The hired man and the cook, instead of remaining at home as they were

expected to, went to spend the evening with a neighbor, thinking it

would be all right with Fanny, as she was asleep. But it had been

ironing day, and the clothes had been left hanging in the kitchen to

air, and how it was no one will ever know, but in some way they took

fire. Mother was the first to discover it, and began to bark with all

her might to awaken Fanny and Nero. I remember that I barked too, just

as hard and loud as I could.

Soon Nero heard it, and began to feel that something must be the matter

somewhere. His first thought was that he ought to awaken his young

mistress, and he went at the job as best he knew. But she was too sound

asleep to be awakened by barking, do the best he could; so he sprang

upon her shoulder and began to pull at her nightdress, and finally took

her by the ear, and pulled so hard that it almost started the blood.

Then she awakened in a great fright, for a bright light was shining so

she could see everything in her room.

Pulling on her shoes and stockings, and wrapping around her some of the

blankets from her bed, she opened the door, which fortunately was near

the stairs.

With the help of Nero she made her way through the smoke to the street,

about the time the neighbors began to arrive. They were too late to

have been of any help to Fanny, for the flames would have overtaken

her before they reached there, but for Nero. By the time Mr. and Mrs.

Bryant reached home the house was far gone. When they saw the flames

they seemed almost crazy with fright; for they remembered that they had

left their only child asleep in the second story. It was some minutes

before they could be made to understand that Fanny was safe.

She and Nero had been hurried to the house of a neighbor, and when they

found them Fanny had her arms around Nero’s neck.

When Fanny was being tucked into bed for a second time that night she

said to her mother: “Are you not glad that I kept Nero from being sold?

Because if he had not been there to wake me up you wouldn’t have had

any little girl now.”

From that time Nero was a great pet, and I was very proud of him,

though I could not help being a little bit vexed because nobody gave

mother and me any credit for awakening him. One day I said something

about it to her, and she said: “Never mind, Major; we know ourselves

that we did our duty, and that is the important thing.”

R.

[Illustration: SOME OF OUR EARLIEST SETTLERS.]

[Illustration: A “MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.”]

HOW TO MAKE A SCREEN BAG.

(_Something for Mamma._)

IT is my opinion that the little girl who makes this convenient thing

which I am about to describe, will need to have an accommodating

brother who owns a box of tools and knows how to use them. Or she may

have a good friend among the carpenters who are at work on the next

corner. Still another way would be to get papa enlisted and agree to

divide mamma’s birthday present with him; that is, let him share the

honor of getting it up.

However that part may be managed here is yours, my dear, industrious

little girl.

The name of the article is Screen Bag. I have no doubt you know how

fond mamma is of bags, of all shapes and sizes, for keeping her

unmended stockings, or perhaps, more truthfully speaking, your and your

brothers’ and sisters’ unmended stockings, for balls of cord, and rolls

of tape, and papers of hooks and eyes, and I have not room to tell how

many other things. Well, this Screen Bag is just the thing. First get

your frames made of common pine wood, three of them, of about the right

height to furnish a comfortable screen for mamma if she wishes to keep

the wind from blowing on her, or the firelight from burning her face.

Indeed, you must decide where she will be likely to want to use the

screen, and plan its size accordingly. Then you want some bright cloth

of a pretty color; perhaps red, if that harmonizes best with the colors

in your mother’s room, or possibly blue or a soft rich brown; what you

will, so that it is strong. Cretonne is good, so is the striped cotton

furniture cloth which may be found at any upholsterer’s, and in nearly

all large city stores. You want two kinds; one for the front and one

for the back of your screen. The back or lining side need not be made

of such strong material. English cambric or common calico will do

nicely. Of course the amount of material needed will depend upon the

size of your frames; some careful measurements with a tape line will

be necessary. Now get your “pockets” ready, as many as you have room

for, and of whatever size you think the most useful. The first or lower

row should be a little larger than the ones above. The screen I have

in mind had two good-sized pockets below, three smaller ones above,

four above them, and five tiny ones at the top. These may be made of

the same cloth as the screen, or of different colors, according to your

taste and the variety of material at command. They should be hemmed

neatly at the top and stitched firmly to the cloth; first basted, then

sewed in the machine, to insure strength; or, if you do not understand

a sewing machine, and want to do all the work yourself, you can take

strong thread, and make a back stitch for every third or fourth one,

and do the whole by hand.

Now you want some brass-headed nails—round heads, you know. Finally,

your frames are ready for the brass hinges on which they are to swing.

You will need four of these, and when they are screwed into their

places your Bag Screen will be finished. Fifty-two pockets! My word for

it, if your mamma does not feel richer than she ever did in her life,

after she has her conveniences packed away in those delightful pockets,

which besides holding them, are at work screening her from the heat, or

sun, or wind, I shall be very much astonished.

I shall hope to hear that some of the Pansies have tried this

experiment.

PANSY.

ABOUT MINNEAPOLIS.

BY THE PANSIES.

A GOOD many years ago there used to be a city named St. Anthony. It was

built on the east side of the Mississippi River; then a city grew up

on the west side named Minneapolis, and after awhile it swallowed St.

Anthony and made one big city of itself on both sides of the river.

I think St. Anthony would have been a prettier name for the city, on

account of the Falls of St. Anthony being right there. But Minneapolis

is pretty, too. I have never been there, but my brother has, and some

day he is going to take me a long journey all over the West; then we

will visit Minneapolis, and I will write to the Pansies about it.

HELEN M. LEEDS.

* * * * *

THE flouring mills of Minneapolis are the largest in the world. They

can make thirty-eight thousand barrels of flour in a day if they want

to; and I guess they want to, for their flour is famous all over the

country. I order flour for my grandmother, and she won’t have a barrel

which does not say “Minneapolis” on it. I should think the coopers

would all get rich out there. I read in a book that in one year they

sold pretty nearly three million barrels!

JOHN WILLIS LEEDS.

* * * * *

I DON’T know what I can write about Minneapolis. I think it is just

like any other great big city, with electric lights, and street cars,

and parks, and all those things, of course. I think cities are all

alike; I like the country myself. But Minneapolis grows faster than

many cities do. My grandfather was there in 1860, and there were

only about six thousand inhabitants; now there are two hundred and

twenty-five thousand. Some say more, but I think that is enough.

HARVEY CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

I AM so glad it has come time to write about Minneapolis, because I

went there myself only a year ago. I do think it is the loveliest

place I was ever in. It seems more like a great big beautiful town

than a city. The houses are not crowded together in great ugly-looking

brick rows, all just alike, as they are in Philadelphia, and on some

streets in New York; but almost all of them have lovely grounds, and

trees, and flowers, and pretty lawns. Oh! I liked it all so much. We

had a picnic out at the Falls of Minnehaha, the prettiest place I ever

saw in my life. There is a magnificent park out there of more than a

hundred acres, and the drive all the way through the city to the park

is perfectly beautiful. Then of course the falls themselves are just

too lovely! We had Mr. Dickson the elocutionist with us, and after

lunch he recited parts of Longfellow’s poem about “Minnehaha, Laughing

Water.” I had never read “Hiawatha” then, but I have since, and I know

several pages of it by heart. But you cannot think how lovely it was

to have Mr. Dickson recite it right at the falls. We took a great many

lovely drives while we were in the city. We stopped at West Hotel,

which is one of the finest in the United States, or for that matter in

the world. It can accommodate twelve hundred guests, and it seemed as

though there must be that number in the house while we were there. When

we met in the great dining-room it seemed queer to think that there

were more people there than can be found in the village where I live.

Still I like our little village in the summer, and would not exchange

it for a city. I would like to describe West Hotel, but I cannot,

except to say that the furniture was grand, and everything was elegant.

We rode past Senator Washburn’s house a great many times. It is out on

Twenty-second Street and Third Avenue, and has ten acres of the most

charming grounds, so that it is just the same to him as living in the

country. The house is built of a kind of stone which is called kasota,

and is very beautiful. I did not mean to make my letter so long, but

there is a great deal to tell.

ALICE WASHBURNE MILLS.

* * * * *

I HAVE an aunt who is very fond of visiting churches. When she goes to

a new place, if it is only a village, she wants to see all the churches

and know about them. When she was in Minneapolis first, years ago, it

was a little bit of a place, and my aunt is an old lady, and does not

read the newspapers much, and did not realize that Minneapolis had

grown a great deal. She went there last spring to visit a nephew. She

reached there in the night, and was taken in a carriage to her nephew’s

house, and did not realize the changes at all. The next morning at

breakfast, when her nephew asked her what she would like to see in the

city, she said she would like to visit the different churches if she

could, and that perhaps as the day was pleasant they could go that

morning.

[Illustration: CITY HALL AND COURT SQUARE.]

“Very well,” said her nephew; “to which ones shall we go?”

“Oh! to all of them,” answered my aunt; “we can take a few minutes for

each and see them all this forenoon, can we not?”

“Certainly,” said her nephew; “just as well as not. There are only

about a hundred and sixty, I believe.”

And that was the first time my aunt knew that she was in a big city

instead of the little town she had left thirty years or so before. But

I don’t think her nephew was very polite to an old lady. She saw a good

many of the churches, among them Dr. Wayland Hoyt’s, which she said she

liked the best of all. It is the First Baptist Church of Minneapolis,

and cost two hundred thousand dollars. It will seat about fifteen

hundred people. I thought the Pansies would like to hear about it,

because Dr. Hoyt wrote one of our “Regret” letters for us.

MINNIE ANDREWS.

* * * * *

[Illustration: PUBLIC LIBRARY.]

MY uncle is a lawyer and lives in Minneapolis. He says the City Hall

is just splendid. It cost three million dollars. Its great tower is

three hundred and forty-five feet high, and there are only two others

in the United States which can get above that. There isn’t any danger

that this building will ever burn up, for it is made fire proof. I

wonder why they don’t make all buildings fire proof? Then we would not

have to buy engines, and pay firemen, and keep great splendid horses

doing nothing all day long but wait for fires. This City Hall which I

began to tell you about is three hundred feet square, and fills up a

great block on four streets. I should like to see it. My uncle has a

photograph of it, and it looks magnificent. I am going to be a lawyer,

and I shall have an office in Minneapolis.

HARRY DENNING.

* * * * *

MY father was acquainted with Governor Washburn, who gave three hundred

and seventy-five thousand dollars for the Washburn Memorial Orphan

Asylum in Minneapolis. My father has been there to see the asylum.

He says it is in a beautiful place, with lovely trees and plants in

the grounds. There were fifty-seven orphans there when father visited

it. I am glad they have such a nice place. I would like to be rich,

like Governor Washburn, and give lots of money to something. I think

I shall be, and I shall found an orphan asylum somewhere, but not in

Minneapolis, because they don’t need another.

HORACE WEBSTER.

* * * * *

MINNEAPOLIS was started about the same time that St. Anthony was. They

grew about the same for awhile, then Minneapolis got to growing so fast

that about all which could be heard in that city was the pounding of

hammers. Afterwards St. Anthony and Minneapolis were united.

Minneapolis was naturally a very pretty place, and until the last few

years it was called the prettiest city in Minnesota, but now St. Paul

is prettier.

MILLIE ROWELL.

* * * * *

I ATTENDED the International Christian Endeavor Convention when it met

in Minneapolis. I was a Junior delegate. We had a splendid time. The

convention was held in the great Exposition building, which is three

hundred and fifty feet square. That is, they made a big hall for the

convention inside the building, and it held more than ten thousand

people.

[Illustration: THE FALLS OF MINNEHAHA.]

My sister and I visited the Public Library. It is a very handsome

building. They say it cost a good deal over three hundred thousand

dollars. We sat in one of the elegant reading-rooms and read books

while our uncle was looking up something in books of reference. There

are thousands and thousands of volumes there; I did know how many, but

have forgotten. The street cars in Minneapolis are all electric. My

sister did not like to ride on them when there was a thunderstorm, but

I was not afraid. There are lots of lakes all around that part of the

country, and of course the Falls of St. Anthony are there. It is queer

to have a splendid falls in the midst of a city.

I think I like Minneapolis better than any place I was ever in. I may

go to stay with my uncle and attend the University of Minnesota, which

is there. That is what I want to do. If I go I shall know more about

Minneapolis, and will write again.

THOMAS BAILEY ATWOOD.

THE OSBORNE HOME.

(_Character Studies._)

ALL day long the Osborne home had been in a state of excitement. It

had been very difficult for the family to attend to its usual duties.

The little girls had at first declared that they could not go to

school at all; and then, being convinced that they must, it had been

nearly impossible to get them ready in time. Even the baby had caught

the unrest, and refused to take his long morning nap and give the

seventeen-year-old sister Mary a chance to attend to the work. The

explanation was that mother was coming home. She had been away a whole

month, an unheard-of thing in the history of the family before this

season.

The fact is, Mrs. Osborne was one of those mothers who would never

have been persuaded to leave her home and her children had it not

become a serious duty to do so. She had been in poor health for several

months, and grandmamma had written and coaxed and urged, and at last

almost commanded that she should come back to the old home and the old

physician, and see if he could not help her. One terrible thing about

it was, that this same physician refused to allow her to bring her baby

along. “I know just how it will be,” he said, shaking his gray head

and looking wise. “The baby is a strong, healthy little fellow, and

a perfect tyrant as they all are, and he will be carried, and put to

sleep, and fed, and petted by his mother and nobody else; he will be

more positive about it than usual, being among strangers, and he will

just keep her worn out. There is no use in talking, Mrs. Fuller, I know

your daughter Mary of old, and I will not consent to try to help her

unless she will leave that fellow at home and come away from all care

for a month.”

Well, the doctor had had his way, as he nearly always did, and Mrs.

Osborne, having declared that it would be utterly impossible to go away

from home and leave Baby and the little girls, and only Mary to look

after them all, had been gotten ready and carried to the cars. And a

whole month had passed, and she, wonderfully improved, was coming home

to-day. Father had driven to the depot three miles away to meet her,

and the house was in commotion.

Mary, the housekeeper, nurse and mother-in-charge, had had a busy day.

There were still a dozen things which she meant to have done before

mother came, not the least among them being to get herself in order;

for her apron was torn, her slippers were down at the heel, her hair

was what her father called “frowsly,” and, in short, she did not look

in the least as she meant to when the mother should put her arms around

her. Then there were last things to be done all over the house, and

the table to be set for the early tea-dinner which was to do honor to

the traveler’s newly-found appetite. Yet, notwithstanding all this,

Mary, feeling sure that the time must now be short, allowed herself

to drop down into the chair which she had been dusting, draw from her

pocket the mother’s last letter, whose contents she knew by heart, and

glancing at it, go to studying for the dozenth time the possibility

that her mother might have meant the evening train instead of the

afternoon, in which case she would not be there for several hours.

“Let me see; I almost believe that is the way, after all,” she said,

biting the feather end of the old quill which she had picked up

somewhere in her dusting, and looking vexed and disheartened. “I am

sure I don’t know how I am to keep the children from growing wild, if

they have to wait three hours longer.”

Meantime, the children, in the other room, were in various stages of

excitement. Helen, the older of the three, in whose charge Baby Joe was

especially put, occupied herself in racing to the front gate every few

minutes to see if she could not get a glimpse of her father’s horse

and wagon climbing the hill; and Baby Joe, each time she went, either

reached after and tumbled over something which he ought not to have

touched, or tumbled down, in his eager haste to follow to the gate. In

this way the room was being put into more or less disorder.

“How perfectly silly you are!” said Jessie, looking up from the book

she was reading, as Helen came back panting for the third time. “Just

as though racing to the gate every few minutes would bring them any

quicker! and look at Joe; he has tipped the spools all out of mother’s

box. A nice tangle they will be in.”

“Why didn’t you keep him from them then?” asked Helen irritably; “you

are doing nothing but pore over a story book. I should think you would

go and comb your hair and change your dress. Mother will not like to

see you in such a tangle, I can tell you.”

“There is time enough,” said Jessie, yawning. “I can’t do anything but

read a story book; it is impossible to settle to anything when mother

is so near home as she must be by this time. I haven’t done a thing

this afternoon; I couldn’t. I don’t see how Elsie can bend over that

stupid History, just as if nothing unusual was going to happen.”

This made Elsie raise her eyes; they were pretty brown ones. She was a

little girl of about ten, in a neat blue dress, and with her hair in

perfect order. “I thought it would be a good plan to get my history

ready for to-morrow while I was waiting,” she said, “then I will not

have to study this evening, when I want to listen to mother. I should

think you would like to get your examples done; and anyhow, Jessie, you

ought to comb your hair; it looks like a fright.”

“I mean to, of course,” said Jessie. “I dare say there is time enough.

Father can’t drive fast on such a warm afternoon; and besides, Mary

said she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he should have to wait for

the evening train. Wouldn’t that be just horrid! If it were not for

the lovely story I am reading I couldn’t endure this waiting another

minute.”

“It’s easier to wait when you are at work doing what ought to be

done,” said Elsie, with the air of a philosopher.

“Oh! you are a regular Miss Prim,” said Helen, laughing, as she stooped

to pick little Joe out of another piece of carefully planned mischief;

“for my part, I think it is horrid to have anything that ought to be

done at such a time. Joe, you little nuisance, I do wish you would go

to sleep, and give me a chance to watch for mother. I hope I shall get

all the things picked up and put to rights that you have upset before

mother comes; she will not be charmed with the looks of the room if I

don’t. However, there really must be oceans of time yet.”

“Then why did you race down to the gate every few minutes to see if

they were coming?” Jessie asked.

“Oh! because I did not know what else to do,” said Helen; “I knew

better, of course. Take care, Joe! There, I declare! he has done it

now.”

Sure enough he had! Jerked at the table spread where Helen herself had

set the inkstand, intending to put it away in a few minutes, and sent

a black stream not only over his own white dress, but on the carpet

as well. Mary, who still sat studying the letter, and thinking of the

things which she meant to accomplish before her mother came, having by

this time decided that it was entirely probable that they must wait

for the evening train, heard the exclamations of dismay from the other

room, and rose up to see what was the trouble; but at that instant an

eager cry from Elsie: “There they come!” sounded on the ears of all.

Helen gathered up the screaming Joe under one arm, and calling to Mary

to look out for the ink on the carpet, ran out of one door, just as

Jessie scurried out of another, eager to dash upstairs and brush her

hair before her father saw her; for his last charge had been to her to

see to it that she did not appear before her mother in that plight.

Mary, burning with shame and disappointment over the little last things

which she meant to have ready, waited to mop up the ink, while Elsie,

closing the door on the disordered room, went forward to meet the

beloved mother.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

[Illustration: “LET ME SEE!”]

IN THE CABIN OF THE MAYFLOWER.

THIS is a company of Pilgrims in the cabin of the blessed ship

_Mayflower_, on their way over a stormy sea from Plymouth, England, to

find a place in America where they may worship God “according to the

dictates of their own consciences.”

[Illustration: A COMPANY OF PILGRIMS.]

This was two hundred and seventy years ago. Of course the people did

not dress then just as they do now, as you can well see by noticing

their broad collars and queer trousers. How queer our dress will look

to our great-grandchildren.

The dear _Mayflower_ was not such a grand ship as the Cunarder. It

had to depend—not upon steam—but upon a favoring wind, and the wind

does not always seem to favor, so it took her weeks to cross the

stormy Atlantic, and the passengers (Puritans they were called) were

very sick; but because they had suffered so much from cruel people in

England they did not complain, as they believed God held the waves

in his hand, and he was guiding the _Mayflower_ as much as he did the

Israelites to Palestine—“a land flowing with milk and honey.” So they

patiently and cheerfully waited in the _Mayflower’s_ small cabin, often

singing hymns and praying and encouraging each other.

At last on Monday, December 21, 1620, they landed on Plymouth Rock,

Mass., happy as birds escaped from a cage.

They had much trouble with the Indians; but after a time they began to

build, with other Pilgrims, at other points, our great nation.

L.

* * * * *

THERE is a woman living in Manchester, England, who is said to have a

Bible two feet long and nearly two feet wide. At the top of each page

is printed in red ink: “This is a history.” The Bible is two hundred

years old, and is the largest one in the world, it is supposed.

BABY’S CORNER.

BABY’S CLOCK.

NOBODY finks I can tell the time of day, but I can.

The first hour is five o’clock in the morning.

That’s the time the birds begin to peep. I lie still and hear them sing:

“Tweet, tweet, tweet!

Chee, chee, chee!”

But mamma is fast asleep. Nobody awake in all the world but just me and

the birds.

Bimeby the sun gets up and it’s six o’clock in the morning.

[Illustration: BABY TELLS THE TIME OF DAY.]

Then mamma opens one eye and I can hear her say:

“Where’s my baby?”

N’en I keep still—jus’ as still as a mouse, an’ she keeps saying:

“Where’s my baby?”

N’en all at once I go “Boo!” and she laughs and hugs me, and says “I’m

a precious.”

Mamma’s nice, and I love her ’cept when she washes my face too hard and

pulls my hair with the comb.

Seven o’clock!

That’s when the bell goes jingle, jingle, and we have breakfast.

All the eight an’ nine an’ ten an’ ’leven hours I play.

I run after butterflies and squirrels, and swing, and read my picture

book, and sometimes I cry—jus’ a little bit.

Twelve o’clock!

That’s a bu’ful hour. The clock strikes a lot of times, and the big

whistle goes, and the bell rings, and papa comes home, and dinner’s

ready!

The one and two hours are lost. Mamma always carries me off to take a

nap. I don’t like naps. They waste time.

When we wake up the clock strikes three. N’en I have on my pink dress,

and we go walking or riding.

And so the three and four and five hours are gone.

At six o’clock Bossy comes home, and I have my drink of warm milk.

N’en I put on my white gown, and kiss everybody “good-night,” and say

“Now I lay me,” and get into my bed.

Mamma says:

“Now the sun and the birdies and my little baby are all gone to bed,

and to sleep, sleep, sleep.”

So I shut my eyes tight, and next you know ’tis morning!

An’ ’nat’s all the time there is.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

OCTOBER’S PARTY.

OCTOBER gave a party—

The leaves by hundreds came—

The Chestnuts, Oaks and Maples,

And leaves of every name;

The sunshine spread a carpet,

And everything was grand;

Miss Weather led the dancing,

Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,

The Oaks in crimson dressed;

The lovely Misses Maple

In scarlet looked their best.

All balanced to their partners,

And gaily fluttered by;

The sight was like a rainbow

New-fallen from the sky.

Then in the rustic hollows

At hide-and-seek they played.

The party closed at sundown,

And everybody staid.

Professor Wind played louder,

They flew along the ground,

And then the party ended

In “hands across, all round.”

_From “Song Stories for Little People.”_

[Illustration: OCT.]

FIVE-MINUTE ACQUAINTANCES.

(_Character Studies._)

IT was a bright cool morning that we were riding down Delaware Avenue

in a street car which had very few passengers. It gave me a chance to

study human nature. I began the study with a very handsomely dressed

boy. Jacket and collar and necktie and hair all showed that very

careful people had planned for him, and that they had plenty of money

to spend on him. They came into the car just after I was seated, the

boy and his mother. She was tall and pale, and in deep mourning; I

wondered if her husband were dead, and if this boy were the only one

she had to think about or care for her. If so she was to be pitied,

poor woman! for it soon became evident that the young man thought about

and cared for himself. His first exhibition was to fling his heavy

overcoat on his mother’s lap as he said: “Here, mamma, hold that, and

give me the tickets for the conductor.”

“I haven’t tickets, dear,” she said; “I shall have to buy some.”

“O, well! all right, give me your pocket-book and let me buy them.”

“No, dear, there is a good deal of money in my pocket-book, and some

valuable papers.”

“What of that?” he said, in a tone loud enough for all the passengers

to hear; “I ain’t going to lose them; don’t I know how to take care of

things? Give me the purse.” It was passed over without more words.

“Take a quarter from the silver money,” the mother advised a moment

later.

“O, no, mamma! I want to give him a bill, to see if he makes the right

change. Here’s a five; that will do; no, let me see.” He jerked his

arm suddenly away from the mother’s hand, which reached after the

pocket-book, and several pieces of silver flew out and rolled around on

the floor.

“There!” he said, in a reproachful tone, “see what you have made me do;

now you have lost some of your money.”

“Pick it up, Harold, that’s a good boy.”

He stooped and picked up a twenty-five cent piece, then said:

“Never mind the rest. It has rolled round under the seat somewhere, and

it is all dust; I can’t get down on my knees and hunt; never mind, let

it go. Say, mamma, give me that box of candy.”

“Not now; I would rather you did not eat any more candy, Harold, until

we get home.”

“Why not? I don’t want to wait; I haven’t eaten much. Come, it’s my

candy, and I want it. You bought it for me, and I think you are mean

not to let me have it.”

“Hush, Harold! do not talk so loud. Hold your overcoat, dear; it is too

heavy for mamma.”

“Oh! I can’t, it is too hot. I did not need that great big overcoat

anyhow, and I told you so. I’m not going to hold it. Drop it on the

floor if you don’t want to keep it. But give me that box of candy.

O, mamma! there’s a procession coming down the street—soldiers, and

everything. I’m going out on the platform to see them.”

He made a dash forward, and the pale, anxious mother reached after

him, trying to arrest his steps, dropping as she did so not only the

overcoat, but the pocket-book again. The pennies and the ten-cent

pieces rolled around freely, while Harold, looking behind him, gave a

mocking laugh, and was out on the platform.

They had not been in the car over five minutes. And yet I was quite as

well acquainted with Harold as I had any desire to be.

At the North Street corner the pale little mother left the car with

the heavy overcoat over one arm, and the pocket-book, with what change

she had been able to find, in her hand, while Harold, tugging at her

sleeve, was heard to say, “Mamma, I want that candy this minute!”

At Reed Street came three passengers, a boy about the size of the one

who had left us, and two little girls, one perhaps seven, and the other

not over four. The boy was freckled-faced, and by no means so handsome

as Harold. His clothes were very neat, but of the coarse, common

sort worn by children of the moderately poor. The little girls beside

him were as neat as wax—faces and hands and hair in perfect order; but

their sacks and hats were of last year’s fashion—perhaps older still

than that—and I fancy Harold would have laughed outright at the little

old overcoat which hung over the boy’s arm.

[Illustration: A SHOCKING EXPERIENCE.]

They took their seats quietly, and made no disturbance of any sort. But

there were so few in the car, and we were passing at that time through

such a quiet street, that I could hear distinctly the words they spoke

to one another.

“Better put on your sack, Janie,” said the boy, with a thoughtful air,

looking at the older sister, “the wind blows in pretty strong here.”

Janie immediately arose and began tugging at her sack. The boy, with

the manners of a gentleman accustomed to the work, took hold of it

at the shoulders and skillfully steered the little arms into place,

pulling it down behind, and bestowing meanwhile side glances upon the

little sister.

“Sit still, Bessie, that’s a good girl. No, don’t stand, dear; mamma

wouldn’t like you to stand, the cars shake so.”

Down sat Bessie again, trying to put herself squarely on the seat.

Failing in this her protector turned next to her, lifted her plump

little form into place, then straightened her hat and returned a

confiding smile which she gave him. Meantime the car was filling

up, and in a few minutes every seat was taken. There came next a

middle-aged woman, black of face, and very shabby as to toilet, with a

market basket on her arm. Quick as thought the little gentleman arose,

and touching her arm motioned her to his seat. Then Janie reached

forward for his overcoat. “Let me hold your overcoat, Charlie,” she

said, “because you haven’t any seat.”

“O, no!” said Charlie, smiling back at her, “I can carry it as well as

not. Bessie dear, don’t climb up that way, you will fall.”

Down sat Bessie, who had mounted on her fat little knees to look out of

the window.

“Now, Janie,” said the little man at last, when they were near the

Dean Street crossing, “we are to get out at this corner. I will take

Bessie’s hand and go ahead, and you keep close to me. We will stand

still on the sidewalk until the car passes, then I will take you both

across.”

Away they went, and I watched them making their way carefully across

the crowded street, the brother’s arm thrown protectingly around

Bessie, and his eyes on the watch for any possible danger to either of

his charges. I had made his acquaintance in five minutes, too, and knew

more about him than he would have imagined possible.

MYRA SPAFFORD.

THINGS WHICH SOME PEOPLE REGRET.

THE “Regret” which we give you this month comes from a very high

source. Almost every scholar of ancient languages will recognize the

name. It is a very pleasant thought that these great men out of their

busy lives have stopped to give us a glimpse of their past, in order

to help the young people of to-day, who will be the men and women

of to-morrow, to avoid the mistakes which they did not. We hope and

believe that the Pansies will receive great benefit from these glimpses

from the youth of great people.

“I regret that I have not better acquired the art of

pleasantly acknowledging the kindnesses shown me, and

of showing my appreciation of people whom I really do

appreciate. My influence with many would be greatly

increased if I could but make them understand how

warmly my heart goes out to them.”

WILLIS J. BEECHER.

DR. W. J. BEECHER, _Professor of Hebrew in Auburn

Theological Seminary_.

(_Luke_ ix. 23; xiv. 27.)

AND didst thou hear the Master say

He that would my disciple be,

Let him deny himself each day,

Take up his cross, and follow me?

Oh! wondrous love, that did devise

For us this “straight and narrow way,”

Beyond which, in the distance, lies

The realms of pure and perfect day.

[Illustration: THE UPS AND DOWNS OF LIFE.]

[Illustration]

A HAPPY BOY.

HIS name is Willie Addis, and he lives in Plainfield, N. J. A few

weeks ago his mother turned down the wicks of her kerosene stove, and

leaned over it to blow out the flame, when the stove exploded, and in

an instant she was in flames. With one bound Willie was in the kitchen,

seizing the large woolen mat from the floor as he ran, and in less time

than it takes me to tell it, he had wrapped the mat about his mother

and extinguished the flames! The kitchen furniture was burned, but

that was about all, and the dear mother was saved by her quick-witted

ten-year-old son, who had heard somewhere that woolen wrapped closely

about a burning object so as to exclude the air, will put out the fire.

It is not every boy of his age who knows that fact; and there are many

who, knowing it, would not have had presence of mind enough to have

applied their knowledge promptly. Willie did, and he has his mother.

Certainly I think he must be a happy boy, and I am sure she is a glad,

proud mother.

How is one to help hoping and praying that he may never be other than a

joy to her in the years to come?

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

I AM very fond of the little ones, and like to have them around me,

and as the puppies are in the majority it will be their turn to have a

short story this time.

If you do not have to go home too soon perhaps I will have time to tell

you more than one; we will see. Oh! the children are to stay to tea,

are they? All right. Now, attention!

All those who would like to hear a story about a chicken—“a real truly

story,” as the children say—wag your tails.

Those opposed, bark. Carried. The vote for the chicken story is about

unanimous.

I suppose some of you have very poor opinions of chickens and hens; you

think because they have but two legs, and are so easily frightened,

they don’t amount to much; but the master and mistress think quite

differently when they eat the nice fresh eggs which the hens furnish.

Why, some of those proud young crowers have hearts as well as we. I

remember so well a little old white blind hen which my master once had,

and how kindly she was treated. (She could see just a little with one

eye, but we called her blind.)

The young man who worked upon the place took a fancy to “Old Whitey,”

as they called her, and when master wanted to send her to market this

fellow pretended he couldn’t find her, so she was kept till very old.

The gallant young crowers which roosted in the same shed with her would

never fight this old “grandmother,” but were just as kind to her as

they knew how to be. Sometimes when one of them had found a nice lot of

worms under something he had scratched over, “Whitey” would come along

hungry, and he would leave the nice mess for her, and look further for

himself.

Was not that gallant and kind? Would all of you do as well as that? Be

as unselfish?

But this is not the chicken I was to tell you about. He was a poor

orphan, his mother having died when he was but a little yellow ball

upon two little pins of legs.

[Illustration: AN ORIENTAL SHEPHERD.]

I had not much to do with this pet, only as I visited his home

occasionally, and saw and played with him a little.

It was my cousin Tip who had most to do with this bright feathered

fellow, and to whom he was indebted for most of his education.

Tip was a great favorite; in fact, his mistress was fond of all sorts

of pets; had a name for each of her cows, and for every one of her

hens, so she had a name for this chicken.

Tip used to go about wherever he pleased, and so did the chicken. My

cousin was in the habit of taking almost anything he could find, and

dragging it to the spot where he wished to lie, then make a bed of it

and go to sleep.

His little friend the chicken for awhile watched him with envious

eyes—for I regret to say Cousin Tip was too selfish to provide a bed

for any one besides himself.

But this chicken evidently thought “what had been done could be done,”

so he asserted his independence, and gathered up what he could carry or

drag; put the articles—stockings, handkerchiefs or rags—in a heap near

Tip’s bed, and would then tread them down as he had seen Tip do, and

squat upon them for a make-believe nap. Now wasn’t that a pretty bright

chicken, and was not Tip a pretty successful teacher for one so young?

No, that lesson wouldn’t be much for a bright little dog to learn; but

we do not expect much intelligence in a hen or rooster.

I suppose they cannot understand what people say to them as we do. And

some people do not seem to think we understand what they tell us to do

or not to do, even when they tell us we have done well.

I remember so well when I was young, though almost as large as I am

now, how I astonished a lady by acting as though I understood what she

said to me.

It was in the country, where the houses were quite a distance apart. I

had been caring for this woman’s little girl for more than a week, and

had kept her out of lots of mischief, and prevented her from getting

many an ugly fall, though I had never been asked to do it.

One day little Cynthia (that was her name) wanted to go over to see her

grandmother, who lived in the next house, nearly a quarter of a mile

away. The mother told her there was no one to go with her. She said she

could go alone, and coaxed so hard that the mother said she might go.

So Cynthia put her little hat on, and her mother kissed her good-by,

and she started. Then her mother turned to me and said: “Major, you go

with her and take good care of my darling; don’t you let anything hurt

her.”

How proud I was! I went right by her side all the way, and never left

her for one moment until she was safe at home.

Then the lady called me a “good, faithful fellow,” and I was very

happy. But when the men came in at night and she told them what I had

done, I felt ashamed to hear her say, “He acted just as though he knew

what I told him.”

The idea! Why shouldn’t I understand, I would like to know? They talk

about things which I do not understand, but when they give me such a

plain direction as that I guess I can hear it, and know what they mean,

too.

There goes the whistle, and you must scamper. Good-by!

G. R. A.

A CAREFUL MOTHER.

A TRUSTWORTHY writer in one of our exchanges says that last summer near

his room a humming-bird built her tiny nest and reared her family. One

day when there was a heavy shower coming up, just as the first drops

fell the mother came fluttering home, seized a large leaf which grew on

the tree near her nest, drew it over the nest in a way to completely

cover it, then went back to whatever work she had been about when

the coming storm disturbed her. The amused watchers from the window

wondered why the leaf did not blow away, and finally reached out and

examined it; they found it hooked to a tiny stick which was just inside

the nest, as if it had been built in for that purpose! The storm lasted

but a few minutes, and after it was over home came the mother, unhooked

the green curtain she had so carefully put up, and found her babies

perfectly dry.

[Illustration: WHICH WILL GET IT?]

CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR SAINTS.

(_Something for Mamma._)

NOT something to make, this time, but to buy. It is a lovely new book

bound in blue and silver, and the title is “Christian Endeavor Saints.”

It is written by Dr. F. E. Clark, the father of all the Christian

Endeavor societies. If your mamma is not a member of that society it

will make no difference, she will like the book very much; it has a

great many short bright articles in it, not too long for a busy mother

to read when she sits down for a minute or two of rest. The first part

of the book has short letters addressed to different saints.

One, for instance, to “St. Neighborly,” another to “St. Hopeful,”

another to “St. Speakwell,” and so on.

Then there are many “Golden Rule Recipes” for the cure of all sorts of

troubles, as well as what is perhaps better, for the prevention of many.

Let me give you one which is called:

A RECIPE FOR A HAPPY DAY.

“At the very beginning of the day take a large

amount of good nature, and double the quantity of

determination to make the best of things, a heaping

measure of bodily vigor, and mix well in the mortar

of gratitude with the pestle of the remembrance of

past mercies. A season of prayer and praise is always

necessary to the proper mixture of these ingredients.

Then add to this a considerable, but not too large,

portion of well-regulated tongue, a slice of charity

that thinketh no evil and is not easily provoked, a

portion of hopefulness for the future, and a large

measure of faith in God and fellowmen. Season this with

the salt of shrewdness and thrift, and sweeten with

plenty of the sugar of love for all God’s creatures.

Put in a large handful of plums of parental or filial

affection, and a number of pieces of neighborly

friendliness; and somewhere in the day conceal one

special service for the Lord’s poor. Slide this

good deed into the mixture quietly, without saying

anything about it. Do not use any of the sour milk of

disappointed hopes, or brooding cares, for this will

spoil the whole; and while there should be a pinch

of the pepper of fun, and considerable sweet oil of

joviality, do not use any of the mustard of backbiting,

or the table sauce of slander.

“Let the mixture boil gently, but do not let it boil

over, for the delicate flavor of the ingredients is

injured by too much heat.

“This recipe has been tried in a hundred thousand

households, and has never been known to fail.”

There are many more recipes quite as unique and as helpful as this.

Then follows a series of “Golden Rule Sermons” on all sorts of

important topics, such as “Getting Muddled with the Unimportant,” on

“Living as we Sing,” on “Poor Excuses,” and the like. Finally there

are letters addressed to “Grandmother Lois,” “Mrs. Neataswax,” “Miss

Youngheart,” “Mrs. Vitriol,” and a host of other people whom we have

met.

From one, addressed to “The Birds that can Sing, and won’t Sing,” I

want to quote a little:

MY DEAR BIRDS:

“I watched you last Wednesday evening in the mid-week

prayer meeting, and none of you moved your lips, even

when we sang ‘Rock of Ages’ and ‘Jesus, Lover of my

Soul.’ The singing was weak and languid and thin, when

your voices might have put body and life and strength

into it. I know that you can sing if you have a mind

to, for do I not hear you every Sunday in the church

choir? . . . Did I not hear you sing, too, at Miss Flora

McFlimsey’s birthday party the other evening? Yes,

indeed; you gathered around the piano, and the way

you warbled forth the glees and college songs did my

heart good. But there you were at the church prayer

meeting, members of the church, members of the Society

of Christian Endeavor; you had promised more than once

to do your duty faithfully, and yet you kept still,

simply because the singing wasn’t very artistic, or

because somebody behind you ‘screeched so,’ as you

inelegantly expressed it, or because the old deacon on

the front seat dragged, and ‘put you all out.’ Now, my

dear birds, pardon the plain words of an old man, and

your pastor at that. The prayer meeting singing is just

as important a part of worship, and just as acceptable

in God’s sight, as your choir or solo singing with all

its frills and furbelows. The ‘screecher’ and the old

deacon are both doing the best they can; and if you

did the best you could their voices would not be so

prominent, and the music would be far better. Then,

too, do you not think it indicates a little touch of

conceit to sing only when your voices will show off to

advantage, and let the poor prayer meeting suffer for

lack of them? I am sure, my dear birds, that you never

thought of the matter in that light, for after all you

mean to be conscientious as well as tuneful birds; and

I am quite confident that when, next Wednesday evening,

I give out ‘Rock of Ages,’ you will ‘raise it’ on your

clear strong voices, and give the prayer meeting such a

start and uplift as it has not had for many a day.”

I did not mean to quote it all, but it was so good I could not find a

place to stop. I think you will enjoy it, and so will mamma, or your

older sister, or indeed any one who loves to read bright, pure, helpful

thoughts.

The book has about two hundred and fifty pages. I really do not know

how much it costs, but your bookseller can easily find out for you.

PANSY.

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xviii. 2.)

NOW does this mean that all children are good Christians, and are

surely in the Kingdom of Heaven? But you know many who are not good.

They are profane; they break the Sabbath, and all the other holy

commands of God. Some are so very bad that their parents send them to

reformatories, which are a sort of prison.

Some years ago a boy by the name of Jesse Pomeroy, when he was quite

young, began to torture children when he could get them into his power.

As he grew a little older and stronger he would get children away from

home and lead them out into some desolate place, and bind them to a

tree and do dreadful things to them.

It is thought that this wicked boy caused the death of several children.

There are more Jesse Pomeroys. Jesus did not mean that all children are

perfectly good. Indeed every one—children, too—must be born again—that

is, converted—to get into the Kingdom of Heaven.

What, then, did Jesus mean in this verse? Why, simply that all must

“humble” themselves; must repent and trust in him to be saved. Every

true child is ready to do this, much more so than grown-up folks.

Grown-up people do not like to confess that they are sinners. They—most

of them—refuse to humble themselves, as most very young folks do.

Now have you really humbled yourself?

L.

* * * * *

’TIS easy to be gentle when

Death’s silence shames our clamor,

And easy to discern the best

Through memory’s mystic glamour;

But wise it were for thee and me,

Ere love is past forgiving,

To take the tender lesson home—

Be patient with the living.

—_Selected._

ABOUT ST. LOUIS.

BY THE PANSIES.

THE biggest thing in St. Louis is the bridge by which you get to it. It

has three arches, each over five hundred feet long, and it makes a road

over fifty feet wide. My uncle says it is a big thing, and he knows,

for he is a bridge builder. There is a tunnel under it, and a railroad

track. I rode into St. Louis once through this tunnel; it is a mile

long. It is lighted with electricity, and they say it has ventilating

shafts; but they don’t give you much air to breathe, that I know.

Father had to fan mother every minute, and we were afraid she would

faint. I think I should have found it hard work to breathe myself, if I

hadn’t been so dreadfully worried about mother that I forgot all about

it. But for all that it is a splendid thing—the tunnel is, I mean. The

piers of the bridge are built on a rock, and they go down more than a

hundred feet below the surface. This bridge cost over six millions of

dollars. I could tell you more things, for I staid in St. Louis a whole

week, but mother says my letter is long enough.

WILLARD J. MOONEY.

* * * * *

ALL the Pansies tell how the city they are writing about got its name.

I cannot find out about St. Louis, but I know the first settlement

there was made by Pierre Laclede Liguest. I was wondering if they did

not put pieces of his queer name together, and make a word which in

time came to be St. Louis? Anyhow, I am glad they did not name the

place for him, it would have been so hard to pronounce. That is only

about a hundred and thirty years ago. St. Louis did not grow very fast;

for a long time nobody thought it was going to be a city, and fifty

years ago there were only about sixteen thousand inhabitants; but it

has grown fast enough since. There are more than five hundred thousand

people there now, and large, beautiful buildings, and everything which

helps to make a city handsome. It is hot there, though; at least my

auntie thinks so. She used to have to wait three hours in a St. Louis

depot for a train every time she came home for her summer vacation, and

went back in September, and she says the warmest she has ever been in

her life was during those hours; and she never in five years struck a

cool day! So she says she cannot help thinking that St. Louis is always

warm. But probably if she had been there in January, instead of June or

September, she would have thought differently. Women are apt to think

that things stay always just as they happened to find them.

ROBERT CAMPBELL.

[Illustration: THE COURT HOUSE.]

* * * * *

THE prettiest place to go to in St. Louis is “Shaw’s Garden.” It

has other names, “The Missouri Botanical Gardens,” and “Tower Grove

Park,” which is a piece of the gardens, but when I was there everybody

said “Shaw’s Garden.” The land was presented by Mr. Henry Shaw, an

Englishman, and he used to keep the lovely great park in order at his

own expense; I don’t know whether he does now or not. There are more

than two hundred and fifty acres just in Tower Grove Park. I have never

been to Central Park, that some of the Pansies told about, but I do not

see how it could be prettier than Tower Grove Park. There is a statue

of Shakespeare, and another of Humboldt in the park, and they cost

over a million of dollars. I don’t see why; I didn’t admire them very

much; but that is what the gentleman said who went with us. There are

a great many other parks in St. Louis—about twenty, I think—but none

are so beautiful as this; and the Botanical Gardens are said to have

the finest collection of plants of any city in the United States. My

brother Roger says that cities always say such things about themselves,

and that he doesn’t suppose it is finer than can be found in New York

and Chicago, but that is what they told us.

NELLIE SHERMANN.

* * * * *

I READ a description of the St. Louis Court House which was very

interesting. It is built in the form of a Greek cross, and has a

splendid dome whose lantern can be seen as much as twenty miles away.

It cost a good deal over a million dollars—the building did, not the

lantern. Aunt Kate told me to put that sentence in: I don’t see why;

of course you would know that a lantern did not cost all that! I like

handsome buildings; I am going to be an architect.

I study all the different forms of buildings; I like the Greek cross

style very well, but I don’t know how it would look for a private

house. Aunt Kate says all that has nothing to do with St. Louis, but I

don’t care. You don’t mind my telling what interests me, do you?

ARTHUR BLAKEMAN.

* * * * *

THERE is a building in St. Louis called “Four Courts,” named after

the “Four Courts” of Dublin. But I think it was queer to name it Four

Courts, and then have only three courts held in it. It is a stone

building, and cost a good deal of money. Stone buildings always do; I

suppose that is because they last so long; things that last always cost

a great deal. I have hunted and hunted to find something interesting

about St. Louis that everybody else would not be likely to tell, and

the only thing I could find was this about the Four Courts. I don’t

know as that is interesting, but it is the best I could do.

MARY BLAKEMAN.

[Illustration: THE DENISON HOUSE.]

* * * * *

THEY have a splendid Public-school Library in St. Louis. My father said

when he was there ten years ago there were over fifty thousand volumes

in it—books to help teachers and scholars. My father says he thinks

other cities might copy after them in this. Colleges have libraries on

purpose for their students, why should not public schools?

WILL VANDENBERG.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE CUSTOM HOUSE.]

THEY have a splendid Custom House and Post-Office in St. Louis. Father

says the building cost half a million. He was there when it was being

built, and he says there is something grand-looking about it. And

father says they have splendid schools there; not only public schools,

but lots of private ones. The Washington University is there, and

so, of course, is the St. Louis University; and they have the finest

kindergartens there, I think, to be found outside of Germany. My uncle

says I might as well leave that sentence out, for the kindergartens in

the United States are better than those in Germany. But I am not going

to leave it out; I don’t like crossed-out lines in a letter, and I

haven’t time to copy this. Besides, lots of people think that things in

other countries are nicer than our own, of course.

CHARLES J. PRESCOTT, JR.

* * * * *

RITA was riding on a road that went winding up hill and

down dale, when she remarked, “Well, I never did saw

such a curly road.”

A SEED THAT BLOSSOMED.

ELISE was spending the afternoon with Miss Dora Turner. Miss Turner

was several years older than Elise, but she had come to the country to

live among strangers, and Elise had known her in her city home, and was

lonely like herself, so they became intimate friends. Elise told all

her sorrows and perplexities, as well as her joys, to this young lady.

She was in Miss Turner’s room now, waiting for her to rearrange her

hair and make some additions to her toilet, then they were going for a

walk.

“I don’t know where we can go, I am sure,” said Elise; “we have used

up all the pretty walks near by. I wish it was early enough to go for

a long tramp; I would like to do something different this afternoon. I

feel tired of all the things I ever did.”

“Poor little old lady!” said Miss Turner, laughing, “there will have to

be a new world made for you, Elise.” Then, as she turned, she caught

the flash of the diamond at Elise’s throat, and said: “How lovely your

pin is! It seems too lovely and too costly for a young girl.”

“It was mamma’s,” said Elise gravely, “and papa promised mamma he would

give it to me on my fourteenth birthday. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Why, no, indeed. That explains it. I wondered that your father should

send you a diamond pin at your age; but it is beautiful for you to have

your mother’s pin to wear. Why didn’t you tell me, Elise?”

“Because,” said Elise, “there was a part to it that I did not

understand, and I suppose I did not want to speak of it. Mamma sent me

a message with it; at least papa said that the words inside were her

message; she had them engraved on it before she died, so it seems like

mamma’s last words to me, and indeed it is; but I do not understand it,

nor know how to do it, nor anything. I don’t suppose you could show me?”

The question was asked with a half-laugh, and not at all as though

Elise supposed that she could get any help from this quarter.

Miss Turner’s fair face flushed. “I don’t suppose I could,” she

answered gravely; “I don’t know much about such things, Elise.”

What she meant by “such things” perhaps would have been difficult for

her to explain. But the thought in her mind was, that “last messages”

from dying mothers would not be such as she could explain. Elise’s

mother had been dead for many years; at least they seemed many to

Elise, though she could remember her beautiful mother distinctly;

and when she thought it all over, as she often did in the twilight,

could seem to feel her mother’s kiss upon her lips, and the pressure

of her mother’s hand on the yellow curls which used to be hers in

those days. She was not yet six years old when her mother went away,

but there were times when it seemed to her that she had seen her only

yesterday. And at other times the years which stretched between seemed

very, very long. Her father was in India in the Government employ; had

been there for five years. And Elise, who received long letters from

him, and elegant presents, and talked a great deal about him, yet felt

sometimes that she really knew him less than she did her beautiful pale

mother, who used to love her so, and kiss her so tenderly. Elise lived

with an aunt who was very fond of her, and did everything to supply

her mother’s place, and her uncle called her his adopted daughter;

yet sometimes she cried when she was tucked up in bed for the night,

because she longed so to have a mamma and papa and a home of her own,

like other girls. It was perhaps because Miss Turner had no mother that

she had felt drawn toward her in the first place.

“What is the message?” her friend asked. “May I see it, Elise? I am

half-surprised that you do not understand it; you are such a thoughtful

young person, and seem older than you are; I have a feeling that you

can understand what most others do.”

Elise made no reply save to unclasp the pin and pass it to her friend.

Miss Turner moved toward the window, where the light would fall upon

it. It was a lovely arch of gold, a tiny diamond flashing in its

center, and on the reverse side was engraved, in small but distinct

letters, the words: “Keep His covenant.” “Why, Elise!” she said, “how

beautiful this is. I should think you would like it very much.”

“I do,” said Elise, “of course; only it gives me a strange feeling, as

though mamma had sent me word to do something that I could not do; and

I have always thought that I would like to do things to please mamma,

if I only knew just what she wanted done.”

“Well, but, dear,” said Miss Turner hesitatingly, “surely you can find

out what this means, in a general way.”

Elise smiled sadly. “I remember mamma very well,” she said, “and she

always wanted me to do exactly as she said.”

“Well,” said Miss Turner again, after an embarrassed pause, “this is

exact enough; she means you to live a good life, you know.”

“I don’t know what it means,” said Elise, moving restlessly. “As for

being good, I am not, and I don’t know how to be; I cannot keep my

temper a single day. You know I never get through a day without having

a tiff of some sort with Cousin Annie; and there are ever so many

people who vex me and worry me so that I cannot feel right toward them.

That is not being good. Besides, the words seem to me to mean something

more than that—something different. I would like to know exactly what

they mean, but there is nobody that I can ask. Papa does not understand

such things, and uncle and auntie do not. I don’t seem to have any

friends who could help in that way.”

Miss Turner gave back the pin, looking very thoughtful indeed. She

ought to know more about those things than Elise did, she told herself;

her father was not a Christian, and her mother had died when her

little girl was six years old, whereas Miss Turner had lived always in

a home where the father and mother were earnest Christians, and she

knew at this very moment that the greatest desire of their hearts was

to see her doing this very thing—“keeping His covenant.” Yet she knew

as little about it practically as Elise Burton did; so little, that

although she was at least six years older than Elise, she did not know

in the least how to help her this afternoon. It was very humiliating.

She could help her with her music, and with her French lessons, and

her drawing, and to have this most important of all lessons beyond her,

seemed strange and wrong. She was still for several minutes, then she

said, speaking very gently:

“Elise dear, I can imagine how you feel with this message from your

mother; I wish I knew how to help you. But there is a way to learn what

it means. There is a verse in the Bible somewhere that explains its

meaning.”

Elise looked up quickly. “Where?” she asked. “The Bible is such a big

book, and I do not know much about it. I did try last Sunday to find

something about covenants that would help me. I went away back to Noah

and the rainbow, but I did not get any good out of it for me.”

Miss Dora went to her table and took up an elegantly bound reference

Bible, full of help which she did not understand, and turning in a

half-bewildered, half-embarrassed manner to the Concordance, ran

her eye down the list of words marked “covenant.” Elise watched her

curiously. She had no Concordance in her Bible, and did not know how to

use one. At last Miss Dora turned to a verse.

“This explains a little of it,” she said, and read aloud: “This shall

be the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel in those

days, saith the Lord; I will put my law in their inward parts, and

write it in their hearts, and will be their God and they shall be my

people.” As she read a curious light came into her eyes.

“It is very strange,” she said; “that is the verse that they are going

to talk about this afternoon at the covenant meeting.”

“What is a covenant meeting?” asked Elise eagerly.

“It is the young people’s quarterly meeting at the church where I am

attending. Every three months their Christian Endeavor Society have a

gathering which they call a covenant meeting. I don’t know much about

it; I have not been; but they talk together about such things; the

pastor comes and talks to them. They say the meetings are interesting.

What if we should walk in that direction, Elise, and go in a little

while? Mr. Westfield invited me to come, but I did not have an idea

that I should do so. I do not attend such meetings much, you know. But

if you would like to go, Elise, and find out about your pin, I will go

with you.”

“Well,” said Elise, starting up with more energy than she had shown

before for several days, “I will. I want to know about ‘His covenant.’

I do, truly. Mamma asked me to, you know; and perhaps if I understood

it it would tell me just exactly what she wanted me to do all the time,

and I should be so glad to do it.”

“We will go and find out,” said Miss Turner gravely.

Thus the little seed dropped by the loving mother’s hand took root and

blossomed in two lives, though the hand which sowed the seed had been

dust for many years.

PANSY.

[Illustration: WHEN GRANDFATHER WAS YOUNG.]

[Illustration: THE OLD QUESTION.]

A SCARECROW.

ALEX HAINES and Eva were promised a piece of ground as their very own

if they would cultivate (what is that?) it.

Each took a hoe and began. By night Alex and Eva had planted a rod

square to corn.

Then they watched the corn; that is, they watched for the corn. After

a few days, sure enough, the spots where the corn was planted—that is,

the hills—began to swell as though something wanted to get out. Then up

came a bit of a green leaf. Higher it grew, and they came often to see

it.

One day they came and found some of the hills pulled up, and while they

wondered what thief had been about, they heard from the top of a tree,

“Caw, caw, caw!”

The thief was a crow.

So they must scare the crows away, or the corn will be all pulled up,

and their labor will be in vain.

Crows are afraid of men; but men cannot stay all the time in the field

to scare the crows off. So something that looks like a man must be set

up in the corn patch to scare the crows away.

With a pair of pants, a coat, a hat, and three old brooms, they are

making a man! When it is all done it will not look much like a man.

It has neither eyes, nose nor mouth. It can not walk nor talk. The

scarecrow has no heart or soul, but it can scare crows away from the

corn.

The gods of the heathen have eyes, but they can’t see. They can’t see

or hear or feel or think.

They are made gods, and those who make such gods worship them. They

think such things can scare away evil and do them good!

But such gods just scare the heathen, and of course cannot save them.

Ah! if the poor, deceived people knew of Him “who so loved the world

that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him

should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

What Pansy among you will go and tell them, or help send a preacher to

them?

L.

[Illustration: BUILDING THE SCARECROW.]

* * * * *

THERE is a grand temperance organization in Sweden, which is trying

to get rid of the saloon. Last year their Government appropriated

twenty-five thousand crowns, a portion of which was set apart to be

used as awards for the best essays on the different phases of the

temperance question, with suggestions as to how soonest to rid the

country of the curse of alcohol.

[Illustration: GREAT-GRANDMOTHER’S SAMPLER.]

A DOUBLE LESSON.

“THERE!” said Davie Campbell, flinging as he spoke a large,

sharp-pointed stick right where his brother stood, “take that; I don’t

care if it does hurt you. I hate you, George Campbell!”

The stick was aimed even more surely than Davie in his blind rage

imagined. It struck his brother’s side face, making an ugly wound, from

which the blood flowed freely.

[Illustration: SHE HELD UP A WARNING HAND.]

“Ah, ha!” said George, as he turned to the pump and began to bathe the

wound, “look what you have done now. What will mother say to you, young

man? And as for me, that will make a scar, and I will wear it all my

life to remember you by. You will like that, won’t you? You will just

enjoy having people ask me where I got that scar, and me having to tell

that my beloved brother did it on purpose, because he hated me. Oh, ho!

you are a jewel, you are,” and George Campbell laughed, and dodged

just in time to escape a stone from his angry brother’s hand; then went

off down the street, leaving Davie in a perfect rage.

He was three years younger than his brother, and was said by the

neighbors to have a great deal worse disposition than George, but

I never felt sure of that. However, it is quite true that instead

of being master of his temper he let it master him. He had, also, a

wretched habit of throwing anything he might happen to have in his hand

when the angry fit seized him, letting it strike wherever it might. In

this way he had narrowly escaped doing serious mischief, and he had

promised himself hundreds of times that he would never, never throw

things again, and yet, as soon as he grew angry, so settled was that

habit upon him, that the stick or stone was apt to fly through the air.

As for George, I think he was quite as easily angered as his brother,

but his habit was to laugh, or sneer, or say the most taunting words

imaginable, with a sort of superior smile on his face the while. On the

whole, I am not sure that George appeared any better in the sight of

Him who can read hearts than did his brother Davie.

They were not the worst boys in the world, by any means; they did not

quarrel all the time. For days together they would succeed in being

very friendly, and in having good times, but it must be confessed that

George had discovered certain directions in which his young brother

could be easily teased, and that he delighted to tease him.

“Davie is such a little spitfire,” he used to say to his Aunt Mary,

when she argued with him about the sin of such a habit. “Why does he

want to go off like a pop gun the first word that is said to him? I

never do.”

“No,” said Aunt Mary; “you laugh—a laugh which makes him feel more

angry than he did before, and you say something to increase his rage.

Is that really being any better than he?” But these questions George

did not like to answer.

On this particular morning, after having stopped the blood from his

wound, he had sauntered away to see two of his friends who worked in

the paper factory near at hand. There he mounted their work table and

answered the questions which they eagerly put to him as to how he

happened to get hurt.

“Oh! it is Davie’s work; he’s a great boy. If he had had an open

jack-knife in his hand it would have been all the same; it would have

been flung at me when he got mad. I hope when he grows up he will never

take a notion to carry a pistol, for if he does he will shoot the first

fellow who laughs at him, or who laughs when he is within hearing.”

“Why, George,” said one of the boys, “that will make an ugly scar.”

“I dare say it will. I will carry it all my life to remember him by.”

“It is a pity that he is such a little tiger; I wouldn’t stand it if I

were you,” said the other boy. “You are a good deal older than he; why

don’t you make him behave himself?”

In this way poor Davie was discussed by the three, George telling story

after story about his brother, led on by the sympathy which the two

professed, into making Davie the one always to blame, and himself the

injured, long-suffering elder brother. The boys did not know Davie very

well, and George had always been good-natured with them, so of course

they were on his side, and ready to sympathize with him for having such

a wicked little brother. The longer George talked the more of a martyr

he grew to considering himself; he racked his brain for illustrations

of Davie’s ill temper, and was in the midst of a very harrowing story

when Joe Winters appeared, breathless with running, and panted out:

“Is George Campbell here? I say, George Campbell, your folks want

you to come home just as fast as you can. Davie has tumbled from the

scaffolding of the big barn and killed himself! or—well, he ain’t dead;

but he lies there still; can’t stir nor speak, and they have sent for

two doctors, and everybody thinks he is going to die.”

Poor George Campbell! To have seen the look on his face when he heard

this dreadful piece of news you would not have imagined that he could

have had so hard an opinion of his little brother as he had been

trying to show for the last hour. He jumped from the table, and made a

dash for the door before Joe had finished his panting sentences, but

paused with the door in his hand to say: “O, boys! it isn’t half of it

true—what I have been telling you; I have been worse than Davie every

time. If I hadn’t laughed at him, and teased him, and made fun of him,

he never would have got angry at me. O, boys! if he dies it will kill

me.” Then he ran.

What hours those were which followed, while the little brother lay on

his bed, moaning steadily, but unconscious, so the doctors declared,

and they shook their heads gravely in answer to questions, and would

not give one ray of hope that he might by and by open his eyes and know

them. Truth to tell, they thought he was going to die, and that very

soon. But doctors are sometimes mistaken, and these were. Davie did not

die; he lay day after day moaning with pain, not knowing any of the

dear friends who bent over him; staring at George with wild, unnatural

eyes, as if he were some comical object, instead of the brother who

hovered about him, longing, oh! so eagerly for just one glance of

recognition.

There came a day when the doctors said it was possible—just barely

possible—that Davie might awaken from the long sleep into which he

had fallen, and know his friends. How still they kept the house, and

how silently the mother sat hour after hour by his bedside, relieved

only by the little sister, who came on tiptoe to take her place, that

she might go out and drink a cup of tea to help her bear the nervous

strain. Even then she only went into the next room, separated from

Davie’s by a curtain, and came back when she had got half-way across

the room because she thought she heard a sound behind those curtains.

There was no sound; Jennie was sitting quietly at her post, a wise

little nurse; she held up a warning hand, ready to motion anybody back

into silence who might be tiptoeing toward them. She had imagined it

was George, for he, poor fellow, hovered near, looking almost as pale

and worn as the boy with his head on the pillow.

Terrible days these had been to George. He was not sure that he ever

prayed in his life before, but during those days he prayed with

terrible earnestness, that Davie might not go away with those last

words of his ringing in his ears. “If he could only know me long enough

for me to ask him to forgive me!” said poor George to himself, while

the tears rolled down his cheeks. “Then I think I would be almost

willing to have him die. O, God! let me just tell him that I am sorry,

and that I will not remember him in any such way, but I will think of

the thousands of good and loving things he has done for me.”

[Illustration: AT PONT NEUF.]

I am sure you will be glad to know that his prayer was answered. Davie

awoke from his long sleep with a look of quiet astonishment in his

eyes, to think that he was lying in bed, and mother and Jennie were

sitting beside him, and that George was standing over by the window. He

did not remember any of the days that had passed between. He did not

remember at first the fall from the scaffolding. He was by no means out

of danger, the doctor said, yet there was a thread, just a thread of

hope that he might rally. And so the days which followed were quite as

full of anxiety and care as those in which he had been unconscious.

But Davie steadily gained, and there came a bright morning in midsummer

when George was permitted to take care of him alone, while his mother

attended to some household duties, and Jennie swept the dining-room

and set the table. It was George’s opportunity. He had longed for

it, but he did not know how to use it. How should he begin? While he

considered, Davie began for him.

“It did leave a scar, didn’t it?” he said mournfully. “O, George! I

remember all about it; it came to me just a few days ago. Wasn’t it

awful? George, the hardest part has been to think that maybe I should

die and leave that scar for you to remember me by.”

“Don’t,” said George, who had not the least idea that he should cry any

more about this thing, yet who felt the tears starting in his eyes. “O,

don’t, Davie! forget those horrid hateful things I said to you. You

can’t think how many nice things I had to remember of you—hundreds and

hundreds of them.”

“No,” said Davie mournfully; “I have always been throwing sticks and

stones and hurting things. Don’t you remember how I lamed the cat, and

killed a bird once, and then made that scar on your face? That is the

worst of all. O, George! if I had died what a way to be remembered.

Think of the lots of things that people could have told of me like

that.”

George winced visibly, for these were some of the things he had told

the boys in the paper factory that day.

“I tell you what it is,” he said, swallowing hard to try and speak

without a tremble in his voice, “you and I have both had a lesson,

Davie. If you had died I could never have forgiven myself for having

teased you for getting angry, and then having said that I would

remember you by this little scar, which doesn’t amount to anything,

anyhow. It wasn’t true, Davie; I wouldn’t have remembered you that way.”

“I don’t see how you could have helped it,” said Davie mournfully; “but

I am truly and surely going to be different after this. If you see me

getting angry and acting as if I was going to throw things, I wish you

would tie up my hands, or hold them, or something.”

“We will both be different,” said George. “It won’t do to plan such

things as we had to remember. We will begin now and plan to have nice

pleasant things, so that when—that when”—But his voice trembled and

broke; he had been too near parting with Davie forever to put in words

the thought that some time the parting would surely come.

But I fancy that they must have kept their words and begun over again,

for this happened several years ago. George and Davie are young men

now, and yesterday I heard them called “model brothers.” They really

seem to be planning to have only pleasant things to remember of each

other when the time comes for one of them to go away.

PANSY.

MUSIC AND WAR.

GEORGE NOYES—that is not his real name—is now in Europe sightseeing. He

spends one week in beautiful Paris, where the people talk French, and

do not do everything quite as do Americans or Englishmen.

George is learning to speak French. He has got on so far that he can

tell in French to the waiters just what he will have of the bill of

fare.

Yesterday he and his Uncle Fred went to Pont Neuf, a bridge more than a

thousand feet long, and three hundred years old. King Henry the Fourth

had it built. Visitors of Paris must needs see this wonderful bridge,

or they have not seen Paris. That’s what they say.

[Illustration: ON DRILL.]

While George was looking this way and that from the bridge, and

thinking of the war times of kings and princes, he heard sweet music,

and turning to see whence it came, he saw a company of boys playing on

drums and bugles, under the leadership of a soldier and one of their

own companions.

There they drill every pleasant afternoon, and delight the multitudes

who gather on Pont Neuf.

However, it is not all for fun they are playing charming French music,

and among the rest the Marseillaise Hymn. They are getting ready for

war times, for fierce battles and blood and death.

Most nations have had many wars, and millions of their people have been

slain, and no words can tell the suffering. Some day I fear those nice

French boys, grown to be men, will be playing the Marseillaise Hymn on

some awful battle field, while thousands of French and Germans, or some

other people, will be falling and dying!

All this because one nation wants some of the other nation’s land, or

for some other wicked cause.

“Blessed are the peace makers, for”—

L.

JEAN.

COME now, the good ship _City of Paris_ sails in a few days, so let us

away over the ocean to France.

Here we are in Paris, the most beautiful, though not the best city in

the world, they say.

But after six days sightseeing we’ll hurry to another place, and here

we are in Domremy. Here we’ll roam over the hills and think. See that

cluster of trees? We must sit under them and upon that very stone.

There on that grassy bank where the flowers are blooming, and at whose

foot runs a gentle brook, we must spend an hour and think, think who

sat upon that very spot nearly five hundred years ago and watched her

father’s flock of sheep or listened to the singing birds or talked with

God through the sweet roses she holds. Now she looks up at the great

sun, now at a passing cloud; now a soft wind fans her face; a shepherd

dog lies at her feet; just yonder some lambs are nestled together.

She is but thirteen years old, but she loves to speak to God as though

he were by her side—and is he not?

Late one evening she comes leading the sheep home. Sitting alone

looking out into the moonlight, Jeanne’s mother inquires: “My child,

what keeps you so long in the field? You must come home earlier, my

darling, or something will happen to you.”

“But, mamma, I’ve heard voices in the fields, and they seem to come

from the roses and the rocks and the robins and in every wind, and they

tell me of my native land and my home and God, that I must love _ma

belle France_, and save it out of the hands of all its enemies, and

this is what keeps me so late, my sweet, dear mamma.”

“Voices, child?”

“Aye, mamma, voices from Heaven speaking in my heart. Your Jeanne hears

them loud, in my heart, at least, and they say I must save my poor sad

country.”

Jeanne’s mother could say nothing, but wonder if the child was out of

her mind, or if she had really had a vision of angels, as in olden

times they came to the shepherds while they watched their flocks.

So the years went by, Jeanne always saying that these heavenly voices

were calling her to save her unhappy country, her friends and neighbors

sometimes calling her crazy.

She was now seventeen, a lovely pure girl, sorrowing much over the wars

and troubles of her own beloved France. Ah! they were dark days indeed;

this one wanted to be king, and that one said he must rule; armies

met and fought, and some of the young men who went from Domremy, and

with whom Jeanne had played, were brought back from the battle fields

wounded and dying.

Then came a great army over from England, and city after city of France

fell before its awful march. The frightened King Charles the Seventh

feared all was lost. He knew not whither to fly with his sad little

army. But just when he was going to give up word came to him about the

girl of Domremy, our sweet Jeanne. Quickly a messenger was dispatched

to her plain little home, and out into the fields he hastened to find

her feeding her flock. He urged her to come to her king with all speed.

She knew what it meant; she knew her hour was now come to save her “_la

belle France_.”

Bidding her mother to pray for her, and covering her neck with kisses,

she was soon galloping off with the messenger to the camp of the king.

A smile of hope lit up his anxious face as she came into his presence.

She told him about the “voices,” and said she was sure she could lead

his army to victory if he would give her soldiers.

So then and there he put upon her the strong armor of commander, and

giving her a sword and a war horse she led her little band against the

English. They had heard of her, and thought she was sent of God, and

fear fell upon them, and they threw down their arms and fled away in

dismay.

Meanwhile, though Jeanne waved her flashing sword she never struck a

blow with it, but she was again and again wounded.

At last came complete victory, and Jeanne saw the enemies of her

beloved France fleeing from Orleans before her rejoicing army. For this

she was called “_La Pucelle d’Orleans_,” or the Maid of Orleans. But

she is usually called Joan of Arc.

After so much triumph she pleaded with her king to let her return to

her dear Domremy home, but he would not consent. Meanwhile some of the

great captains envied her all her victories, and managed to let her

be taken prisoner. Now comes the sad, sad thing to tell. After this

noble girl had saved her country, her king and the others let her be

put into prison, tried, condemned, and burned to death as a witch! This

is not the only case in which the best friend a country ever had was

cruelly treated by that country. Jesus was crucified, crucified by his

own people, whom he came to save. But scarcely had twenty years gone

by before all the bitter persecutors of this dear brave Jeanne came

to violent deaths, and the people, instead of calling her a witch,

proclaimed her innocent, and a statue was erected to her memory on the

very spot where she was burned, and her family was promoted by the king.

L.

HEATHEN WOMEN.

ONE of the two is smoking. She likes it, too. Men say it is nice to

smoke and chew tobacco; why should not the women have as good a time as

the men? Or why is it any worse for a woman than a man? And yet if the

girls and women of America should begin to smoke and race horses, and

do similar things they would be called heathenish.

[Illustration: TYPES OF HEATHEN WOMEN.]

So it is, women in heathen lands all have bad times and fall into

bad wars. If they ever dress themselves, and behave themselves as

they ought, and have good, lovely homes, and care tenderly for their

children, it will be when they learn about Jesus, who came and died to

save a lost world. How can they learn without a preacher?

L.

[Illustration: STATUE AT COPAN, GUATEMALA.]

[Illustration: TYPES OF UNCIVILIZED CHINESE WOMEN.]

“FAX AND FIGGERS.”

WE clip from the Union Signal a remarkable “queer story,” joined to an

arithmetical problem. The story has a moral well worth considering, and

a “sum” worth doing.

“I hav of lait got at sum stubbun fax and figgers. 2 siggars a day,

costing oanly a nikkle eech, for 20 yeers at 1st Site appeers to Bee a

smol matter. Let us figger the cost. 10 sents daly for 365 daze reeches

the sum ov $36.50. We will not rekkon interrist the first yeer, but

the interrist on $36.50 for 19 yeers at 6 purr sent is $73.92, and the

Totle ov prinsipple and interrist at 6 Purr sent, kompoundid yeerly,

at the end ov 20 yeers maiks the neet little Sum ov $1,338.54. That

izzn’t a grate eel, but it wood Bi 200 barrils ov good flower, and in

Sum sekshuns ov the kuntry wood maik wun the oaner ov a good farm,

with houce, barn, wel, sisstern, froot treeze and wood-lot on it,

possibly a jurzy cow and sum Uther niknax throne into the bargin. But

my expeeryunce has tot me that fax and figgers prodoose but a Slite

impresshun on wun who has fully dessidid to maik bacon ov his Branes

bi turning his mouth into a smoakhouce. He communly prefurs the hi and

eggzaltid privvylige ov bloin smoak thru hiz noze to having enny uther

erthly pozeshun.”

A PUZZLE.

IF an S and an I and an O and a U,

With an X at the end spell Su;

And an E and a Y and an E spell I,

Pray what is a speller to do?

Then, if also an S and an I and a G

And an H, E, D spell cide,

There’s nothing much left for a speller to do

But to go and commit siouxeyesighed.

—_Selected._

CELIA’S EASTER OFFERING.

CELIA’S share of the flowers was lovely. She buried her face in the

blooms again and again, and seemed unable to get enough of their

sweetness.

They had spent the entire morning in the woods hunting for treasures,

she and her particular friend, Helen Beardsley. Helen attended another

Sunday-school, so they had carefully divided the flowers, for they were

to be used in decorating the church for the Easter service.

“You will smell all the sweetness out of those things, child,” said

Miss Agatha Foster, looking up from the bit of satin she was carefully

embroidering. Miss Agatha was Celia’s oldest sister.

[Illustration: HESTER THOUGHT ABOUT IT.]

“O, no, I won’t!” said Celia, laughing; “they have all the sweetness

of the woods in them. You can’t think how the woods smelled this

morning! It seemed just like heaven.”

Agatha and the middle sister, Lorene, looked at each other and laughed.

“What an idea!” said Lorene; “it is the first time I ever heard the

woods compared to heaven.”

Mrs. Foster came into the room at that moment, and stopped by the

table near the door to arrange the books; there was a tired, somewhat

troubled look on her face. “Poor Hester has had to be disappointed

again about going home,” she said.

[Illustration: CHRIST IS RISEN]

“Why, mother,” said Agatha, “that is really too bad. It is the third

Saturday she has missed, and their baby is sick, you know.”

“I know it,” said Mrs. Foster, looking more troubled still; “but what

can I do? There will be company to tea, and cook cannot leave the

kitchen to answer the bell; she can not even attend to the downstairs

bell; it rings every few minutes on Saturdays; besides, there is extra

work for her to do, and somebody must set the table for her. I don’t

suppose either of you could give her a lift, could you, and let Hester

go?”

There was inquiry in the mother’s tone, but no expectation. Agatha

lifted her eyebrows, but there was a difficult spot in her embroidery

just then, so she made no reply; but Lorene turned quite away from the

piano to answer:

“Why, mother, how could we? I have my practicing to do; I have to sing

twice to-morrow, you know. Of course that would not take me long, but

we couldn’t run to the door every time the bell rang, could we, and

receive callers at the same time?”

“And as for setting the table,” said Agatha, who had righted her

embroidery and was taking neat stitches, “I never could get all the

things on a table. It wouldn’t be possible for me to set it for

company.”

“I suppose it cannot be arranged,” said Mrs. Foster. “I must finish

Grandma’s cap so she can wear it this evening; her other is really

unfit, and I have several stitches to take for Celia, as well. Hester

must wait another week. I told her so; but she seemed so disappointed

that I wondered if there were not some way to plan it.”

“Perhaps she can run down there after tea to see how the baby is,”

Lorene said, but Mrs. Foster shook her head. “Cook will need her to

look after things in the kitchen while she waits on table, and it will

be quite dark before we shall be through; she could not go alone after

dark.”

It was Agatha’s turn to sigh. “We need a second girl,” she said; “it is

ridiculous for a family of our size to try to get along with only cook,

and that little bit of a Hester.”

“We shall certainly have to get along,” was her mother’s answer, spoken

with quiet positiveness; “you know as well as I that we can not afford

more help this season.”

Meantime Celia, her fingers still busy with the masses of flowers she

was trying to arrange in a basket for carrying, had listened, her face

growing more and more gravely thoughtful.

It was Sabbath evening in her thoughts, and she was in the Christian

Endeavor meeting, listening to Agatha’s voice while she quoted from

some grand old writer a thought like this: “We plan our Easter

offerings, and beautify His temple for the glad day, and that is well;

but we are to remember that as there would have been no Easter had He

not given Himself, so the highest and best offering we can bring to

Him is our unselfish consecrated selves.” Celia remembered the thrill

with which she had listened. Agatha’s voice was like music, and the

thoughts had seemed to fit her voice and make a poem of them, which had

thrilled the beauty-loving heart of her young sister.

That was a week ago. Why should the words come back to her this

afternoon, and ring in her heart like soft bells, calling her?

What had they to do with Hester, and the door-bells to answer, and the

table to set for company, and a sick baby at home? “The highest and

best offering we can bring to Him is our unselfish consecrated selves,”

rang the bells in her heart, and her lips spoke: “Mother, may I take

Hester’s place this afternoon, and let her go home? I can set the

table; cook said I did it beautifully the last time.”

“You!” said her mother, in surprise, and both the sisters exclaimed.

“Why, I thought, dear, your class was to meet at Marion’s to help

arrange the flowers for the Easter service?”

“And I thought you were all invited to stay to tea at Marion’s?” added

Agatha.

“So we are,” said Celia, answering them both in one; “but the girls can

get along well enough without me. There are eight of them, and Marion’s

Aunt Laura is going to show them how to arrange everything; and as for

staying to tea, why, I can do that another time; and the baby is sick,

and Hester is worried about him, I know. I should like to stay, mother,

truly, if you will let me.”

“Let you, child! I shall be thankful for your help. To tell the truth,

it seemed really selfish to keep Hester this afternoon, only I did not

know how to plan; I was sure cook could not get along without help,

though she was willing to try, because she felt sorry for Hester.”

“May I tell Hester about it, mother?” Celia asked, her eyes shining;

“and she can carry my flowers and leave them at Marion’s.”

The flowers and their owner went away together, followed by Mrs.

Foster. As for the young ladies, Agatha took pretty pink silk stitches

on the lovely white satin and said not a word, while Lorene, turning to

the piano, played a few bars, and sang softly:

“Low in the grave he lay,

Jesus my Saviour,”

breaking off to say: “Celia is a strange little girl, isn’t she?”

“Very strange,” answered Agatha, and she finished a pink bud as she

spoke. She was making an Easter offering.

Nobody, it is safe to say, was more surprised at the turn of affairs

than was Hester. She thought about it while she hurriedly combed the

tangle of hair before her bit of broken glass, and made ready for going

home. She was worried about the baby, but she divided her thoughts

with this strange offering from Celia. She knew all about the Easter

flowers, and the plans for the afternoon, and the high tea together at

Marion’s lovely home. Celia’s talk had been full of it for the past two

days. “I’d just like to know what made her do it, anyhow,” was Hester’s

concluding question, offered aloud to the tin basin, in which she

energetically washed her hands when the hair was done.

Easter morning was beautiful with sunshine and the song of birds, when

Celia, looking from her window, saw Hester tripping around to the back

door. She had been allowed to stay at home all night.

“O, Hester!” called Celia, “how is the baby?”

Hester looked up with a glad smile. “He is better,” she said, “ever so

much better. Mother would have sent me word, only she expected me. He

laughed and crowed as soon as he saw me, and you can’t think what a

lovely time I had with him. Say, Celia, I want to know what made you do

it?”

Celia’s sensitive face flushed, and she hesitated. How was she to tell

Hester why she did it? From the next room came the notes of Lorene’s

voice, as clear as any bird’s, rising high and pure:

“Low in the grave he lay,

Jesus my Saviour.”

“It was that,” she said simply.

“What?” asked Hester; “I don’t know what you mean.”

“That that Lorene is singing. He ‘lay in the grave,’ you know, for us.

That is why it is Easter. I wanted to do something for somebody, and I

hadn’t any big thing.”

“It was a big thing to me,” Hester said, and went inside the back door.

Celia’s face was just a trifle shadowed. Despite every effort to put

it away, the thought would come: “After all, I needn’t have given it

up. The baby is better, and her mother would have sent her word, and

another Saturday would have done just as well; and I missed all the

beauty and the fun. I know how to arrange flowers.”

The shadow staid just a little during the Sunday-school hour. The

girls were eager over the delights of the day before—eager to know

how she could possibly have staid away. The lovely cross made largely

of her own flowers, and bearing on their green background in pure

white blossoms the words, “He is risen,” was the most beautiful floral

decoration in the church. “Aunt Laura made it,” Marion said. “You did

not deserve to have it arranged so beautifully; we thought you ought to

have had interest enough to have come and seen it, anyhow. Why didn’t

you?”

“Never mind now,” said Celia; “I cannot explain, only I thought I could

not go.” Her offering seemed to her small and uncalled-for; she could

not talk about it. Yet, before the morning prayer in church was over,

the shadow had lifted. “I did it truly for Him,” said Celia softly, to

herself; “He knows I did, and whether it was of use or not, it is all

right.” And when Lorene sang, in a voice like an angel’s:

“Low in the grave he lay,

Jesus my Saviour,”

she could not help being glad that she did it.

That evening, when they were coming out of the Christian Endeavor

meeting, the minister, who was shaking hands with the young people on

every side, held in his left hand a single calla lily of rare beauty.

As he held out his hand to Celia he laid the lily against her cheek and

said: “That is for you, little girl. A token from the Master, I think,

since he made it. Let me tell you something which will make it bloom

for you forever. Hester came to me this evening to say that she wanted

to belong to Jesus, and learn how to grow like him, just as you had.”

PANSY.

[Illustration: BURSTING INTO LIFE.]

[Illustration: A STORMY MORNING.]

[Illustration: CROSSING THE ATLANTIC. (_See “The Old World Too.”_)]

WHITE AS WOOL.

WOOL is not always white. Its owner sometimes is black—was born black.

It can’t help it, you see. Sometimes, however, it gets into the dirt,

and the snowy wool becomes dirty.

Sometimes it creeps among the burned stumps and logs, and soon looks as

black as the stump itself.

Now what happens? The shearer does not want to clip off such stuff, and

the merchant can’t sell dirty wool, nor can the weaver weave a nice

shawl from it; and, if he did, no clean Pansy would want to put it on

week days or Sundays.

What then? It must be washed. The dirty black sheep must be put into

the water, and washed and washed and washed.

Then let him go up from the water and give himself a good shaking and

stand in the green grass and let the warm, shining sun dry its hair—I

mean wool.

Now it is white and soft and beautiful, and if Mr. Sheep could see

himself in the looking-glass he might be proud of his beauty.

The blood of Jesus Christ cleanses from all sin. Sin is a dirty

thing—worse than mud. Heathenism is a dreadfully dirty, filthy thing.

The Gospel we send them is like water for the dirty wool.

The Bible says to the worst sinner there is in the world:

“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though

they be red like crimson they shall be as wool.” (Is. i. 18.)

L.

EASTER GREETING.

BE thy risen Lord, to-day,

All thy help and all thy stay;

All thy comfort in the night;

All thy gladness in the light;

Filling, with his love divine,

Every hungering of thine!

ALICE F. DUNLAP.

MISS LOUISE JOHNSON’S LETTER.

SHE wrote it from Lien Chow, China. It was published in “Woman’s Work

for Woman.”

Here it is:

“We expect to be packed into smaller boats this P. M. to go the last

ten miles up the Sam Kong River. People are looking at the windows.

Women are expressing astonishment that I can write. . . .

“We have had a charming trip. The beauty of the country grows upon

me. Many of the clear crystal waterfalls were several hundred feet in

descent. The river winds around the bases of mountains, and so seems to

be a succession of beautiful lakes. It reminds one of Delaware Water

Gap.

[Illustration: “WE TRAVELED IN THE DAYTIME.”]

“We traveled in the daytime, stopping an hour or two. Then came the

sick to our Dr. Machle. We gave tracts to the people. At one place the

women came in little boats. I stood at the window and read to them.

They listened, and thanked me for ‘teaching’ them.

“I want to write more letters, though I now write many. It takes three

months for a letter and its reply from New York to Canton; four months

to Sam Kong. I like to write, and am delighted to get letters. Some of

the best have been from strangers. So all my dear young friends may

continue to write me; I will answer as soon as I can get time.”

BABY’S CORNER.

A MAY MORNING.

IN a green yard stands a gray old house. In the house live six happy

children. They have many things to make them glad and happy.

All around are green fields and hills and tall trees. Every day they

see the pretty pictures which the sun makes in the sky when he gets up

and goes to bed. There are no big houses in the way to hide the red and

pink clouds.

A little brook goes dancing by at the foot of the hill. You can see the

little white stones through the water.

They have a great many pets—colts and calves and chickens and rabbits

and cats.

And there are ever so many nice things for them to do. They fish in the

brook or take off their shoes and stockings and wade in the water. They

hunt in the grass for red berries. They swing in the big swing under

the maple-tree. They go after the cows and hunt butterflies, and tumble

on the hay in the barn.

Such good times!

This bright May morning mamma and all six of them are out in the

orchard. The apple-trees are full of pink and white flowers, and the

cherry-trees are all white, like pop corn.

What a pretty sight!

The air is sweet with the breath of the blossoms. Everything is gay

and happy. The brook is tinkling, the bees are humming, the birds are

singing.

Little children must sing, too. Hark! hear them.

It is a little song which begins:

“Blooming May

Makes all gay.”

And this little song ends like this—the children all like to sing it:

“Tra la la la la la la. Tra la la la.”

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

KITTY KNEW ABOUT SHEEP.

“SEVEN sheep were standing

By the pasture wall.

Tell me,” said the teacher,

To her scholars small,

“One poor sheep was frightened,

Jumped and ran away.

One from seven—how many

Woolly sheep would stay?”

Up went Kitty’s fingers—

A farmer’s daughter she,

Not so bright at figures

As she ought to be.

“Please, ma’am”—“Well, then, Kitty,

Tell us, if you know.”

“Please, if one jumped over

All the rest would go.”

* * * * *

SAID Willie: “The Man in the Moon

In Mother Goose came down too soon,

For I’ve read it over and over;

But he’d done a sillier thing to-day,

When Flossie and I went out to play

And roll in the field of clover.

For up in the sky, right overhead,

When every star had gone to bed,

And the sun was shining bright,

We saw his moon, looking pale and thin,

Because he’d forgotten to take it in,

After hanging there all night!”

—_Selected._

[Illustration: BURNS’S HIGHLAND MARY.]

[Illustration]

THE BEE’S WISDOM.

SAID a wandering little maiden

To a bee with honey laden,

“Bee, at all the flowers you work,

Yet in some does poison lurk.”

“That I know, my pretty maiden,”

Said the bee with honey laden,

“But the poison I forsake,

And the honey only take.”

“Cunning bee, with honey laden,

That is right,” replied the maiden;

“So will I, from all I meet,

Only draw the good and sweet.”

—_Selected._

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xii. 34.)

“O GENERATION of vipers.”

Thus Jesus called the Jews or their leaders. Put this with other names

he gave them—“hypocrites,” “fools and blind,” “serpents” (read the

twenty-third chapter of Matthew)—and maybe you will wonder how he, so

gentle and forgiving, could do it.

“Yes,” you say, “they did provoke Him; they treated Him most

outrageously, calling Him all sorts of bad names, and finally putting

Him to death in the most cruel manner. But it does not seem quite right

for Him to call them vile names back again. It looks as though He lost

his temper and became awfully angry with his enemies.”

Indeed it does say He once looked around upon them with anger. So you

are right with that word, but its real meaning is indignation, the

righteous feeling every one should have against wrong. Thus you ought

to feel against swearing, stealing, the liquor business and all such

things. It would be wicked for you to smile at such things. So much for

anger—the anger of Jesus. Now about “calling names.”

You must remember Jesus knew the hearts of these Pharisee Jews—how

black, how vile they were, while they thought themselves quite good and

beautiful. Gentle talk to them did no good. To have them see themselves

as they really were, he must be plain; he must speak out. What he did

was not “calling names” as one boy does to another, when he is “mad”

with him and hates him. Jesus did not hate them, bad as they were. He

would save them if they would repent and come to him. So he must warn

them by telling them the awful truth.

So it was; Jesus could draw some by gentle, loving words and ways;

others, if saved at all, must be driven. Jesus acted according to the

kind of people he was speaking to.

May we sometimes deal this terrible way with sinners? May ministers do

it? Some years ago Rev. C. G. Finney did often speak to many who came

out to oppose him and make fun of religion—he did speak very plainly

and severely. It is said Mr. Moody once rebuked a wicked man this very

way. But not every one can wisely do it. It must be done with great

sorrow. No doubt it almost broke Jesus’ heart to say such plain things.

A parent sometimes must punish a naughty child; it hurts him to do it,

however. He often weeps more than the punished child.

L.

SOMETHING FOR PAPA.

BY this time you are feeling that papa is being neglected, and that

mamma and sister are having all the gifts; though I believe papa would

like the nice writing-case with pockets which we planned in November

quite as well, perhaps, as any member of the family. However, I am sure

of one thing he will like, and it is something which you, my girl, can

make, with some industry and very little expense.

I do hope you know how to knit, the nice old-fashioned knitting which

our dear grandmothers understood so well? If you do not, my first

advice to you is to master that fine art which has of late years gone

so nearly out of fashion; it is coming to the front again, and there

is no end to the neat little comforts which you can make with the aid

of a ball of tidy cotton and two large knitting needles. I will not

attempt to teach you the stitch on paper, though if you sat by my side

I could show it to you with very little trouble. If there is not a dear

white-haired grandmother in your home, as I hope there is, borrow one

of some friend, and beg her to teach you how to knit. Of course it is

just possible that mamma herself understands the stitch; you might try

her.

Having learned it—which I am sure you can do in an hour—get two

large-size needles of steel, or ivory, or wood—I like to use wood—and

a ball of the very coarsest tidy cotton you can find, and set to work.

Cast on as many stitches as the needle will conveniently carry, and

knit back and forth, back and forth industriously, until you have a

strip a yard long. Oh! it will require patience and industry; I told

you that in the beginning, you know. Having finished the strip begin

again, and make another precisely like it; then a third, and perhaps,

if your needles are not very long, a fourth—you might consult with

mamma or Auntie as to that. When the four are finished—in order to be

sure to have the article large enough we will say four—fold the side

edges of two neatly together, and knit them together with a crochet

hook, or sew them with a needle and some of the tidy cotton, as you

will; add the third and fourth in the same manner, and when all is

complete if you do not have a bath towel which will please papa better

than any Turkish towel he ever bought, I shall be astonished and

disappointed. For fear of discouraging you at the outset, I mentioned a

yard as the length, but let me whisper to you, entirely in confidence,

that if you should make it a yard and a half long, or even a trifle

longer, papa would like it better still. You see I have heard the

gentlemen groan over short bathing towels, and I know all about it.

You see with how very little expense such an article could be made,

and I really do not know of any one thing which will add more to the

comfort of the toilet. Some gentlemen like very coarse and rough

bathing towels, in which case macremé cord is sometimes used instead of

tidy cotton; probably mamma could advise you wisely in this direction,

also.

If you undertake such a gift, I hope you will have the kindness

to write and tell me how you succeeded, when and how the gift was

presented, what was said, and all about it.

Your friend,

PANSY.

* * * * *

IF anything unkind you hear

About some one you know, my dear,

Do not, I pray you, it repeat

When you that some one chance to meet;

For such news has a leaden way

Of clouding o’er a sunny day.

But if you something pleasant hear

About some one you know, my dear,

Make haste—to make great haste ’twere well,

To her or him the same to tell;

For such news has a golden way

Of lighting up a cloudy day.—_Selected._

[Illustration]

A Walking Wonder

Sir Geoffrey had a little son

Who liked to strut about

And wave a sword or shoot a bow

And raise a martial shout.

One day he saw a sight like this

[Helmet walking with four legs and a tail]

And did he run? Oh, no!

He caught this walking helmet fast

And raised the visor so!

[Cat under helmet]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

The title for “A DELIGHTFUL WRITER” was taken from the page header as

the story itself began with only the illustration.

HOWARD’S WAY: “attemped” changed to “attempted” (once attempted to

answer)

WHEN HE WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD: “mysstery” changed to “mystery” (whose

mystery fills)