIS MASTER.]

The guide told the party to remain there, all but one or two, till

he should return. One of their number was a doctor, who was taking

his vacation, and he volunteered to be one of the company to make the

search for the supposed sufferer. Although all had believed themselves

to be tired, yet they were soon off, Sport taking the lead, and so

eager that he let his followers only just keep in sight. It was dark

some time before the little hut was reached.

When the men told the story afterward, they said it was a great wonder

they kept on following a dog in that way, though the guide never

hesitated; and the men probably preferred following him to being left

alone.

As they neared the place on the main trail, Sport would run ahead and

bark, and then come back to the guide and whine.

Well, they got to the hut at last, and it appeared as though the sick

man had not moved while his faithful friend was gone; and what is more,

the doctor said he never would have moved if help had not come.

The men rubbed him and gave him medicine, and towards morning he opened

his eyes. It took him a little while to make out what it all meant, but

when Sport heard his voice he sprang to his side, and seemed wild with

delight.

There is a great deal more to this story which I will not take time to

tell. The doctor tried hard to buy Sport after that, but his master

said he would sooner let him have one of his hands; he kept him until

he died of old age.

Before he died Mr. Stillman had his picture painted by a fine artist.

Master and dog have been dead for years, but I have seen both their

pictures, made by the same man. Saw them often when I was little. Our

folks used to tell the story to people who visited them, and then

point to me and say: “This little fellow is related to that noble dog,

and we hope he will be like him.” Then I would be so proud of the

relationship, and resolve to be just as good if I could not be as smart.

Now it is time to look around and see that everything is all right. If

they have not forgotten to shut the hen-house door, we can take our

places as usual till morning.

No, I never had such a chance as old Uncle Sport had for making a name,

but I have done what I could, and my master is not slow to show that he

loves me.

R.

JACK’S DECISION.

JACK was in a very doleful frame of mind. It was Sabbath morning, and

as bright a day as even July could furnish to that part of the world.

The birds in the trees, the leaves as they rustled, and the sweet

odors in the air, all seemed to whisper that it was a perfect Sunday.

Jack wanted to go to church. Not that he was devoted to church-going,

either. The sermon often seemed long to him, and he sometimes grew very

tired of counting the bits of stained glass of which the large round

window was made; but on this particular morning, as he sat curled up

in the large armchair with a great pillow at his back, he made himself

believe that there was nothing in life he wanted so much as to go to

church that day. It was not simply that the new carriage was to be used

for the first time, and that Prince and Tony were harnessed together

before it, and would look splendid, but in addition to these excellent

reasons Jack had not been out of the house for nearly a week, and had

not had a ride since last Sabbath, and it seemed to him he should fly

if he had to stay in much longer. But then, Jack had the mumps, so it

couldn’t be helped.

Uncle Jack was to stay with him; or rather he was to stay with Uncle

Jack, which was pleasant, for although this favorite uncle always staid

at home on Sundays, and could not take a single step without somebody

on either side to help, yet his nephew considered him the “jolliest

kind of a companion.” This may have been partly owing to the fact

that Jack the uncle was quite young to have that title—only a boy of

twenty—and he was as sunshiny, in fact more so than many boys of ten

contrive to be.

On this particular day he exerted himself to his utmost to entertain

his namesake, and succeeded so well that when the clock struck twelve

the boy said, in round-eyed wonder: “Why, who would have thought it was

so late? They will be home in a little while, won’t they?”

“That’s a fact,” said Uncle Jack. “I think there will be just time for

us to have our Bible story together, and a little talk about it before

they come. You know that was to finish the morning’s programme, Jack.”

“All right,” said Jack, settling back on his pillow, “go ahead; I like

to hear you read the Bible better than anybody else, except mother, of

course.”

This was no wonder, for Uncle Jack had a way of reading between the

lines, something after this fashion: “‘And a certain man, lame from his

mother’s womb, was carried.’ Just think of that, my boy! Forty years

old, and never had walked a step! That is worse than being lame for two

years, isn’t it?”

“How do you know he was forty years old? It doesn’t say so.”

“It does in another place; I hunted it up once, to see how long he had

been a burden on his friends. And just listen to this as the best they

could do for him: ‘Whom they laid daily at the gate of the temple,

which is called Beautiful, to ask alms of them that entered into the

temple.’”

“They were a mean lot,” said Jack; “they might have kept him at home

and taken care of him.”

“Ah, my boy! that is much the way it is to-day in countries where Jesus

Christ does not reign; still, we must not be too hard on these friends

of his; they may have been miserably poor, and to carry the man to

the gate and leave him there may have been the utmost that was in their

power to give.”

[Illustration: DOLEFUL JACK.—(_See “Jack’s Decision.”_)]

“Then they ought to have taken him to the hospital.”

“There was none, Jackie. No provision whatever was made in that country

for the suffering poor; such things belong to Christianity. Well, ‘Who,

seeing Peter and John about to go into the temple, asked an alms.’ He

liked the appearance of those ministers, I fancy. I suppose he said,

‘They look kind, and I shouldn’t wonder if they would give me quite a

lift.’”

“I should say they did,” chuckled Jack, who knew the outcome of the

story. Reading in this way you can see how long it might take them to

get through with even a short story; but Jack thought it a “tip-top”

way to read.

He sat lost in thought for some minutes after the lame man had gone

leaping into the temple, then said, half-doubtfully, as though not sure

whether it were just the proper thing to say: “Uncle Jack, wouldn’t it

be a splendid thing if Peter were alive now, and should come home from

church with the folks, and cure you so you could run all around?”

Uncle Jack turned bright smiling eyes on his nephew. “You forget,” he

said briskly; “it wasn’t Peter who did it; he was only the instrument.

You might as well call the cup in which you take your beef tea the

food, as to call Peter the physician in this case.”

“Well, then,” said Jack, looking resolute, “I don’t understand why he

doesn’t cure folks now—Jesus, I mean. People say he is here all the

time, though we can’t see him, and that he is just the same as ever he

was; why don’t he cure you, Uncle Jack, just as he cured the man at the

temple gate?”

“He has,” said Uncle Jack promptly; “He has performed a much greater

cure for me than He did for the man at the gate.”

And then Jack looked astounded. As though he did not know that his

Uncle Jack had not taken a step in two years, and even the great

surgeon from the city could not be sure if he ever would.

The gay young uncle laughed over his astonishment, then said: “I see I

shall have to tell you something, Jackie. Before I was hurt I was in a

bad way—lame not only in my feet, but in my will power, which is much

worse. I was making a headlong rush toward ruin, and when the accident

happened which laid me flat on my back, I knew before many weeks that

it was Jesus Christ trying to cure me.”

Little Jack stared. “Couldn’t He have done it without that?” he asked.

“No,” said his uncle confidently; “I don’t believe He could. I wouldn’t

let Him, you see. He had called me hundreds of times, and urged me to

let Him do the best things for me, but I wouldn’t. My will power, as I

told you, was lame, sick—deathly sick; I couldn’t seem to want to be

cured, nor to do any of my part of the work. There is always our part

to do in a cure, you know.” Jack nodded, and remembered the bitter

medicine which he had rebelled against swallowing. “Well, I wouldn’t do

my part; refused out and out, and kept on refusing until I was placed

on my back. I suppose the Lord Jesus knew that that only would bring me

to my senses, and give him a chance to cure my heart sickness, so he

let it come to me. Understand?”

Jack was not disposed to answer. He was thinking. “Why doesn’t He cure

your back now?” he asked, speaking part of his thought.

His uncle’s voice was a trifle lower, and hinted at strong feeling

which was being controlled. “I believe he will, Jackie, just as soon as

it is best for me to be cured. I think I am going to get quite well;

indeed, I may say I am almost sure of it, though the surgeon is not. I

believe the Lord Jesus has decided to let me be well and strong again,

so I can be a witness for him, as the lame man was, you remember. Why,

we didn’t finish the story, did we? And there is no time now. Here

come the people from church. You look that up, Jackie, in your Bible

sometime, and see what an unanswerable argument the man was.”

Jack the younger thought over the entire story later, while he was

eating his beef tea. Thought and thought, and by a way which was clear

to himself, came at last to this point: “I wonder if He let me have the

mumps so as to stop me from doing different from what mother says? If

I hadn’t thought it wouldn’t do any harm to run into Judge Howell’s a

few minutes, even after she had told me not to stop anywhere, why, I

suppose I shouldn’t have had these horrid old mumps. Maybe He knows it

was the only way to cure me. Well, I tell you what it is; I believe

I’ll be cured. I guess, after this, I’ll do just exactly as I’m told,

and be a ‘witness’ myself, so that folks will begin to say of me: ‘Jack

Campbell won’t do it; his folks told him not to, and you can’t move

Jack after that any more than you could a stone wall.’ I declare, that

will be tip-top fun. I’ll do it!”

PANSY.

[Illustration: JACK THOUGHT AND THOUGHT.]

[Illustration: MY PRETTY DEER.]

[Illustration: ONLY ONE LEFT.]

CLAUDE’S STORY.

CLAUDE TALMAN was ten years old. He lived in a marble house. Its floors

had costly carpets, and all the furniture was elegant. His clothes were

fine and rich; his food came from almost all parts of the world. How

soft was his bed. Tenderly was he watched over. He seemed to have more

than heart could wish—not his heart, however.

[Illustration: CARACTACA BEGS TO BE SENT HOME.]

One day as he looked from his elegant window he saw a poor boy passing

drawn in a little wagon by a goat; then he set up a loud cry that he

must have that very wagon and goat. It did no good for his mother to

promise him just as good an one if it could be found in the Central

Market, where almost everything could be bought. No, he must have

that. That boy must sell it to him or it must be taken from him. What

right had that poor boy to something that he (Claude) didn’t have?

His mother reasoned with him, but all to no purpose; he stormed about,

stamping his foot, saying he would have it if he had to kill the boy to

get it. When he got over his rage somewhat his mother said: “You remind

me of another Claude, only his real name was Claudius.”

Then Master Claude quieted down and listened, for he was fond of

stories, and now he knew his mother had one for him. So she went on

thus: “Two thousand years ago there lived a large family in the country

that is now called England. Their name was Briton. They were not the

handsomest or wisest folks in the world, nor were they always gentle

among themselves. Their houses were mere huts and their dress was the

skins of wild animals. They were a brave people, but generally minded

their own business. The great father of this family—I should say one of

the big brothers—was Caractacus. He was strong and fearless, and very

wise and good in his way. When they were in trouble they went to him,

and somehow he always knew just what to do. So they thought of him just

as American people think of Washington.

“Miles and miles away across the great waters lived another family in

an elegant marble palace”—

“Now you are going to tell a story about me,” interrupted Claude.

—“in an elegant marble palace. Everything without as well as within

this beautiful mansion was costly and wonderful. There was nothing just

like it on all the face of the earth.

“But they were unhappy. They wanted something more. One day while they

were sitting and feasting, dressed in purple and fine linen, and bands

of music were playing, word came from one of their travelers about a

fair island far away, and about this Briton family who owned it, and

were living there so contentedly.

“Then uprose the father of the Roman family—for that was their name—and

the music ceased, the feasting was over, and the men put off their

showy dress and put on their soldier clothes, and the father or big

brother, whose name was Claudius”—

“Now, mother, more about me?”

“His name was Claudius, and he mounted his war horse and blew a loud

blast that made the marble halls ring again, and with waving banners

and peals of music away marched this Roman family to conquer the Briton

family and make them give up their”—

“Little wagon and goat?”

—“give up their beautiful farm. On they went on foot and on horse and

by boats till they landed one dark night and stole up to the back yard

of the Britons.

“Then of a sudden the dogs set up an awful barking. The Britons—women

as well as men and children—sprang up in a jiffy, and a fierce fight

followed. Sometimes the Romans got the better, sometimes the Britons;

but after a long, long time, when many were killed on both sides, six

of Claudius’ biggest brothers saw Caractacus fall, and the blood was

streaming from his side by an arrow wound, and they leaped upon him

and bound his hands behind him, and led him as best they could to

Claudius. But Caractaca, his poor wife, followed, begging the soldiers

not to harm her suffering husband.

“When the brave Britons saw their leader fall, and knew he was now a

prisoner, their hearts failed them, and they fled, many of them, far

away into the forests.

“But Caractacus and his sad wife were taken from their home and carried

far away to the Roman palace as prisoners.

“Now when they looked around this grand home and saw all its richness

and glory they drew a deep sigh, Caractaca begging Claudius to send

them back to their home, the brave Caractacus only saying he did not

see why such a rich family cared for the plain hut he lived in.”

Master Claude never again insisted upon having the little wagon and

goat. Nay, he helped him to better ones.

L.

THE LONGEST DAY.

IT is quite important, when speaking of the longest day in the year,

to say what part of the world we are talking about, as will be seen

by reading the following list, which tells the length of the longest

day in several different places. How unfortunate are the children in

Tornea, Finland, where Christmas Day is less than three hours in length!

At Stockholm, Sweden, it is eighteen and one half hours in length. At

Spitzbergen the longest day is three and one half months. At London,

England, and Bremen, Prussia, the longest day has sixteen and one half

hours. At Hamburg in Germany, and Dantzig in Prussia, the longest day

has seventeen hours. At Wardbury, Norway, the longest day lasts from

May 21 to July 22, without interruption. At St. Petersburg, Russia, and

Tobolsk, Siberia, the longest day is nineteen hours, and the shortest

five hours. At Tornea, Finland, June 21 brings a day nearly twenty-two

hours long, and Christmas one less than three hours in length. At New

York the longest day is about fifteen hours, and at Montreal, Canada,

it is sixteen.—_Selected._

THREE YOUNG MISSIONARIES.

“WHO are they?”

The one with his hat off and flag in hand—his name is Judson. The neat

little Miss, her fingers tucked in that warm muff, and her satisfied

face saying: “See what a nice big snowball we’ve made,” she is Miss

Emily Chubbuck, to be sure. The third—wouldn’t you give a penny to

see his face?—he looks like a young Scotch Highlander in plaids. He

it is who fixed up the funny mouth, nose and eyes, and is now putting

something sweeter than a nasty cigarette into his snow mouth; well,

this one is Master Carey. Now they look only like children having fun.

Not a hundred years after they became missionaries. Heard you ever of

Carey? Of Adoniram Judson? Of his wife, Emily Chubbuck?

L.

FIRST TIME AT CHURCH.

A GRAVE sweet wonder in thy baby face,

And look of mingled dignity and grace,

Such as a painter hand might love to trace.

A pair of trusting innocent blue eyes,

That higher than the stained-glass window rise,

Into the fair and cloudless summer skies.

The people round her sing, “Above the sky

There’s rest for little children when they die.”

To her, thus gazing up, that rest seems nigh.

The organ peals; she must not look around,

Although with wonderment her pulses bound—

The place whereon she stands is holy ground.

The sermon over, and the blessing said,

She bows, as “mother” does, her golden head,

And thinks of little sister who is dead.

She knows that now she dwells above the sky,

Where holy children enter when they die,

And prays God take her there too, by and by.

Pet, may He keep you in the faith alway,

And bring you to that home for which you pray,

Where all shall have their child hearts back one day!

—_Selected._

AN IDEA THAT GREW.

IT was Nancy and the book together which put the idea into Clara’s

mind. They were slipping along in the shadows of the quiet river, she

and Wallace. It was the Fourth of July, and most of the boys and girls

of the region were busy with what firecrackers they could get—those of

them who had not taken a five-mile tramp to the village to attend the

celebration.

But Clara was too old to care for firecrackers, and Wallace had had

enough of them before he came; he was only here for a few days,

and preferred a visit with his sister to all the Fourth of July

celebrations that could be planned. She was reading aloud to him bits

from a new book which he had brought her as a birthday present; for

the Fourth of July was not only the birthday of freedom, it was also

Clara’s birthday.

“O, Wallace!” she said, “this is a lovely book.” She had said the same

thing at least a dozen times that day. “Just see what queer ideas

she had,” Clara continued, meaning the girl in the book; “she was

very good—better than anybody I ever knew. I should think it would be

lovely to do half the nice things she did. One plan was to pick out a

friend—another girl—and try to help her in every way she could. Pray

for her, you know, and talk with her, and influence her, until at last

the girl would be converted; then they two would choose two others to

help in the same way, and they were going to see how large a circle

they could make of that kind. She thought perhaps she could reach all

around the world; she was only a young girl, and she thought if she

lived to be a woman perhaps she could. Wallace, what are you laughing

at?”

“At the modesty of the young woman and her ideas,” said Wallace,

laughing afresh. “She hasn’t gotten around the world yet, I take it;

I’ve never seen anything of her.”

“I am sure the idea is beautiful,” said Clara, half-inclined to be

vexed with Wallace for making sport of it. “And of course one could do

a great deal of good in that way. I would just like to try it.”

“Why don’t you?” Wallace asked, his eyes twinkling; “I’m sure you

have a good field for work of the sort here among the natives. Look

at that specimen on the bank at this moment. Her eyes are as large as

sunflowers, and she looks as though she might take any amount of doing

good to and not be hurt by it.”

Clara turned around and stared back at Nancy on the shore.

A little girl with a sallow, wistful face, and great mournful-looking

eyes. She had on a worn and faded dress, an apron which was much too

long for her, but seemed to have been put on to cover the deficiencies

of the dress. She wore neither shoes nor stockings, and was hanging

tightly by the two strings to her pink gingham sunbonnet, and gazing at

the people in the boat with the most unutterable longing in her eyes

that Clara had ever seen.

“Poor thing!” said Clara; “she envies us our row. I wonder if she never

has a chance to take a row on the river? Only see how hungry her eyes

look.”

“It is more probable that she envies you your hat and dress,” said

Wallace; “she keeps her eyes on them. She has an eye to the beautiful,

that is what is the matter with her. I am not sure but it is your hair

she wants most, after all, though hers is arranged elaborately. She

would make an excellent beginning for your scheme, Clara.”

“I am not sure but she would.” Wallace was teasing, but his sister was

grave and in earnest. “Row toward the shore, Wallace, and let me speak

to her; I never saw a child who had such a wistful look.

“Good afternoon, little girl,” she said pleasantly, as Wallace obeyed

directions and the boat drew near, “are you having a pleasant Fourth of

July?”

“No,” said the child, without hesitation or ceremony.

“Not? I am very sorry. What has been the trouble?”

“Nothing,” said the child, as promptly as before. Then, seeming to

consider something more necessary, added: “Nothing more than always

is. We don’t never have no pleasant times to our house.”

“You see,” said Wallace, in low tones, nodding significantly to his

sister, “she is in perishing need of being chosen.”

“So she is. Wallace, you are simply making fun, but I am in earnest. I

wonder what I could do for the poor little thing? I have been here for

two months, and haven’t done a thing for anybody. I have tried to get

acquainted with a few of the girls of my age, but they are shy of me;

this child does not seem to be shy.”

“Not in the least,” said Wallace. “Very well, how shall we commence?

Shall I invite her to sail with us this afternoon as a sort of entering

wedge?”

“Do you mean it?” Clara asked, well pleased, and she turned again to

Nancy. “Do you ever go rowing on the river?”

“No.”

“Why not? Would not you like to?”

“Never had no chance. We ain’t got no boat, and nobody won’t lend us

poor folks any; and we don’t never go nowheres, me and Billy.”

“Poor little girl! Who is Billy? your little brother? Would you like to

take a ride with us this afternoon? If you would you may come down to

the landing and get in the boat.”

The child stared for a moment as though she felt her ears were not to

be trusted, then turned and made a dash for the landing below. Wallace

laughed and steered the boat in the same direction. A few moments more

and they were off, with the barefooted Nancy seated comfortably beside

Clara.

It is only the very beginning of this story that I have space for. I

am wondering if you Pansies cannot sit down thoughtfully and think it

out for yourselves, perhaps write it out. The story is true, and it

happened years ago. Such a girl as Clara, who was spending a summer in

a backwoods region, for reasons which I need not stop here to explain,

and such a girl as Nancy met first in the way I have described; and in

the course of that afternoon ride Clara heard enough about the home

where they “never had no pleasant times,” to make her heart ache. The

beautiful idea in the book kept coming to her, or rather staid with her

and kept asking if she could not do something of the kind with this

Nancy. To be sure Nancy was not like the girl chosen in the book; she

had been of about the same age and station as her friend. “But then,”

said Clara to herself, “she did not need help half so much as this one

does; and I think with this kind of people I might help one younger

than myself better than one of my own age. At least I can pray for her.”

[Illustration: ON THE QUIET RIVER.]

Now the story for you to work out is begun, and I will give you just

a few more facts, and then jump to the end of it—that is so far as I

know it—leaving you to fill up the blank space. It was a stony, hilly,

desolate country side, where the people were very poor, and were cursed

with more rum saloons than with any other form of business; where the

nearest church was five miles away; where there was no Sunday-school,

and no day-school except for three months in the winter. And Nancy,

being questioned, showed that she not only did not know what Fourth of

July meant, but she did not know what Sunday meant in the true sense of

the word; nor did she know about Jesus Christ, save as she had heard

“Pap swear his name sometimes!” Did ever girl need helping more?

Now for the end, so far as it can be said to be ended, for the people

are still living. Nancy is a young woman who wears the neatest of

dresses and hats, and the nicest fitting boots and gloves. She is

herself a teacher in the day-school in that part of the country where

her home has always been. The school is in session nine months of

the year. She is a teacher in the Sunday-school, which has a room

of its own, opening from the pretty church where every Sabbath day

the people gather to hear of Jesus Christ. And Nancy’s father is the

superintendent of the Sunday-school! And there is not a saloon left

within two miles of the neighborhood; and the change began that Fourth

of July afternoon, when Clara, reading from her new book, caught an

idea which grew.

You will perhaps be glad to hear that Wallace, although he professed

to be only amused, was much more than that, and helped to form Clara’s

“circle” so effectually that he preaches in the little church whenever

he comes to this part of the world for a few weeks of vacation. “You

haven’t reached around the world yet,” he said to Clara not long ago;

“but I am not sure but you will. Do you know that boy Billy wants to be

a missionary and go to China?”

Billy is Nancy’s youngest brother.

Now see if you can plan ways by which Clara may have helped to bring

about such changes. No, better than that; look about you and see what

you can do to make a circle of good that shall reach—as far as it can.

PANSY.

[Illustration: THREE YOUNG MISSIONARIES.]

TEACHING THE CHINESE.

AND so you thought the Chinese do not know anything?

Look into this school; see wise Mr. Ah Lee sitting before his thirteen

youngsters. See how bright they look. And surely they know how to

get as much fun out of a cat’s tail and get rapped over the knuckles

as hard as any American boy. Yes, they sit upon the floor, and they

don’t seem to have blackboards and maps and many other nice school

contrivances, but they manage somehow to learn one of the most

difficult languages in the world.

[Illustration: A CHINESE SCHOOL.]

Our poor missionaries do have such a time in mastering Chinese so they

can converse with the people and preach the Gospel to them. The trouble

is that a word may mean one of a dozen different things, just as you

happen to give it this tone (sound) or that.

A Mr. Meadows once wished to say “bargain money” to a Chinaman. He used

the proper Chinese word for it, but pronounced it as though it meant to

the Chinaman “Do you hear? do you hear?” And what said John Chinaman?

Just nothing at all, but came nearer and nearer to Mr. Meadows, turning

one side of his head then the other to listen.

Once Mr. Pohlman asked a Chinese family if they drank wine, but he

pronounced the word wine (_tsén_) so it sounded to them like their word

for land (_t’sēn_).

At another time he asked a mourning family if they had buried (_tái_)

the body of their dead grandmother. But he sounded it _t’ai_, which

means to kill. Imagine their looks.

But the missionaries work away at the queer Chinese words and tones

until they can tell the “old story” plainly—and hundreds have heard and

understood, and now believe.

You know how hard it is for the Chinaman to speak our language. He says

“Amelican” for American, our _r_ is so difficult for him to get.

But the time is coming when every one of God’s family will know the one

great language, and there will be no hard schoolmaster to scold or whip

it into them.

L.

WHEN HE WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD.

OUR little lad, our bonnie twelve-year-old,

Has journeyed to the city of the King;

Our happy boy—ere heart could grow a-cold,

Or soul turn bitter—in youth’s joyous spring,

Went up to keep the feast in that bright place,

City of Peace, where restful mansions be;

And straightway looking on the dear King’s face,

Remembered naught but joy that face to see!

Long time ago, when He was twelve years old,

The Holy Child climbed fair Judea’s hills,

And his young mother in her heart did hold

Strange words concerning him, whose mystery fills

Her soul with wonder.—On their homeward way,

The reverent pilgrims haste; and sorrowing

She seeks her Son, and lo, in calm delay,

He lingered in the temple of the King!

She, coming to the sacred portal, waits

With tear-wan face; her fair first-born she seeks;

Weary and grief-worn, at the shining gates,

With faltering lips his sweet home-name she speaks,

And He is in her arms!—With tender word

Of gentlest chiding, each to each revealed

The love that to the depths of feeling stirred

Hearts that brief absence near and dearer sealed.

O mother, mourning for thy fair first-born,

He tarries in his Father’s House of Light,

With God’s beloved; and thou in some glad morn,

Finding the glorious gates beyond the night,

Shalt breathe his name, and ere it leaves thy lips,

In thy dear arms, aglow with life and joy,

All strong and beautiful—death’s long eclipse

Forgotten in the first kiss of thy boy!

ROSA EVANGELINE ANGEL.

* * * * *

MISS HALSEY read a letter from Miss Patton, of India, who after wittily

describing some of the daily trials of housekeeping there, between her

rising hour, five o’clock, and that of reaching her first school, says:

“This school, over a mile away, is upstairs in a large house in an

alley. The children looked so nice and bright this morning, I wish you

could see them. Prayers are over, so I begin by taking the wee tots in

the first class and teach them the Lord’s Prayer. Then I take class

after class until half-past nine, when with pony and queer little

two-wheeled tonga I go on about half a mile to the other school. There

I teach until nearly eleven and then drive home to breakfast, after

which we have English prayers. By that time the gun has gone off, and

that means twelve o’clock. The gun is the signal for our servants and

native Christians living near to come in and have Marathi prayers.

“Then I teach my servants to read, and ask a few questions in the

Catechism, then teach the Christian girls and young women whom we want

to train for Bible women, from two until three P. M. At three o’clock

we have a cup of tea and some bread and butter; then I am free to

settle ‘cases’ and hear ‘tales of woe’ until half-past four, when I go

into town to teach the women and girls in the zenanas. I get home in

time to have a good bath and get into a fresh dress before dinner at

half-past seven. After dinner we talk over our experiences and plans of

work, and sometimes one reads aloud while the rest of us sew until it

is time to retire, generally an early hour.”—_Interior._

[Illustration: AN OLD-TIME WARRIOR.]

[Illustration: THE MILKY WAY.]

YOUNG FOLKS OF ALASKA.

THIS face is not like yours, but more like some of the young folks of

Alaska. Of course you want to know a bit about the boys and girls away

off there.

Here it is from Mrs. Cady, who was there not long ago:

“Mr. Austin, the missionary, and these boys dragged all the timber by

ropes to build the first house.

“The Sabbath evening service was opened by a fine anthem, these boys

and girls being among the singers. Mr. Austin read a Psalm in English,

which was interpreted by a boy fourteen years old.

“He asked a girl twelve years old to offer the closing prayer, and she

expressed it beautifully in English.

“They are very polite. If a boy taps at the door his hat is off before

the door is opened. Their table manners are good. One boy is head

waiter.

“He can offer thanks or call upon some other boy to do so, or sing a

blessing.”

[Illustration: AN ALASKA CHILD.]

Of course you ought to know just how the grandmothers of these bright

Alaska children look. Our picture will enable you to judge somewhat of

their appearance.

L.

[Illustration: ALASKAN WOMEN.]

BABY’S CORNER.

POOR TABBY.

TABBY thought she was a very smart cat, but there were some rats living

in the barn who knew almost as much as Tabby did herself.

[Illustration: THE GRAY RAT TANTALIZES TABBY.]

One morning Tabby went to the barn. She had tried for days to catch a

rat, but just as she got her paw out to strike one off he scampered.

“To-day I shall get the old gray rat, see if I don’t,” said Tabby to

herself as she walked down the path.

She stepped softly into the door. But what was this new shining thing

she saw?

Why, Farmer Jones had put a big trap there to catch the rats.

Now Tabby had never seen a trap, and she said to herself:

“Why, here is a pretty little house! It must be for me; I will walk

right in. How nice!”

So she stepped in. Snap! went the door, shut! and there poor Puss was

in prison.

She tried to get out, but she could not. She cried, but nobody came to

let her out.

While she sat there feeling sad, two rats came and looked at her. The

old gray one, as he stood on his hind legs, said:

“Aha! I see; I see! Anybody who goes into that door does not come out.

I shall never go in.”

By and by Tommy Jones missed his pussy and went to the barn to look for

her.

Oh! was not Tabby glad to see him coming?

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

DAVIE’S WITNESSES.

IT was Fourth of July morning, and Davie Carson had been up since a

good while before the sun, not firing crackers and torpedoes, nor

watching the firing of the great cannon, but doing the chores. He was

in tremendous haste. An entire holiday was a thing he did not have

twice in a year. A hard-working boy was Davie, with not only his own

bread to earn, but with a great longing in his heart to help earn the

bread of two sisters and a brother younger than himself. He lived in a

small village where there was little chance of a boy of his age earning

much. The best that he had been able to do, so far, was to seize odd

jobs as they happened along; or rather as he hunted them out. Not very

pleasant jobs, all of them. Davie liked horses, and was glad of a

chance to lead Dr. Bristol’s to water; but to like to clean out their

stalls was another thing. But he knew how to do this work, and did it

well, and had put on his great work apron this morning for the purpose

of taking that job next.

It was his last one for the morning; after that breakfast, and then

a four-mile brisk run to the next village to the Fourth of July

celebration. His mother had not made the least objection to his staying

to the celebration. On the contrary she had said heartily: “I am glad

the doctor wants an errand done there; it will give you a good excuse

for going. Of course you may stay, and welcome; and I’ll put you up a

nice Fourth of July lunch; and if there is something to see, or to buy,

that doesn’t cost more than ten cents, you just have it, or see it,

whichever it is. You deserve a treat, Davie.”

Davie laughed gleefully. It was pleasant to hear his mother speak such

words, but he had a very different plan. Hurried as he had been that

morning, he leaned on his spade and thought it all out. In the village

where the celebration was to be was a large book store, where he had

once or twice been sent on errands for Dr. Bristol, and had feasted

his eyes upon the rows and rows of books and magazines, and thought

what a thing it would be to have a chance to handle them. The day

before, while holding the horses and waiting for the doctor, his eyes

had rested on an advertisement in the paper—WANTED: A BOY. Then had

followed a brief statement of the kind of boy, and what his duties

would be, and the whole was signed by the proprietor of the book store.

Davie’s cheeks had glowed so while reading it, that the doctor,

returning just then, had looked hard at him, and asked him if he was

getting up a fever. The splendid plan which the boy had thought out

leaning on his shovel was, that he would clip around to the book store

the moment the doctor’s errand was done, and try for that place!

To be sure there was hardly a possibility that he would succeed, but

then he might, and certainly he would never accomplish anything if he

did not try. But he did not mean to let any body know of his ambitions,

so he had only a laugh for his mother’s suggestion.

“If I get a chance to see the procession and hear the music and a few

such things it will be all the lark I want,” he said cheerily, “except

the lunch; I’ll be sure to want that. You are sure you can get along

without me for such a long time?”

“O, yes, indeed!” the mother said, smiling back on him. It was so like

her Davie to think of mother.

Davie made good speed over the road, though it was up hill and dusty,

and the day was warm. He believed himself to be in ample time to see

the parade which was to be made in honor of the day. At the corner he

halted and glanced wistfully toward the book store; it was within half

a block of him, and who knew but that if he should appear so early in

the day he might get ahead of somebody?

“No, it can’t be done,” he said at last, speaking aloud and firmly.

“Davie Carson, I am ashamed of you! A package of medicine in your

pocket that the doctor said an old lady was anxiously waiting for, and

you thinking about stopping on an errand of your own. Just march down

to Coleman Street as fast as your feet can carry you!”

And the order was meekly obeyed. Here he was detained for minutes which

seemed like hours to him. The sound of martial music was heard in the

near distance, and people all along the streets were dodging to the

doors to see if anything was to be seen; but the old lady’s daughter

wanted to write a note to the doctor to send back by Davie. She would

not be a minute, she said; but she was.

“I might call for the note on my way home,” Davie timidly suggested.

But she said, “O, no! that was not worth while; she could just as well

write it now, and make sure of it; she would have it ready very soon.”

And the sound of music drew nearer and nearer, until it passed the

corner and faded in the distance; and the note was ready at last.

Davie crowded it into his pocket, tried to listen respectfully to

several messages besides, and went down the stairs three steps at a

time to follow that fading music. The street was nearly deserted; all

the boys had rushed out of sight with the procession. Davie took long

strides in the same direction, and wondered if it would be improper to

break into a run.

Appearing at that moment around the corner ahead of him was a belated

group—a father, mother and two children; odd-looking people, queerly

dressed, and seeming to be entirely out of place in a town.

“Halloo! what’s the matter now?” Another corner had been reached and

turned by the people ahead of him, with the exception of the youngest

of the group, who had tumbled down; it was her outcry which roused

him. He picked her up, brushing the dust and soil from her clothes,

straightening the much bent sunbonnet, and urging her not to cry, that

they would find the others in a jiffy. She stopped crying the moment

she discovered herself in kind hands, and looked confidingly at Davie

out of great blue eyes, and slipped her small brown hand into his with

great satisfaction. Then they two turned the corner, and were at once

in a crowd. The thing which astonished and troubled him was, that

the father and mother and older sister of his little girl seemed to

have disappeared. For a weary half-hour the two jostled against the

crowd and stared and hunted. At last there darted toward him an angry

father, talking broken English in loud tones, followed by an angrier

mother and a crying little girl. “What was he doing with Gretchen? How

dare he steal their Gretchen and make off with her! Bad, wicked boy!

The police should know all about it, that they should!” In vain Davie

tried to explain; they were too excited and frightened to listen to

explanations. In the midst of Davie’s attempts two well-dressed boys

standing near, broke into laughter, and so confused him that he stopped

short, and the enraged family trudged away, his little girl in his

arms, and the father shaking his head at Davie. But the little girl

looked back and smiled lovingly on him.

Then Davie found that the crowd were trying to get near the band stand.

“Come this way,” said one of the boys who had laughed, touching

his shoulder; “there is a chance to slip in behind here and get a

first-rate position.” Davie thanked them, and was just going to slip

in, when a little girl who was flying past, going in the opposite

direction from the pushing crowd, jostled against him, and as she did

so dropped from under her arm a small package. Davie picked it up

and looked eagerly after the girl, shouting, “Hold on, you’ve lost

something!” But she flew like the wind.

“You can’t catch her,” said a man; “she is lost in the jam by this

time. You may as well pocket the bundle and call it Fourth of July

luck.”

“And you will lose your chance in here if you don’t come this minute,”

said one of the boys, trying to keep a way open for him.

“Thank you,” said Davie, “but I think I ought to find the little girl,”

saying which he struck into the crowd, and began his search.

It was several hours afterwards that a boy who was very tired, and who,

if he had not been so disappointed, would have been hungry, came out

of the handsome book store and with slow steps started for his long

walk home. He had delivered the medicine for which he came in the first

place; he had the note for the doctor safe in his pocket; he had picked

up a little German girl, and after much trouble given her back to a

father who was angry at him about it; he had followed a little girl, or

rather followed the road over which she vanished, for two weary hours,

and at last found her and restored the lost parcel, only to hear her

laugh gleefully and declare that there was nothing in it but some

dried-up sandwiches, which he was welcome to if he wanted them. And not

a glimpse of procession, or sound of martial music or voice of public

speaker had he seen or heard that day, save the few strains in the

distance which had lured him in the morning.

Moreover, he had called at the book store only to have the proprietor

shake his head and say: “Of course, my boy, I couldn’t engage you for

such a place as this without references. For whom do you work when you

are at home?”

Davie explained that they had been but a short time in that part

of the country; he had no regular place, but did odd jobs for Dr.

Bristol—cleaned out the stable and such things. No, Dr. Bristol did not

know much about him—nobody did but mother—and he had not known that a

recommendation would be needed.

“I might just as well have staid at home and helped mother,” said

Davie, as he walked slowly, with head down. “I’ve lost a day, and

gained nothing at all. I wish I had—no, I don’t either. I did what I

thought was right. I’m glad I did it.” Whereupon Davie whistled.

“Who was that boy, father, and what did he want?” A young man asked the

question of the bookseller as he came back to his parlor; he liked the

looks of the boy.

“Do you know anything about him?” replied the father, and before he

could answer a bright-faced little girl chimed in: “O, Uncle Edward!

what is his name? Don’t you know? I’m so sorry if you don’t; papa

wants to know it.”

“No, sir,” said the young man; “I don’t know him; but he is the chap I

was telling you about who wandered around with that little German girl,

and took patiently a hard scolding from the father afterwards, and a

laugh from two well-dressed, thoughtless boys.”

“Is he, indeed?” said the father; “I wish I had known it.”

Then the little girl: “And O, Uncle Edward! don’t you think he is

the very same boy who hunted after me for two hours to give me those

sandwiches. Papa said I was a little dunce not to ask his name; that he

ought to be rewarded for honesty and faithfulness.”

“I know his name,” said Uncle Edward, “and I believe I will reward him.”

The next morning, when Davie was out in the little garden hoeing and

whistling, a strange thing happened to him; he received a letter—the

first letter with his name on the envelope which he had ever received.

It was short and to the point:

After you left me yesterday two witnesses to your

honesty and faithfulness, as well as to your good

temper under provocation, called upon me, and made me

decide to give you a month’s trial in the store if

you still wish the situation. Call on me to-day if

possible; if not, to-morrow will do.

Yours sincerely,

EDWARD HAMMOND.

“Mother,” said Davie, as they went all over the plans for the third

time, “who could have called on him who knows anything about me? I

can’t imagine.”

PANSY.

[Illustration: A SUMMER DAY IN THE COUNTRY.]

[Illustration: A STITCH AT A TIME.]

ABOUT ST. AUGUSTINE.

BY THE PANSIES.

THE way it came to be called St. Augustine was this: it used to be

named Seloy on the river Dolphins. That was when it belonged to the

Indians. The French people named the river, and they gave it that name

because they saw a great many dolphins playing in the mouth of the

river. After awhile the Spaniards came and took the town on the day

which was sacred to their saint, Augustine, so they named both town and

river San Augustin.

RUFUS HUNTER.

* * * * *

IN the American Revolution Florida was the only colony which was

loyal to the king. When they heard the news of the Declaration of

Independence they burned John Hancock and Samuel Adams in effigy,

calling them rebels. After that some of the “Liberty Boys,” as our

soldiers were called, stole powder from the British brig _Betsey_,

which lay at anchor at San Augustin and slipped away with it, to be

used at Bunker Hill.

HARVEY DENNISON.

* * * * *

I READ about the services which they used to hold in St. Augustine

on Palm Sunday. They marched from the church to the platform of the

convent, where was a beautiful altar trimmed with flowers and fruits.

The congregation knelt on the ground while the priest said mass, then

the nuns took baskets of rose petals which were brought by many little

children in the procession, and strewed them before the altar in honor

of the Virgin.

LAURA EASTMAN.

* * * * *

I LIKE to read about St. Augustine when it was a walled town with

earthworks and batteries; when you had to enter the town through the

great gate or by the drawbridge. At sunset a gun was fired, which meant

that the bridge was raised, the gate barred, and both were guarded by

soldiers. I can imagine them pacing back and forth challenging people

who passed. “_Centinela alerta_,” they said, and “_Alerta esta_,”

answered the outsider if he knew enough. I think it must have been

great fun. I should like to understand the Spanish language, the words

have such a musical sound. But the outsider might say “_Alerta esta_”

as much as he liked, after the gates were closed he could not get into

the town until next morning, no matter if his home was just the other

side of the gate. Once in a long time came a messenger with news for

the governor so important that for him they would open the gate; but

this was very unusual.

JOHN L. PARKER.

* * * * *

THEY had one fashion in St. Augustine in the early days when the town

was ruled by Spaniards which might work pretty well nowadays in some

places. When a fellow became a great nuisance, would not work, and

disturbed people by making noises in the streets, and things of that

kind, they used to make him dress himself in some ridiculous fashion,

put him at the head of a procession made up of anybody who wanted to

join it and help make fun of him; then the drum and fife started up and

he was marched out of the town, and he could not come back again.

HELEN DUNNING.

* * * * *

I WENT with my father and mother to St. Augustine only last winter.

We went through the Ponce de Leon, which I think must be the finest

hotel in the world. It is built of some kind of stuff that glitters in

the sun, and looks in the shade as if it were blue, and the trimmings

are of terra cotta. The floors of the halls are inlaid with little

bits of marble, and the marble columns everywhere make you think for a

minute that you are stepping into an art gallery instead of a hotel.

The rotunda is just lovely! It has eight oak pillars to support it,

each beautifully carved. The rotunda is four stories high, and has

corridors on each story with more columns and lovely arches. The dome

has wonderful paintings and carved figures, giving in pictures the

history of Spain and France. You can look straight up through an

opening to the great copper columns which form the lantern at the top.

The large parlor is perfectly splendid. It is a hundred and four feet

long, and fifty-three feet wide; but there are arches and portières, so

that it can be divided into five rooms whenever the people wish. It is

magnificently furnished. I think, however, that the great dining-room

is really more beautiful than the parlor. More than eight hundred

people can take dinner there at one time, and you can look out of the

windows at lovely orange groves, and hear the mockingbirds singing, and

there is a band of music which always plays while the dinner is being

served.

ANNA WHEELER AUSTIN.

* * * * *

A BAND of singers used to go about the streets of old St. Augustine on

Easter eve, playing on their violins and guitars, and stopping under

the windows to sing:

“_Disciarem lu doi,

Cantarem anb alagria,

Y n’arem a da

Las pascuas a Maria._”

It seems almost impossible to sing such queer-sounding words, but

translated they mean:

“Ended the days of sadness,

Grief gives place to singing;

We come with joy and gladness,

Our gifts to Mary bringing.”

MARY GEDDIS.

* * * * *

IN the year 1821 Spain gave Florida to the United States, the old

yellow flag of Spain was taken down forever, and in its place our own

beautiful stars and stripes floated over the old town. I wonder if the

people living there knew enough to shout for joy?

HENRY STUART.

* * * * *

IT is all very well for my brother to talk about the people shouting

for joy when the stars and stripes floated over their town; but I guess

he forgets what an awful time they had only about fifteen years later,

when the Seminole War broke out. That was because the new people who

had come in wanted the lands which had always belonged to the Indians,

and wanted them driven further West. For the next seven years I think

the people had reason to be sorry that they had ever seen the stars and

stripes. Not but that I love the old flag as well as my brother does,

but I think the Indians were ill-treated. It makes me very sad to read

how they were at last cheated into a surrender, and carried away by

force from the land they loved so well.

CHARLES MORTON STUART.

* * * * *

MY sister Anna thought the hotel was the nicest part of St. Augustine,

but I liked the old fort the best. It used to be Fort San Marco, but

when the United States got hold of it they named it Fort Marion, after

General Francis Marion. I would like to describe it, but I don’t

understand just how. It is in shape what is called a polygon, and has

a moat all around it. The stone or shell of which it is built is used

a great deal in St. Augustine, or used to be; it is called coquina. I

think the narrow streets and queer-looking old houses are much more

interesting than the new streets, which are just like any other city.

At least I liked them better; but girls always like elegant hotels and

splendid furniture and all such things.

GEORGE WHEELER AUSTIN.

* * * * *

MY mother used to live in St. Augustine years ago. She has told me

a good deal about the streets, and the sea wall, and the little old

houses. She has described St. George Street and Tolomato Street until

it seems to me I could find my way up and down them almost as well as

she could. But mother says things are very much changed since she was

there; she reads in the papers about the beautiful new hotels, and

says it does not seem possible they are in old St. Augustine. The old

streets were very narrow; I suppose they are still. Next winter I am

going there to see things for myself.

SARAH CASTLETON.

[The Pansies have seemed chiefly interested this month

in the history of old St. Augustine, rather than in a

description of the city. But I think our readers will

agree with me that they have managed to crowd a good

deal of information into a small space. Sorry we have

not room for all they said.—EDITORS.]

REUBEN AS AN ERRAND BOY.

(_Character Studies._)

REUBEN MINOR was in his own room in his shirt sleeves, and the sleeves

rolled to his elbows. His paste pot was on the table, sheets of

paper and scraps of pasteboard were on the floor, and Reuben, with a

queer-shaped box before him, was in what Maria called “a brown study.”

[Illustration: “IN A BROWN STUDY.”]

The stair door opened, and his Aunt Mary’s voice called, “Reuben!”

“Yes’m.”

“Don’t you forget those errands that you’ve got to do in town. Have you

got ’em all in your mind?”

“Yes’m.”

“There’s only the eggs and the kerosene and the vinegar, you know, so

you won’t need to have ’em written down—just three things.”

“All right.”

Silence for a few minutes, during which Reuben turned the box endwise

and squinted at it. “Let’s see,” he said, leaning his elbow on the

table and his head on his hand, “I wonder how that would do?” Then he

started for his row of shelves, seized upon a good-sized book in the

corner, and dived into its pages. Something was not clear. The stair

door opened again, and his aunt’s voice sounded: “Reuben!”

“Yes’m.”

“You must take that next car, you know, because there isn’t another for

an hour, and I’m in a hurry for the eggs; if I don’t have them by noon

there’ll be no pumpkin pie for Sunday. Are you all ready for the car?”

“I will be in a minute, Aunt Mary.”

“Well, you better get ready right straight off, then there won’t be any

mistake; it will be along now in a little while.”

There was no reply to this, and the door closed again, Reuben,

meantime, deep in his book. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, then a

sudden, sharp call from below: “Reuben, there’s the car coming. Hurry,

now! don’t you miss it for anything.”

Reuben hurried. He made a frantic dash for his coat, ran his fingers

through his hair by way of combing, concluded to go without a necktie,

and tore down the stairs and out of the kitchen door and across the

lawn, to the tune of his aunt’s words: “I believe in my heart you’ll

lose that car, after all!”

No, he didn’t. He hailed it, panting and breathless, some minutes after

it had passed the corner, and at last was seated in it, mopping his

wet forehead, for the morning was warm. But he had not forgotten the

big book. Four miles in a street car, with not many passengers at that

hour, gave him a good chance to study up that puzzling portion which

he could not get through his mind. So he studied and puzzled, and the

car rumbled on, and stopped, and went on again many times, and people

came in and went out, and Reuben knew nothing about them. At last he

looked up; he believed he could make that box now, partitions and all,

if he were only at home. Halloo! they were in town already, and were

passing Porter’s. Why! then they must have passed the corner grocery

where Aunt Mary always traded. What a nuisance! Now perhaps he could

not get this car on its return trip. He must try for it. So he pulled

the check, and made what speed he could back, three, four, five blocks,

to the corner grocery. As he left the car he wondered how they managed

the flap that made the fastening of the inner box, and still puzzling

over it, presented himself at the counter of the city grocery.

“Well, sir,” said the clerk, after waiting a minute for orders, “what

can I do for you?”

What indeed? Reuben stared at him, grew red in the face, stammered,

mopped his face with his handkerchief, gazed up and down the rows and

rows of crowded shelves, gazed about him everywhere. What had he come

for? That was the awful question. What had Aunt Mary said? She had said

several things, he remembered. He tried to recall the all-important

one. Butter? No, of course not; they made their own butter. Flour,

perhaps, or starch—women were always wanting flour and starch—or it

might have been tea. He was sure he did not know, and the longer he

thought the more confused he seemed to get. And there was the return

car! Unless he took that he would have to wait a solid hour, and for

what? Was there any likelihood that he would remember? Reuben asked

himself that question in a most searching manner, then sorrowfully

shook his head as he owned to himself that he did not believe he ever

knew; he had not paid any attention to that part of the business.

Aunt Mary was watching for the return car. “Reuben has come,” she

called out to Maria in the kitchen, as she caught a glimpse of him.

“I must say I am relieved; I don’t know how we could have managed

without those eggs. If I ever get hold of any hens that lay again,

I’ll venture to say I won’t sell all my eggs to my neighbors and have

to depend on store ones for myself. Why, what in the world has the boy

done with them? He seems to be empty-handed! Hurry up, Reuben, we are

waiting for the eggs. Where are your things?”

Poor red-faced, shamefaced Reuben! It was hard work, but there was

nothing for it but to own that the first he had heard of eggs was at

that moment; and as for the “things,” he had no more idea than the man

in the moon what they were.

“I believe that boy is half-witted,” the clerk at the corner grocery

had said, after watching him for a few minutes, and seeing him make

a dash for the return car, not having bought a thing. But bless your

heart, he wasn’t. He had wits enough. “Too many of ’em,” his Aunt Mary

said. The trouble with Reuben was that he had never learned to withdraw

his thoughts from the thing which wanted to absorb them, and fix them

for the time being, instead, on the thing which ought to claim his

attention.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

THE ADOPTED FAMILY.

IT was a beautiful summer day when the Westwoods arrived at their

country home, most of them very glad indeed to see the dear old place.

They had staid in town very late that season, Mr. Westwood’s business

being such that there was a time when he feared he could not get away

at all. Now here they were turning the corner which brought the house

into view; the great wagon following close behind, piled high with

baggage, and every one was glad, save Herbert. He was eleven years old,

and fond of his city home, and of the school which he attended, and of

the boys in his class, and felt very lonely and desolate. He “did not

know a single boy out here,” he confided to his mother, “that he ever

cared to see again.” “And when a fellow hasn’t any friends,” he said

dolefully, “it is very lonesome.”

“Poor boy!” said Mrs. Westwood, when he was out of hearing, “I am sorry

for him; I wish he liked the country as I used to; the long bright

summer days were just crowded with happiness for me; but then I had

sister Fanny to play with, and brother Will. Perhaps it would have been

different if I had been all alone.”

“Children must learn to make friends of the birds, and the squirrels,

and all sorts of living things,” answered his father. “When I was

Herbert’s age, I used to know the note of every bird in the woods, and

I don’t believe he can tell even a robin when he sees it.”

“No,” said his mother; “he has but little chance for that sort of

education; and moreover he has no taste for anything of the kind; I

wish he had.”

The carriage which had been winding up the drive, stopped in front of

the old-fashioned, wide piazzaed country home. It did seem a pity that

anybody should feel doleful coming to such a pleasant place as that;

but Herbert felt doleful; as he stood with his hand in his pockets, and

stared down the country road, he winked hard to keep back the tears,

when he thought of the boys in town having their military drill at this

hour. Meanwhile his father and mother, and Peter and Hannah, bustled

about, opening doors and windows, and planning where the luggage should

be set down. Presently Herbert heard an exclamation from his mother.

“For pity’s sake!” she said—and in the next breath—

“Herbert, come here and see what I have found!”

So Herbert swallowed hard, and brushed away a tear or two, and went

round to the side piazza from where his mother’s voice had sounded, and

saw a sight which made him go on tiptoe and gaze in delight.

Pushed back, well under shelter from the summer storms, in the

southeast corner of the piazza, was an old, somewhat dilapidated willow

chair, large and very comfortable in its time, but which had long

since been assigned to the piazza, and not considered worth bringing

in out of the dews or the rain. In the fall when the family closed

the house, the old chair had been forgotten. It had stood there all

winter, deserted and lonely. But in the spring it had evidently been

mistaken by a certain family as a house which was for rent, and they

had rented it and moved in and set up housekeeping on a splendid scale;

the consequences were, that fastened ingeniously to the back of the

chair was a luxurious nest, most carefully woven, and within it at this

moment were three of the prettiest speckled eggs that Herbert had ever

seen. In fact his knowledge of birds’ eggs was limited; he had seen but

very few.

“O, mother!” he said softly, “how pretty it is. There is one of the

birds on the branches near by—a splendid fellow. Where is his mate, do

you suppose?”

“Not far away, you may depend,” said his mother. “What a cunning place

it is in which to build a house. How fortunate that the chair is so

near that door instead of the other one. We can get along for awhile

without opening that door at all, and they can raise their family

without having trouble. If I were you, Herbert, I would adopt them

and look after their interests and help to bring up their young ones;

wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Well,” said Herbert, with more glee than he had shown since he had

left his city home, “I believe I will. I will call that fellow up there

on the bush Denny, and he and I will be companions this summer.”

“That will be splendid,” said Mrs. Westwood, very much pleased, for

Denny was the short for “Denison,” her boy’s best friend in town. It

was certainly a delicate compliment to name the bird after him, and

showed to the mother the degree of friendship which Herbert meant to

cultivate.

“We shall get along comfortably now,” she said to her husband

laughingly; “he has adopted the birds in the old chair, and named the

singer ‘Denny,’ so he will not lack for companionship.”

Ah! I wish I could tell you about the lovely summer. Never was a

brighter, more congenial companion than Denny. He sang his sweetest

songs for the lonesome boy, and accepted his overtures of friendship in

the most genial manner possible. Before the season was over not only

he but his wife would allow Herbert to come close enough to the old

chair to drop special dainties into the nest for the children, and were

voluble in their thanks. More than that, Denny actually learned to come

and perch himself on Herbert’s finger and eat sugar out of his hand.

And one of the children grew so fond of Herbert that she took many a

walk perched on his shoulder, chirping occasionally to let him know

that she was there, and was happy.

“I never knew that birds could be so pleasant,” Herbert said to his

mother; “they are better than boys and girls in some respects; they

never get vexed at a fellow, you know, and refuse to speak to him for

days together. Even Denny got mad at me once, and wouldn’t speak for a

whole day. Now this Denny never forgets to say ‘How do you do?’ even if

I haven’t been out of his sight longer than five minutes.”

On the whole the birds did a good thing for Herbert Westwood that

summer; they turned what they thought would be a weariness into a

season of great delight, and of daily increasing interest. More than

that, he did a good thing for the birds. Before the season was over he

had made the acquaintance of dozens of boys in the neighborhood and

formed a society, the pledge of which was protection to the birds. No

stones were to be thrown, no snares to be set by these boys or any whom

they recognized as friends; neither were any nests to be molested, and

not a few of the boys became so interested in Denny and his family that

they determined for another season to adopt a family of their own, and

study birds.

“They are wonderful creatures,” said Herbert thoughtfully, as he was

reporting to his mother some of the bird stories which had been told

in the society that afternoon, “just wonderful creatures! I don’t know

how I ever came to pass them by without thinking anything about them. I

tell you what, mother, God must have thought about them a great deal.”

EFIL SREDNOW.

* * * * *

GOD’S promises are fulfilled a hundred cents on a

dollar.

A PRETTY GIFT.

(_Something for Mamma._)

THE materials needed for this gift are a smooth thin board about two

feet long and six inches wide, some bright-colored plush, some pretty

cretonne, a dozen or more brass hooks of varying sizes, none of them

very large, a couple of “cock eyes” such as are used for hanging small

picture frames, and a yard or two of ribbon, color to match the plush,

or contrast nicely with it.

The smooth board is to be covered on one side with the plush, on the

other with the cretonne, the edges neatly sewed; then the hooks are to

be screwed in at regular intervals on the plush side, the ribbon drawn

through the rings or “cock eyes,” and tied in a bow ready for hanging,

and your work is done.

When it comes into mamma’s possession she will select a convenient

spot on her wall, and hang it as though it were a picture. Then on

the little hooks she will hang her glove buttoner, her small scissors

which are forever slipping out of sight, her shoe buttoner, her watch,

perhaps, when it is not in use, and it may be her favorite ring which

she removes when she washes her hands. I am sure I could not enumerate

the little bits of useful articles which she will be only too glad to

hang on such convenient hooks, that she will find not a disfigurement

but an ornament to her room.

Now having told you just what and how, let me go carefully over the

story again and remind you of its possibilities. For I can well imagine

a little girl who wants to make her mother a neat and convenient

present, but who has no plush nor ribbon, and does not even know how to

get the right kind of a board.

My dear, you are just the one I want to help. About the board; it need

not be exactly two feet long and six inches wide; it may be of the

length and width which you find convenient, and which you decide will

look well in the space where it is to hang. There are light boards used

by wholesale merchants in packing certain goods which are just the

thing, and they can often be had for the asking at the store where your

mother does most of her shopping. Neither is plush a necessity. I have

a friend who made a pretty “Wall Toilet” such as I have described, out

of a bit of soft silk a friend had given her to dress her dollie. The

silk was old, but she smoothed it neatly, padded it with a sheet of

white cotton padding, and it looked very nice; but you may not happen

to have the silk? Never mind, don’t you remember those pieces of turkey

red calico in your auntie’s piece bag? They are just the thing, and

your little friend who wants to make one, and has no turkey red calico,

has some bright blue cambric which will be very pretty. All thin

material will look better if the board is first padded with the cotton

I spoke of. The brass hooks are quite cheap, and so useful that I think

we must have them; but a red cord, or a neat band of cretonne, or some

tidy cotton twisted into a cord, finished with tassels made out of it,

will take the place of the ribbon very nicely indeed. In short, the old

motto, “Where there is a will there is a way,” will serve you well in

making this gift, as indeed it will in almost any emergency in life.

I know by experience how useful the little contrivances are, and I

earnestly hope that many a mother will have her birthday enriched this

season by one of them, made by her own little daughter’s thoughtful

hand.

PANSY.

[Illustration: AS WE USED TO DRESS.]

[Illustration: A DEER CHILD.]

OR MISS MOON’S FACES.

TRUTH to tell she does make up faces, very different and queer ones,

and no one Pansy sees exactly the same one at the same time, and since

there are ten thousand Pansies, more or less, you see Miss Nancy Moon

is smarter in “making faces” than some of you.

Another “truth to tell” is that the “moon’s phases” means appearances,

or looks, and so why is it not quite the same as Nancy Moon’s faces?

We’ll think it is.

Every Pansy knows some astronomy or—ought to. Come, then, and from this

time on till you are a hundred years old know that astronomy means

star-law, or all about the bright worlds in the sky. Now you know

some astronomy. The moon is one of these worlds, and is very near our

world—only two hundred and forty thousand miles away—and is one of the

lamps to light it up. You must begin to learn about it. That you may

call moonology. One of the first things to learn in moonology is how

she makes so many faces; once a month a long, narrow bent face, then a

little fatter, and so on till it is full as a—beer keg. Of course you

mustn’t think she really drinks that stuff. I guess there is no license

in Moontown.

If you will study the picture with all your might and main a half-hour

to-day, another to-morrow, and so on, and then get grandpapa to put on

his specs and help—you’ll surely answer the riddle, how the faces (or

phases) are made.

Then some day you may become a great astronomer—like Tycho Brahe or

John Kepler.

L.

[Illustration: THE MOON’S PHASES.]

* * * * *

WHEN you’ve got a thing to say,

Say it! Don’t take half a day.

When your tale’s got little in it,

Crowd the whole thing in a minute!

Life is short—a fleeting vapor—

Don’t fill up a ream of paper

With a tale, which, at a pinch,

Could be cornered in an inch!

Boil it down until it simmers;

Polish it until it glimmers.

When you’ve got a thing to say,

Say it! Don’t take half a day.

—_Selected._

[Illustration: AT THE PARIS OBSERVATORY.]

BABY’S CORNER.

JOHNNY’S PILLOW.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

ONE day Johnny was taking a walk in the orchard with Nurse.

He was hunting for berries, and what do you think he found?

He found some big white eggs hidden in the tall grass!

Johnny wanted to put the pretty eggs in his basket and take them home

to mamma.

But Nurse said:

“No, no, come away, dear. That is a nest. Hush! there comes the old

goose. She will sit on the eggs and keep them warm, and by and by she

will have some pretty goslings.”

After that Johnny went with Nurse every day to take a peep at the gray

goose sitting on her eggs.

She sat and sat a good many days, and then one morning when Johnny went

to look, sure enough, the goslings had come!

They had no feathers on, and they had long, ugly necks and big feet.

“I don’t like ’em,” said Johnny.

The little goslings grew fast. They had a nice farmyard to live in, and

a little brook to paddle in.

At night the farmer shut them up in the barn, so that the cats and dogs

could not eat them up.

In a few days they were all covered with pretty feathers.

Then Johnny liked them.

By and by the little goslings were old enough to go with their father

and mother and aunts and uncles to swim in a big lake. That made them

very, very happy.

Then they grew to be big geese, and wore a lot of feathers, and Johnny

had a pillow, which he enjoyed very much, made from the soft down that

grew on their white breasts.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

WHO WAS TO BLAME?

“NOW you see, Emeline Frances,” said Celia, pushing herself up among

the pillows and speaking in slow, stern tones to the dollie lying on

her arm, “it is really your fault, and no other person’s; if you hadn’t

been bound and determined to go out this afternoon, why, we shouldn’t

have gone, that’s all. It had been raining, of course it had, and

the walks were all damp, and you had no rubbers to wear over these

shoes. Besides all that, you had been told that you must not go out

this afternoon; but you were so vain of your new dress and hat, and so

anxious to show them to Lulu Parks, that you would insist on going, and

making me get my feet wet. Now here we are! A whole hour yet before it

will be dark, and just a lovely time to play, and company downstairs

in the parlor, and just the kind of cake for tea that I like the best,

and we have to come upstairs and go to bed! I hope you are satisfied,

Emeline Frances, with your afternoon’s work. I shouldn’t have thought

of going out if you hadn’t have been so crazy to show your new hat. It

is just a pity that you think so much of fine clothes. The dampness

took the curl all out of your new feather, and it will never be so

pretty again; but you had your own way, and will have to take the

consequences. The worst of it is that you make me suffer with you. If

this were the first time you had disobeyed perhaps I shouldn’t feel so

badly, but as it is, I am almost discouraged. I do not see how you can

be so naughty and forgetful.”

The lecture closed with one of Celia’s longest sighs. The door which

led from her room to her brother Stuart’s was ajar, and he, sitting at

his desk supposed to be studying his Latin for the next day, listened

with the most unqualified amusement to the whole of it. He repeated the

story downstairs at the tea-table, amid bursts of laughter from the

entire family, his mother excepted.

“Mamma looks as grave as a judge over it,” Stuart said at last, when

the laugh had subsided. “What’s the matter, mamma? Don’t you think the

poor baby’s version of her troubles is funny?”

[Illustration: CELIA TALKS TO EMELINE FRANCES.]

“It has its funny side,” said Mrs. Campbell, with a grave smile upon

her face, “but really, it has its sad side too. You are a very good

mimic, my son, and gave Celia’s voice and manner to perfection, in

doing which you have reminded me of her besetting sin. Have you never

noticed that the child, in her own estimation, is always led into

trouble through the fault of others? If she cannot blame Nora, or

Josie, or some of her playmates, why then poor Emeline Frances has to

bear it. I am really very much troubled by this habit of hers. To judge

from Celia’s statement of the case, she is forever led astray by the

evil propensities of other people. If it were true, it would be sad

enough, to have a child so easily led in the wrong way; but sometimes

there is as much foundation for her theory as there is in this case,

when the vanity of poor Emeline Frances is supposed to have caused all

the trouble. I have tried to reason the child out of such excuses, but

when she reaches the folly of actually blaming the doll for leading her

astray, I hardly know what to think of her.”

“It is a curious development,” said Celia’s father, “but I have known

older and wiser people than she to indulge in it; I knew a young man

once, who charged a moonlight night of unusual beauty with all the

folly of which he was guilty that evening.”

After this sentence Stuart Campbell finished his supper in silence,

with his eyes on his plate; but perhaps no one but his father knew that

his cheeks were redder than usual.

PANSY.

A VERITABLE POEM OF POEMS.

A LADY of San Francisco is said to have occupied a year in hunting up

and fitting together the following thirty-eight lines from thirty-eight

English-speaking poets. The names of the authors are given below:

1. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?

2. Life’s a short summer, man a flower;

3. By turns we catch the vital breath, and die;

4. The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh.

5. To be is better far than not to be,

6. ’Though all man’s life may seem a tragedy;

7. But light cares speak when mighty cares are dumb,

8. The bottom is but shallow whence they come.

9. Your fate is but the common fate of all;

10. Unmingled joys here to no man befall.

11. Nature to each allots her proper sphere,

12. Fortune makes folly her peculiar care;

13. Custom does often reason overrule,

14. And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool.

15. Live well, how long, how short, permit to heaven,

16. They who forgive most shall be most forgiven.

17. Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face—

18. Vile intercourse where virtue has not place;

19. Then keep each passion down, however dear;

20. Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear;

21. Her sensual snares, let faithless Pleasure lay

22. With craft and skill to ruin and betray;

23. Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise.

24. We masters grow of all that we despise.

25. Oh! then, renounce that impious self-esteem;

26. Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.

27. Think not ambition wise because ’tis brave,

28. The path of glory leads but to the grave.

29. What is ambition? ’Tis a glorious cheat,

30. Only destructive to the brave and great.

31. What’s all the gaudy glitter of a crown?

32. The way to bliss lies not on beds of down.

33. How long we live, not years, but actions tell;

34. That man lives twice who lives the first life well.

35. Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,

36. Whom Christians worship, yet not comprehend.

37. The trust that’s given guard, and to yourself be just;

38. For, live we how we can, yet die we must.

1, Young; 2, Dr. Johnson; 3, Pope; 4, Prior; 5, Sewell; 6, Spenser;

7, Daniel; 8, Sir Walter Raleigh; 9, Longfellow; 10, Southwell; 11,

Congreve; 12, Churchill; 13, Rochester; 14, Armstrong; 15, Milton;

16, Baily; 17, Trench; 18, Somerville; 19, Thompson; 20, Byron; 21,

Smollett; 22, Crabbe; 23, Massinger; 24, Crowley; 25, Beattie; 26,

Cowper; 27, Sir Walter Davenant; 28, Gray; 29, Willis; 30, Addison;

31, Dryden; 32, Francis Quarles; 33, Watkins; 34, Herrick; 35, William

Mason; 36, Hill; 37, Dana; 38, Shakespeare.

LITTLE LENA.

DID the Pansies read in the papers about Lena Haupt?

She was only five years old when her mother died, and three months

afterwards her father, who had kept her with him by the kind help of a

neighbor, fell from a building where he had been working, and was so

badly injured that in a short time he died. He had his little girl with

him a few hours before his death, and explained to her as well as he

could that he was going where her mamma had gone, but could not take

her with him yet. She must be a good little girl; she had an uncle and

aunt and little cousins in Chicago, and they would take care of her and

love her if she was good.

Only a few days after that Lena started alone on her long journey. Her

uncle had telegraphed to “send her on,” and he would meet her at the

Chicago depot. There was a card tied around her neck by a ribbon, and

on the card was written: “Please take care of me.” There was a letter,

also, fastened to the same ribbon, which told Lena’s sad little story,

and asked the passengers to be kind to her, but to please not give her

any candy. She had a wee purse fastened to the buckle of her belt which

had nearly two dollars in it.

As for her ticket, it had been bought and paid for, and the conductor

had it in charge. Before night of that long day almost every passenger

on the crowded train had called on Lena, and her wee purse was filled

to its utmost capacity with shining quarters and half-dollars. She

herself made a great many journeys in the porter’s arms to the parlor

car, to visit with some ladies. And at last, as night was coming

on, and Lena’s eyes were beginning to droop, and the conductor was

considering how he could make her comfortable for the night, came a

lady and gentleman and begged to have her transferred to their sleeper,

where they bought a berth for her and put her to bed.

[Illustration: IN THE MIDST OF HARVEST.]

And all along the line little Lena found loving friends. I think her

father and mother in Heaven must have been glad to see how warm were

the hearts of even strangers toward their darling.

POSITIVE PEOPLE.

I WANT to call the attention of all Pansies to a statement made by

Benjamin Franklin in his story of his life. He says he tried to form

the habit of expressing himself always with great modesty. He was

careful not to use the word “certainly” or “undoubtedly,” or any of

those words which give an air of positiveness, when the subject was one

which might be disputed. He tried always to say, “It appears to me,”

or “If I am not mistaken,” or “I should think that,” etc. He declared

this habit to be of great use to him in persuading others to think as

he did, and that moreover it gave him a chance to learn a great deal

more than he would otherwise have had; for he said he had noticed that

people did not care to give information to those who acted as though

they already knew all that it was possible to learn.

In many respects Benjamin Franklin was a wise man, and perhaps in no

small way could he have shown his knowledge of human nature better

than by adopting such rules. But I really do not think he has many

followers. Just watch the conversation of even quite young people for

awhile, with this thought in mind, and see how many of them seem to be

absolutely sure of their position, even in regard to subjects where

wise men differ. If we could have more doubt about things which have

not yet been decided, and more certainty about things which God and the

Bible have decided for us, we should have a much better, as well as a

much pleasanter world.

HANNAH HEARALL.

OFF FOR BOYLAND.

HO! All aboard? A traveler Sets sail from Babyland! Before my eyes

there comes a blur; But still I kiss my hand, And try to smile as off

he goes, My bonny, winsome boy! Yes, _bon voyage_! God only knows How

much I wish thee joy!

Oh! tell me; have you heard of him? He wore a sailor’s hat All

silver-corded round the brim, And—stranger e’en than that— A wondrous

suit of navy blue, With pockets deep and wide; Oh! tell me, sailors,

tell me true, How fares he on the tide?

We’ve now no baby in the house; ’Twas but this very morn, He doffed his

dainty ’broidered blouse, With skirts of snowy lawn; And shook a mass

of silken curls From off his sunny brow; They fretted him—“so like a

girl’s,” Mamma can have them now.

He owned a brand-new pocket-book, But that he could not find; A knife

and string were all he took. What did he leave behind? A heap of

blocks, with letters gay, And here and there a toy; I cannot pick them

up to-day, My heart is with my boy.

Ho! Ship ahoy! At boyhood’s town Cast anchor strong and deep. What!

tears upon this little gown, Left for mamma to keep? Weep not, but

smile; for through the air A merry message rings— “Just sell it to the

rag man there; I’ve done with baby things!” EMMA HUNTINGTON NASON. */

[Illustration: ON THE LOOKOUT.]

THE OLD WORLD TOO.

AMERICA is still the “New World.” Each day pick up something new about

it. It is your world now. But there is an “Old World.” You must know

about that too. If you could go and see it, so much the better. The

eye is a little contrivance, but large enough to take in all England,

Ireland, Scotland and any other land it gets a chance to see.

If you go abroad you must sail. There is no railroad or cable to

carry you yet. A hundred years hence people may cross the Atlantic in

balloons. But you can’t wait so long. Why should you? Here is the good

ship Majestic—not exactly the one shown in the picture on the first

page—which will take you over from New York to Liverpool in less than

six days.

Once it took weeks. Sometimes a big iceberg came sailing along right

across the ship’s path. Then there was a crash. Perhaps the poor little

ship went to splinters and the passengers—well, you know what happened

then. Sometimes a dreadful storm came down upon the ocean and the waves

went up and down, looking like mountains and valleys. Not every frail

ship could stand it. There was a wreck. But in spite of all these

dreadful things most passengers get there and see the sights, and have

a good time and get safely home. A friend has crossed the Atlantic

nearly seventy times safely.

L.

CASHMERE SHAWLS.

IT is said that sixteen thousand looms are kept in constant employment

in Cashmere, producing annually about thirty thousand shawls. The

shawls are woven on rudely-constructed looms, a pair of shawls

sometimes occupying three or four men a whole year in weaving. The

Cashmere goat, which furnishes the material, is found in Thibet, the

hair of it being fine, silky and about eighteen inches long. It takes

the fleece of ten goats to manufacture a shawl a yard and a half

square.—_Selected._

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

VI.

WHILE the folks are gone to the fair, and we have nothing to do but

watch around the place and see that no tramp gets in, we might as

well have a good time, and I will tell you about my brother Nero. You

must not forget, though, but keep eyes, ears and nose open while I am

talking.

To begin with, there was a very large family of us, or would have been

if we had all been kept together. There were brothers and sisters

older, and a good many younger than we. We were of the same age, and

there were three others just our age, too; but they had gone to live

with other families, and Nero and I were all there were left with

mother. Poor, dear mother! I remember well how she used to feel when

her children were taken away from her, though I was too young at that

time to realize it.

When we were alone she would sigh, and many a tear have I seen fall

from her eyes, as she would lap us and think of her darlings whose

faces she knew not that she would ever see again.

She, poor mother, seemed to lavish all her love upon us after the other

three were gone.

Mr. Bryant, our master, had a daughter—only one—whose name was Fanny.

Her father and mother seemed to think the world of her; and the thing

that puzzled mother was, that Mrs. Bryant, being a mother herself,

should not feel more for her four-footed friend, who was a mother also.

She fed us enough, and never abused us in the ways in which so many

abuse their dogs; but when it came to parting mother and children it

never seemed to occur to her that a mother with four feet, and that

couldn’t talk, could have any motherly feelings, or care what became of

her little ones.

I remember little Fanny was not so. She would cry every time one of my

brothers or sisters was taken away, and after one was gone would come

out with us and put her arms around mother’s silky neck and cry as

though her heart would break.

Well, one day while we were quite small a man came to the house. I

think he was some kind of agent. He saw mother, and could not help

admiring her glossy coat and beautiful eyes, and so was anxious to

get one of our family. He wanted mother herself, but soon found that

money could not buy her. Fanny overheard them talking about us, and

then slipped quietly out of the room, and came in great haste to where

we were, and with one of us under each arm fled to a place of safety.

Down through the orchard she went till she came to an old building

which was used to store hay in; there, in a hole which she and some

of her playmates had made to hide in, she put us, and covered us up

with soft straw, and fixed it so that we could not possibly crawl out,

then closed the door and went off under a sweet apple-tree to hunt for

apples as though nothing had happened.

Now I suppose men will think she did not act just as she should, and

perhaps she was guilty of disobedience for not telling where we were

when they were hunting for us; but we were very grateful to her, and

whined with delight when we heard the man drive away, and learned that

he was not likely to come over that road again.

Fanny felt badly about it, and that night when she was going to bed

told her mother what she had done, crying almost as hard as though we

had been sold.

Fanny’s mother explained to her how it was wicked to be disobedient,

and that it was disobedience to not do what she would be required to

do, if all the circumstances were known, and that doing wrong that good

might come of it was never right.

Then after Fanny was asleep her mother told Mr. Bryant why they had

failed to find us, and after he heard the whole story he said: “Bless

her dear heart; for her sake we will keep the little fellows, and Bess”

(that was mother’s name) “will look at us with less sadness in her

great eyes.”

So Mrs. Bryant told Fanny that they had decided to keep us both until

we were much bigger, at least, and she need not worry any more about

our being sold.

When they told mother you should have seen her leap for joy; she sprang

up upon her hind feet, and put her fore paws upon Mr. Bryant’s breast,

forgetting in her great joy that her feet were not clean; but he, good

man, only patted her and let her lick his cheek, and called her “Good

old Bess,” and then told her to go and look after her children and give

them their supper.

I heard her say to one of the neighbors some months after, as she was

telling her experience with us, that that was the first time she had

lain down with any peace of mind for weeks.

Well, the bigger we grew the more Fanny loved us, and so we did her. We

never let her go down in the orchard, or out into the woods, or to fish

in the brook but what we went with her, and we drove everything and

everybody away, unless she told us not to.

After awhile she decided that she wanted one of us in her room nights.

To that arrangement her mother at first strongly objected; but her

father plead for her, and the mother finally consented.

When the cold weather came on Fanny got a rug, and had Nero sleep on

that rug on the foot of her bed, “to keep her feet warm,” she said.

This had been going on for some time when Mr. and Mrs. Bryant went out

to visit a neighbor’s at some kind of a gathering, and left mother and

me outside in our kennel to watch, and Nero to remain in the room with

our little friend Fanny.