CHAPTER V.

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Footnote B is incomplete due to text missing from original page.

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[Illustration: KITTY AND THE TURKISH MERCHANT.]

ST. NICHOLAS.

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VOL. V. APRIL, 1878. NO. 6.

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[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]

HOW KITTY WAS LOST IN A TURKISH BAZAAR.

BY SARA KEABLES HUNT.

Kitty was a pretty little girl, with gray, laughing eyes, and a dimple in

each cheek; but from the time when she first commenced to toddle alone she

began to be dangerously fond of running away from home. Let a door be ajar

ever so little and out pattered the tiny feet into the streets of the

crowded city and all sorts of dangers. Papa and mamma had long

consultations of what should be done to correct this fault, while Aunt

Martha, looking over her spectacles, timidly suggested a little birch tea;

but mamma would not listen to that. Kitty was too small for any such

bitter dose yet, and papa, who rather admired Aunt Martha's suggestion,

declared finally that his wife must settle the matter herself--he "didn't

know how to train a girl."

So Kitty, left to an indulgent mother, went on her way, and hardly a day

passed but the cry went from cellar to attic, "Kitty is gone!" Nurses

without number came and went; they could never "stand Miss Kitty's strange

ways."

The little one had reached her fifth year without any serious injury,

notwithstanding her unfortunate habit, when there came a time of great

anxiety in their home, for her mamma was ill, growing paler and weaker

every day. The physicians suggested a winter in Egypt, and a trip up the

Nile; so, one bright October day, the family, consisting of the father and

mother, with Kitty and her nurse, sailed away from New York in a steamer

bound for Liverpool. Kitty was delighted with the novelty of everything

she saw on this grand trip. She did not once attempt to run away during

the whole of the long journey to Egypt, though all the time, and

especially in Liverpool, Maggie never failed to keep her "under her eye."

On a bright, warm November afternoon they sailed into the harbor of

Alexandria, and Kitty held tightly to Maggie's hand in open-mouthed

astonishment at the novelty of the scene. Vessels of all sizes and

descriptions thronged the harbor, carrying crews from many strange

nations--Arabs with long flowing robes and swarthy skins, black Nubians

and portly Turks, all screaming, apparently at the top of their voices.

Kitty's mamma had read to her little girl some stories from the "Arabian

Nights," and now, as they approached this eastern land, they mingled

curiously in her little brain. They were not long in landing, and as they

drove to the hotel on the Grand Square, Kitty fairly gave herself up to

staring about the streets. Here came a file of tall camels laden with

merchandise, stalking along with silent tread; there rode a fat Turk on a

very small donkey; then followed several ladies riding upon donkeys, and

each wearing the invariable street costume of Egyptian ladies--a black

silk mantle, with a white muslin face-veil which conceals all the features

except the eyes. Kitty admired the Syce men running before the carriages

to clear the way, and as she looked at their spangled vests and white,

long sleeves waving backward while they ran, she inwardly wished it had

been her position in life to be a Syce. What could be more delightful and

exciting!

Then there were the palm-trees and the water-carriers, with their

goat-skins of water slung over their shoulders, and the bazaars--all most

interesting to our travelers. But Kitty was too young to feel more than a

dim surprise at the objects around her. She knew nothing, of course, of

the history of Alexandria, once the first city in the world, where Euclid

presided over the school in mathematics, and Aristotle studied and gave

instruction. Here stood those vast libraries founded by Ptolemy Soter,

which were subsequently destroyed, and here St. Mark presided over the

church of Africa. Yet all this was unknown to Kitty, who was much more

interested in the good dinner set before her at the hotel, with its

dessert of fresh dates and great luscious grapes, and the comfortable

bed which received her tired little form that night.

"Maggie," said the invalid mother the next morning, "don't let Kitty go

out of your sight. I'm so nervous about her."

"Oh no, mum!" replied Maggie, re-assuringly. "Shure and I'll watch her

like a cat does a mouse," and the good Irish girl kept her word, so that

the two days spent in Alexandria were disturbed by no frights concerning

Kitty. At last they were off again, this time in the cars for Cairo. On,

on they went, villages on either hand, and such funny houses, such as

Kitty had never seen before, and mud hovels with domed roofs, but without

windows and often without doors.

"Shure," said Maggie, eyeing these rude dwelling-places with great

disdain, "it's glad I am that me mother was not an Egyptian, to bring me

up in a poor hoot loike thim."

For a time Kitty gazed wonderingly on the swiftly passing scenes, but by

and by the little head drooped, the eyelids closed, and Maggie took the

sleeping child into her lap, and let her sleep there until they reached

the railroad station at Cairo and stepped out into the din and confusion

of the motley crowd. With a bewildered look Kitty leaned back in the

carriage which conveyed them to the New Hotel, opposite the Esbekiyah

Gardens; then, as they approached the entrance, she looked up at the great

building with its many balconies and columns, and exclaimed: "It looks

just like a big church organ, mamma."

Many exciting days followed before they left for their trip up the Nile.

The bright sunshine of that cloudless sky appeared to revive the invalid.

It seemed, she said, as if she could feel it warm in her lungs and heart,

and she brightened so in the change that they all gathered hope and

courage, and went about on merry little trips to the many objects of

interest around Cairo, before their floating home was ready for their

departure. Kitty made friends of everybody; and had funny pantomime

conversations with the Arab waiter who took charge of their rooms,

examining curiously the long blue robe which he wore, and the red fez with

its black tassel on his head. "It's awful funny," she said, "to see people

calling the waiters by clapping their hands instead of ringing a bell; I

think it's a very strange country!" So saying she would walk up and down

the long rooms with her hands folded behind her as she had seen her papa

do.

Such donkey rides as Kitty and her papa had over the hard, smooth road

leading to the pyramids, with the long shadows of the acacias before them!

And then, how she teased him to buy a donkey for her to take to America!

But he only smiled in reply, saying, in true Arab fashion, "Bookrer"

(to-morrow).

They spent one day in the bazaars buying all sorts of beautiful sashes, in

brilliant colors, of Turkish embroidery. One bore the Sultan's name in the

Turkish language, worked with gold threads, and another had the motto,

"God is good," worked in blue and silver. Then there were shawls

"perfectly lovely," said the little New York girl, boxes of sandal-wood

that she longed to be smelling of continually, a pair of slippers and a

gold-embroidered smoking cap to be taken home to Uncle Harry, and a

beautiful cloak and table-cover for Aunt Martha.

But, alas! this visit awoke Kitty's long-slumbering propensity, and she

determined to watch for a good opportunity and go alone to that wonderful

bazaar. The opportunity soon came. It was just after breakfast. Maggie had

gone to the laundry with some of Kitty's white dresses. Papa was talking

with a French gentleman about New York, while mamma was yet sleeping.

"What a splendid chance!" whispered Kitty, and catching up her sailor hat

she sped away through a side entrance and down the Mouski, which is the

Broadway of Cairo. It is a narrow, crowded street, with tall houses, every

story projecting a little over the one under it, so that if you should

lean from a window of the upper floor you might shake hands with your

opposite neighbor. Kitty's bump of locality was pretty well developed, and

she found the way to the bazaar without any trouble. In her chubby hand

was clasped a little gold five-franc piece, which had been given her the

previous day, and visions of glittering treasures which should be bought

with that tiny gold piece floated before her eyes. She hurried on by the

quaint fountains which are placed at the corners of the bazaars, to cheer

those water-worshiping people, and soon found herself amid the charms and

mysteries of the bazaar, and in front of the little shops like

bow-windows, with their owners sitting cross-legged in the midst of their

goods, smoking and waiting indifferently for a customer. Walking toward

one of these turbaned merchants, Kitty said, with a queer attempt at

dignity, "Please show me some shawls."

But this clearly spoken sentence was all lost on the foreign merchant, to

whom English was an unknown language.

"Anni mush ariff," said the man, puffing away at his pipe, and

deliberately settling himself among his cozy cushions, as if for a long

and dreamy nap.

Kitty, of course, did not understand Arabic, and the words, which really

signified, "I don't understand," sounded to her unpracticed ears like "I

am a _sheriff_!" a word which was always associated in the little

runaway's mind with policemen, a class of persons who were to Kitty

objects of tyranny and terror.

"Oh, dear," whispered Kitty, "if he is a sheriff, may be he'll arrest me

and lock me up." So saying she fled from the presence of the astonished

merchant, and darted round a corner through a motley crowd of donkeys,

camels, and beggars blind and maimed. And now, her momentary fright over,

she entered a still more narrow way, where were stalls of glittering

diamonds set in every imaginable form, and gems of all sorts and sizes,

arranged in brilliant order. Kitty forgot everything in her admiration. "I

mean to buy a diamond pin. I just do!" she exclaimed, and, accosting the

man, asked the price of a huge crescent of gems.

"Allah!" cried the man, rousing from his languor. And then, in his own

language, he said to Kitty: "Little lady, where are you going? Are your

papa and mamma gone?"

Kitty looked silently and wonderingly at the kind-hearted merchant a

moment, and then her little mind began to realize that she was among a

strange people who could not understand a word that she might say. The

tears began to come in the gray eyes, and turning, she said, "I will go

home." But which way? Her little head grew bewildered, and, to crown all,

an immense camel stalking along with silent tread nearly stepped on her

little foot. She cried in earnest now, and the merchant kindly lifted her

up beside him on a soft, Turkish rug, right in the midst of the flashing

gems.

Quite a crowd had gathered now, listening eagerly while the man pictured

in earnest language the position of the lost child. But none knew little

Kitty; not a soul could speak to her in all that motley crowd of camel

drivers, donkey boys, beggars, milkmen with their goats, merchants and

dark-eyed women wrapped in their mantles and veils. There was none to help

her. Suddenly, out from the crowd came a young Arab boy, one of those

little fellows who carry about with them a vest full of snakes, exhibiting

them for a living in front of hotels and other public places.

"Me know she!" he cried, as his eyes fell on the little girl sitting there

on the rich Turkish carpet, her soft, golden hair floating around her,

more beautiful than all the merchant's gold and jewels.

The boy rapidly addressed the merchant, Kitty catching at the words, and

trying in vain to understand them. They seemed to satisfy the merchant,

however, and then the boy, pushing down a restless snake into its retreat,

advanced to the troubled child.

"You Americano," he said. "Me see you in New Hotel. You want see papa? Me

tek you."

Kitty, started up delighted; but at the sight of that inquisitive snake

making its re-appearance from the boy's pocket, she retreated and sat down

again amid the jewels. The merchant laughed. "She likes my diamonds,

Mahomet, better than your ugly reptiles." Then, taking a little gold ring

set with a small blue turquoise, he placed it on Kitty's first finger and

lifted her off the carpet, calling as he did so to a passing donkey boy,

and giving him some hurried instructions. Kitty smiled her thanks for her

pretty ring, and seeing the snake boy looking fiercely at the donkey boy,

who had lifted her into the saddle, "Come, too," she said, "you can talk,

and this boy can't." So the two boys ran alongside of the donkey, watching

carefully lest the little rider should fall; and very soon they emerged

from the bazaar and were galloping along the Mouski.

Meantime, Kitty's absence had been discovered at the hotel, and great

excitement followed. Her mamma fainted, and Maggie wrung her hands in

anxiety and despair. Her papa alone was cool and collected.

"She has run away so many times," said he, quietly, "that I have no doubt

she will come home safely, as always before."

Nevertheless, he dispatched messengers without number here and there, and

looked anxiously out into the streets for that dear little yellow head he

so loved. It was nearly noon when he saw it--the bright sun glaring down

on the tired little face under the sailor hat. He was going to be very

stern as he lifted his naughty child from the saddle, but she looked so

repentant, putting up her quivering lips for a forgiving kiss, that

somehow his anger fled away and he gave her the pardoning caress. The two

boys were sent away happy, with a generous baksheesh or present, and the

next day Kitty's father sought out the kind-hearted jewel merchant and

bought many a gem from his choice collection. Among them was a locket for

Kitty, in which he then placed his own and her mother's picture.

"Kitty," he said, gravely, as he hung the pretty thing about her neck,

"when you are tempted to do wrong, open this locket, and think how it will

pain two hearts that love you."

"Papa," said the repentant Kitty, "I never will run away again."

And she kept her word. So it came to pass that our little heroine lost her

evil propensity in the Turkish bazaar at Cairo.

"I'M A LITTLE STORY."

BY MARGARET EYTINGE.

[Illustration]

You'd never guess what 't was I found

One morning in my basket;

Oh! such a precious, precious gem

For such a funny casket.

Gem, did I say? A wealth of gems:

Sweet eyes of sapphire brightness,

And, 'twixt two lips of coral red,

Pearls dazzling in their whiteness.

And gold was there on waving hair,

And lilies too, and roses

On rounded cheeks, and dimpled chin

And cunningest of noses.

"In here, mamma," the darling cried.

"Look! I'm a little story;

The one you didn't like, you know--

'Prince Bee and Morning Glory.'

"And Rover, he's a jingle, torn

'Cause he went wrong--poor Rover!

But _I_'m real pretty. Wont you take

Me out and write me over?"

I kissed the laughing eyes and mouth.

"My pet, you need not ask it;

No story sweet as you must stay

In mamma's old waste-basket!"

EASTER IN GERMANY.

BY F. E. CORNE.

"Oh, look! look! all those pretty little Easter things in the window

already!" exclaimed my little sister one day, as we passed one of the

largest confectionery stores in Stuttgart; and, true enough, though Lent

was but half over, there they were, a pretty show. Eggs, of course, in

quantities and of all sizes, from that of an ostrich to a humming bird's,

made of chocolate or of sugar, and gayly decorated with little ribbons and

pictures. Then there were fat little unfledged chickens, some just

emerging from their shells, some not an inch long, and others large as

life; pure white lambs, with ribbons and bells round their necks;

paste-eggs, with holes at the ends, and, looking through, behold, a

panorama inside! and eggs with roses on one side, which, when blown upon,

emit a musical sound.

[Illustration: AN EASTER CARRIAGE.]

But odder than all these were the goats playing on guitars, or dragging

behind them fairy-like egg-shaped carriages, with little hares gravely

driving; and in others of these carriages were reclining one or two

(generally two) baby hares, or a hare mother rocking her little one in an

egg cradle; there were sugar balloons, in the baskets of which hares

watched over their nests full of eggs; wheelbarrows full of eggs, and

trundled by a hare; and dainty baskets of flowers, with birds perched upon

each handle, peering down into nests of eggs half hidden amidst the

blossoms. When one knows that each nest comes out, and forms the cover to

a box of _bonbons_ neatly concealed underneath, this pretty structure

certainly loses none of its attractiveness.

[Illustration: AN EASTER FANCY.]

In all directions signs of the approaching season begin to appear. Every

old woman in the market-place offers for sale a store of hard-boiled eggs,

smeared over with some highly colored varnish, besides candy chickens,

hares, etc., in abundance. All the various shop windows display pretty

emblematic articles. Besides the sugar and chocolate eggs, there are eggs

of soap and of glass; egg-shaped baskets and reticules; leather eggs,

which really are ladies' companions, and filled with sewing implements;

wooden eggs and porcelain eggs, and even egg-shaped lockets made of solid

gold.

It would be difficult to explain why these things appear at Easter, and

what they all mean. The eggs, as every one knows, we have at home, and

where they are in such abundance chickens will not be very far away. For

the lamb and the goat we can find scriptural interpretations, but the

rabbit and the hare--what can they have to do with Easter? Nine persons

out of ten can only answer, "The hares lay the Easter eggs." Queer hares

they must be, indeed, but the children here believe it as devoutly as they

do that the "Christ-kind" brings their Christmas presents, or as our own

little ones do in Santa Claus. No one knows exactly whence came this myth.

Many think it a relic of heathen worship; but a writer named Christoph von

Schmid, in an interesting story for children, suggests this much prettier

origin:

[Illustration: AN EASTER CRADLE.]

Many hundred years ago, a good and noble lady, Duchess Rosilinda von

Lindenburg, at a time when a cruel war was devastating the land, was

obliged to fly from her beautiful home accompanied only by her two little

children and one old man-servant.

They found refuge in a small mining village in the mountains, where the

simple but contented and happy inhabitants did what they could for their

comfort, and placed the best of all they had at the disposal of the

wanderers. Nevertheless, their fare was miserable; no meat was ever to be

found, seldom fish, and not even an egg; this last for the very good

reason that there was not a single hen in the village! These useful

domestic fowls, now so common everywhere, were originally brought from the

East, and had not yet found their way to this secluded place. The people

had not even heard of such "strange birds." This troubled the kind

duchess, who well knew the great help they are in housekeeping, and she

determined that the women who had been so kind to her should no longer be

without them.

Accordingly, the next time she sent forth her faithful old servant to try

and gather news of his master and of the progress of the war, she

commissioned him to bring back with him a coop full of fowls. This he did,

to the great surprise of the simple natives, and the village children were

greatly excited a few weeks later at the appearance of a brood of young

chickens. They were so pretty and bright, were covered with such a soft

down, were so open-eyed, and could run about after their mother to pick

up food the very first day, and were altogether such a contrast to the

blind, bald, unfledged, helpless, ugly little birds they sometimes saw in

nests in the hedges, that they could not find words enough to express

their admiration.

The good lady now saved up eggs for some time, then invited all the

housewives of the village to a feast, when she set before them eggs

cooked in a variety of ways. She then taught them how to prepare them for

themselves, and, distributing a number of fowls among them, sent the dames

home grateful and happy.

When Easter approached, she was anxious to arrange some pleasure for the

village children, but had nothing to give them, "not even an apple or a

nut," only some eggs; but that, she concluded, was, after all, an

appropriate offering, "as an egg is the first gift of the reviving

spring." And then it occurred to her to boil them with mosses and roots

that would give them a variety of brilliant colors, "as the earth," said

she, "has just laid aside her white mantle, and decorated herself with

many colors; for the dear God makes the fruit and berries not only good to

eat, but also pleasant to look upon," and the children's pleasure would be

all the greater.

Accordingly, on Easter Sunday, after the church service, all the little

ones of about the age of her own met together in a garden; and, when their

kind hostess had talked to them a while, she led them into a small

neighboring wood. There she told them to make nests of moss, and advised

each to mark well his or her own. All then returned to the garden, where a

feast of milk-soup with eggs and egg-cakes had been prepared. Afterward

they went back to the wood, and found to their great joy in each nest five

beautiful colored eggs, and on one of these a short rhyme was written.

[Illustration: AN EASTER LOAD.]

The surprise and delight of the little ones when they discovered a nest of

the gayly colored treasures, was very great, and one of them exclaimed:

"How wonderful the hens must be that can lay such pretty eggs! How I

should like to see them!"

[Illustration: THE OLD SERVANT BRINGS A COOP FULL OF CHICKENS.]

"Oh! no hens could lay such beautiful eggs," answered a little girl. "I

think it must have been the little hare that sprang out of the juniper

bush when I wanted to build my nest there."

Then all the children laughed together, and said, "The hares lay the

colored eggs. Yes, yes! the dear little hares lay the beautiful eggs!" And

they kept repeating it till they began really to believe it.

Not long afterward the war ended, and Duke Arno von Lindenburg took his

wife and children back to their own palace; but, before leaving, the

Duchess set apart a sum of money to be expended in giving the village

children every Easter a feast of eggs. She instituted the custom also in

her own duchy, and by degrees it spread over the whole country, the eggs

being considered a symbol of redemption or deliverance from sin. The

custom has found its way even to America, but nowhere out of the

_Vaterland_ are the eggs laid by the timid hare.

To this day children living in the country go to the woods just before

Easter, and return with their arms full of twigs and moss, out of which

they build nests and houses, each child carefully marking his own with his

name. They are then hidden behind stones and bushes in the garden, or, if

the weather be cold, in corners, or under furniture in the house. And on

Easter morning what an excitement there is to see what the good little

hare has brought! Not only real eggs boiled and colored, but sugar ones

too, and often wooden ones that open like boxes, disclosing, perhaps, a

pair of new gloves or a bright ribbon. He even sometimes brings hoops and

skipping-ropes, and generally his own effigy in dough or candy is found

trying to scamper away behind the nest.

[Illustration: "THE HARES LAY THE COLORED EGGS."]

Then what fun they have playing with the eggs, throwing them in the air

and catching them again, rolling them on the floor, exchanging with each

other, and _knocking_ them! This game is played by two, each child holding

an egg firmly in his hand, so that only the small end appears between the

thumb and forefinger, or under the little finger. The two eggs then are

knocked smartly against each other until one cracks, when it becomes the

property of the victorious party, who adds it to his stock. Those who have

never tried to break an egg in this way will be astonished to find how

many hard taps it is able to stand. But, as the game called "picking eggs"

is played in some parts of the United States during the Easter holidays,

it may be that many of our readers know all about this matter, and

understand very well how to select the eggs that shall prove strong and

victorious.

In Germany, presents are frequently bestowed upon servants at this season,

and exchanged between friends; and on Easter morning the churches are

crowded by many who scarcely ever think of entering at any other time. On

Good Friday only, considered here the holiest day in the whole year, are

they still more largely attended. The music is usually fine, but one

misses the beautiful flowers which adorn our home altars.

Easter Monday is looked upon as a grand holiday by the peasantry in many

parts of the country. Weddings are often deferred to this day, and many

village games are reserved for this season. The lads and lassies all

appear in their gala costumes; the girls with short, dark skirts, braided

with gold or silver, snowy aprons and full white sleeves, bright colored

bodices and odd little caps; the boys with knee-breeches, white stockings,

low shoes, and scarlet or yellow vests, the solid gold or silver buttons

on which are often their whole inheritance. But when they are dancing

gayly together on the green, they look a good deal happier than if they

were little kings and queens.

[Illustration: THE THROWER.]

Games vary in different villages throughout the country, but one example

will give some idea of what they are like.

Two of the leading young men of the place take entire charge of the day's

amusements, selecting for the purpose as the scene of festivities some inn

or _Wirthschaft_, to which is attached a large garden or meadow.

For several preceding evenings, when work is over, they go about from

house to house, dressed in their best, and carrying large baskets on their

arms. Everywhere they are kindly received, and bread with wine or cider is

placed before them. While they eat and drink, the baskets are quietly

slipped away by some member of the family, a generous donation of eggs is

placed within them, and they are secretly returned to their places. The

eggs are not asked for, neither are they alluded to in any way; but the

object of the visit is well understood and prepared for long beforehand.

When Monday morning dawns, the inn is found to have been gayly decorated

with garlands of green and flowers, and fluttering ribbons of many colors.

The tree nearest the house is ornamented in like manner, and on it the

prize to be contended for, conspicuously hangs. On the smooth grass hard

by, a strip, a few feet wide and perhaps a hundred long, has been roped

in, and at either end of this narrow plot a large, shallow, round-bottomed

basket, called a _Wanne_, is placed, one filled with chaff and the other

with eggs, dozens upon dozens, cooked and raw, white and colored.

[Illustration: THE CATCHER.]

The plan of the peculiar game which follows is that one player is pitted

to run a given distance, while another safely throws the eggs from one

basket to the other, he who first completes his task being, of course, the

winner. Accordingly, when the young men and maidens have arrived, two

leaders draw lots to determine who shall run and who shall throw. That

decided, the contestants are gayly decked with ribbons, a band strikes up

a lively air, a capering clown clears the way, and the game begins. He who

throws takes the eggs, and one after another swiftly whirls them the

length of the course, and into the chaff-filled basket, which is held in

the hands of an assistant. Occasionally he makes a diversion by pitching a

hard one to be scrambled for by the crowds of children who have assembled

to see the sport. Meantime (while wagers are laid as to who will likely

win) the other contestant speeds the distance of a mile or two to an

appointed goal, marks it as proof of his having touched it, and if he

succeeds in returning before all the eggs are thrown, the victory and the

prize are his, otherwise they belong to his opponent. The game finished,

the prize is presented to the victor with due ceremony and amid the cheers

of the crowd; the hard eggs are distributed among the company, and the raw

ones carried uproariously into the neighboring inn, there to be cooked in

various ways and eaten.

[Illustration: "HAPPIER THAN LITTLE KINGS AND QUEENS."]

The remainder of the day is spent in dancing and merry-making, and if a

wedding can possibly be arranged to take place on that afternoon the fun

is wilder than ever.

DICK HARDIN AWAY AT SCHOOL.

BY LUCY J. RIDER.

_September 9th, 1877._

DEAR MOTHER: I don't feel very well. I want to come home. I am very sick.

I could not eat any supper. My throat aches pretty bad. I think I had

better come home. The boy that sleeps with me says most all boys feels so

at first; but may be I shall die. I want to come home. I will study good

at home. So good-by.--Your son, DICK.

P. S.--I want to come home.

* * *

_October 26, 1877._

DEAR MOTHER: Me and the boy that sleeps with me put a peace of paper on

the door, and that made me feel better. I got the ten cents and your

letter. I had to buy some pop-corn. All the boys buy pop-corn. A man has

pop-corn to sell. Jim gave me some pop-corn that time my throat had a lump

in it, and it felt better. It was red, and all sticky together. I think

that was why.

It's a buster of a house here, and it's got a bell on top of it. A boy

rings it. It comes right down in his closet. It comes through a little

round hole, and he pulls it, and he let me pull it once, and that makes it

ring. There's lots of boys here, and some girls. There is doves living up

where the bell is. I went up there. They kind of groan, and that is coon,

when they coo. I like the doves, but I don't like their coon. Every boy

writes their names up there. Sometimes they cuts their names, but Mr.

Wiseman says you mustn't any more. Mr. Wiseman is the Principle, and he

has got whiskers, and every boy has to mind him.

He points and he says, "Go to your rooms!" and we go. Some boy sent him a

paper, and it made him hoppin' mad. It was about a clock. It said:

"Half way up the stairs he stands,

And points and beckons with his hands."

Jimmy has a room, and he sweeps it sometimes. I sleep with Jimmy. There

isn't any woman to make up the bedclothes. We fix 'em. It isn't very hard.

You just pull them up and tuck them down. There is a gong, and that makes

you get up and eat breakfast. The breakfast is good. It is a round thing,

and a girl pounds it. You put five tea-spoons of sugar in your tea-cup. A

girl sits on the other side. There is lots of tables, and they make a

noise. By and by, one gets through and walks out. There is a lock on the

door, and that makes you hurry up or you can't have any breakfast. You

can't get in. The ten cents is 'most gone. I hope you will write me again

pretty soon.--Your son, DICKERSON H.

P. S.--The peace of paper has got the days on it, and we scratch them off

every night. There is sixty-one more to scratch off, and that will make it

vacation. D. H.

* * *

_November 3, 1877._

DEAR MOTHER: There is 'bout ten pianos here, and folks play on them all

the while. It sounds pretty. You can't tell what tune they play 'most

always. Mr. Wiseman has an noffice, and that's where you have to go when

you want to do things. Sometimes you have to go when you don't want to do

things. He sits in a chair and his legs go under the table. There's a

square hole where his legs go. It has a slate on it, and he writes your

name on it. It don't feel good. You ought to have seen Jim one day. He

fell into the river, but he got out. There is a river. He had the cookies

in his pocket. They were just as good, except the soap. He had some soap

too, and that wasn't very good. Jim didn't get dry pretty soon, and he had

the neuraligy or the toothache. The side of his cheek swelled out as big

as a foot-ball. He went to the office. He was sicker. I made up the bed

for a week, and he felt better. We went in swimming five times yesterday.

We have to treat. All men have to treat. It's molasses-candy and it's

pop-corn. To treat is to pay for what a nother feller eats. The button

come off of my shirt. I lost it, but I sewed on one of the black ones like

the ones on my jacket. The place to sew it on came out too, but I sewed it

one side. It made my thumb bleed.--Your son, DICKERSON HARDIN.

* * *

_November 17, 1877._

DEAR MOTHER: Jim has got a box. His mother sent it to him. The other boys

have boxes. We have to have boxes, 'cause they have hash that is made out

of boots. It is not good to eat. The soup tastes like a tooth-pick. The

butter is a thousand years old. A girl said so. If I should have a box, I

think it would be good for me. Put in some cookies and some apples and

cake and cheese and chicken-pie and a neck-tie and apple-pie and

fruit-cake and that other kind of jelly-cake and some cookies and

stockings and cans of fruit and fish-hooks and pop-corn and molasses and

cookies. Jim found a half a dollar in his box, down to the bottom. It was

for his neuraligy. My throat is not quite well yet.

I take drawing. There is a nice lady to teach it. She wears a white sack

with red pockets, and a blue bow. She pulls her hair down over her head.

She says we must draw things, when we look at them. I drew a dog, but it

came out a lamb. I can make a very nice bird. Jim put the feathers on to

the tail.

Mr. Wiseman has got some snakes in some bottles, and a frog and a toad. He

has got some grasshoppers with a pin stuck through them, and a spider and

some potato-bugs. It is the museum. He thinks a great deal of them.

There is a foot-ball, and we play it. It is as big as a pumpkin, but you

kick it. Then you get kicked and knocked down and your leg hurt; but you

don't cry. You never cry except when Jim's asleep in the night, and your

throat aches pretty bad.

There is twenty-four more days on the peace of paper.

Give my love to Tooty. How is the baby?--Your son, D. HARDIN.

* * *

_December 2, 1877._

DEAR MOTHER: It is not a very big town. There is one store where you

treat. It is Jerry's. You walk right in. Jerry has molasses-candy and

pop-corn and pea-nuts and string and oranges and canes and brooms and

raisins and ginger-snaps and apples and fish-hooks and pise. Jim bought a

pie once. It was wet, and you had to bite hard to bite it. He got it for

the lock-jaw. A lock-jaw is a supper, but Mr. Wiseman don't catch us. It

is at night. We had a chicken, but I promised I would not tell where it

came from. I will die before I will tell. All the boys will die before

they will tell. It was the big boys, and they put a blanket up to the

window and made a fire and roasted it. We had some salt and a jack-knife.

John Simms roasted it. He's a big boy. He knows how. He always roasts

things. You just stick a sharp stick through it and roast it. It is good,

but it makes your stummuck feel funny in the morning. There is a nother

store, where the girls get things, and there is a place to get your shoes

mended, and a depot, and a place for horse-shoes, and a church.

The box was very good. So good-by. D.

P. S.--Mr. Wiseman said you'd feel bad about these three demerits in my

report, but you needn't. Jim has got about ten demerits. All the boys gets

demerits. One was a old bottle I threw in the hall, 'cause I didn't want

it on the table, and one was some water I threw out the window, and a boy

was walking under. I had just washed me, and he got wet, and one was a

noise. You make it with a tin tomato can and a string. I'll fix one for

you when I get home. The bottom has come out of my bank. And my trousers,

the gray ones. How is the baby? HARDIN.

P. S.--All the boys say Hardin.

[Illustration: A FULL STOP.]

UNDER THE LILACS.

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

CHAPTER XI.

SUNDAY.

Mrs. Moss woke Ben with a kiss next morning, for her heart yearned over

the fatherless lad as if he had been her own, and she had no other way of

showing her sympathy. Ben had forgotten his troubles in sleep, but the

memory of them returned as soon as he opened his eyes, heavy with the

tears they had shed. He did not cry any more, but felt strange and lonely

till he called Sancho and told him all about it, for he was shy even with

kind Mrs. Moss, and glad when she went away.

Sancho seemed to understand that his master was in trouble, and listened

to the sad little story with gurgles of interest, whines of condolence,

and intelligent barks whenever the word "Daddy" was uttered. He was only a

brute, but his dumb affection comforted the boy more than any words, for

Sanch had known and loved "father" almost as long and well as his son, and

that seemed to draw them closely together now they were left alone.

"We must put on mourning, old feller. It's the proper thing, and there's

nobody else to do it now," said Ben, as he dressed, remembering how all

the company wore bits of crape somewhere about them at Melia's funeral.

It was a real sacrifice of boyish vanity to take the blue ribbon with its

silver anchors off the new hat and replace it with the dingy black band

from the old one, but Ben was quite sincere in doing this, though

doubtless his theatrical life made him think of the effect more than other

lads would have done. He could find nothing in his limited wardrobe with

which to decorate Sanch except a black cambric pocket. It was already half

torn out of his trousers with the weight of nails, pebbles and other light

trifles, so he gave it a final wrench and tied it into the dog's collar,

saying to himself, as he put away his treasures, with a sigh:

"One pocket is enough; I sha'n't want anything but a han'k'chi'f to-day."

Fortunately, that article of dress was clean, for he had but one, and with

this somewhat ostentatiously drooping from the solitary pocket, the

serious hat upon his head, the new shoes creaking mournfully, and Sanch

gravely following, much impressed with his black bow, the chief mourner

descended, feeling that he had done his best to show respect to the dead.

Mrs. Moss's eyes filled as she saw the rusty band, and guessed why it was

there; but she found it difficult to repress a smile when she beheld the

cambric symbol of woe on the dog's neck. Not a word was said to disturb

the boy's comfort in these poor attempts, however, and he went out to do

his chores conscious that he was an object of interest to his friends,

especially so to Bab and Betty, who, having been told of Ben's loss, now

regarded him with a sort of pitying awe very grateful to his feelings.

"I want you to drive me to church by and by. It is going to be pretty

warm, and Thorny is hardly strong enough to venture yet," said Miss Celia,

when Ben ran over after breakfast to see if she had anything for him to

do, for he considered her his mistress now, though he was not to take

possession of his new quarters till the morrow.

"Yes'm, I'd like to, if I look well enough," answered Ben, pleased to be

asked, but impressed with the idea that people had to be very fine on such

occasions.

"You will do very well when I have given you a touch. God doesn't mind our

clothes, Ben, and the poor are as welcome as the rich to Him. You have not

been much, have you?" asked Miss Celia, anxious to help the boy, and not

quite sure how to begin.

"No'm; our folks didn't hardly ever go, and father was so tired he used to

rest Sundays, or go off in the woods with me."

A little quaver came into Ben's voice as he spoke, and a sudden motion

made his hat-brim hide his eyes, for the thought of the happy times that

would never come any more was almost too much for him.

"That was a pleasant way to rest. I often do so, and we will go to the

grove this afternoon and try it. But I love to go to church in the

morning; it seems to start me right for the week, and if one has a sorrow,

that is the place where one can always find comfort. Will you come and try

it, Ben, dear?"

"I'd do anything to please you," muttered Ben, without looking up, for,

though he felt her kindness to the bottom of his heart, he did wish that

no one would talk about father for a little while, it was so hard to keep

from crying, and he hated to be a baby.

Miss Celia seemed to understand, for the next thing she said, in a very

cheerful tone, was, "See what a pretty thing that is. When I was a little

girl I used to think spiders spun cloth for the fairies, and spread it on

the grass to bleach."

Ben stopped digging a hole in the ground with his toe, and looked up, to

see a lovely cobweb like a wheel, circle within circle, spun across a

corner of the arch over the gate. Tiny drops glittered on every thread as

the light shone through the gossamer curtain, and a soft breath of air

made it tremble as if about to blow it away.

"It's mighty pretty, but it will fly off, just as the others did. I never

saw such a chap as that spider is. He keeps on spinning a new one every

day, for they always get broke, and he don't seem to be discouraged a

mite," said Ben, glad to change the subject, as she knew he would be.

"That is the way he gets his living. He spins his web and waits for his

daily bread, or fly, rather, and it always comes, I fancy. By and by you

will see that pretty trap full of insects, and Mr. Spider will lay up his

provisions for the day. After that he doesn't care how soon his fine web

blows away."

"I know him; he's a handsome feller, all black and yellow, and lives up in

that corner where the shiny sort of hole is. He dives down the minute I

touch the gate, but comes up after I've kept still a minute. I like to

watch him. But he must hate me, for I took away a nice, green fly and some

little millers one day."

"Did you ever hear the story of Bruce and his spider? Most children know

and like that," said Miss Celia, seeing that he seemed interested.

"No'm; I don't know ever so many things most children do," answered Ben,

soberly, for since he had been among his new friends he had often felt his

own deficiencies.

"Ah, but you also know many things which they do not. Half the boys in

town would give a great deal to be able to ride and run and leap as you

do, and even the oldest are not as capable of taking care of themselves as

you are. Your active life has done much in some ways to make a man of you,

but in other ways it was bad, as I think you begin to see. Now, suppose

you try to forget the harmful past, and remember only the good, while

learning to be more like our boys, who go to school and church, and fit

themselves to become industrious, honest men."

Ben had been looking straight up in Miss Celia's face as she spoke,

feeling that every word was true, though he could not have expressed it if

he had tried, and when she paused, with her bright eyes inquiringly fixed

on his, he answered heartily:

"I'd like to stay here and be respectable, for, since I came, I've found

out that folks don't think much of circus riders, though they like to go

and see 'em. I didn't use to care about school and such things, but I do

now, and I guess _he'd_ like it better than to have me knockin' round that

way without him to look after me."

"I know he would; so we will try, Benny. I dare say it will seem dull and

hard at first, after the gay sort of life you have led, and you will miss

the excitement. But it was not good for you, and we will do our best to

find something safer. Don't be discouraged, and, when things trouble you,

come to me as Thorny does, and I'll try to straighten them out for you.

I've got two boys now, and I want to do my duty by both."

Before Ben had time for more than a grateful look, a tumbled head appeared

at an upper window, and a sleepy voice drawled out:

"Celia! I can't find a bit of a shoe-string, and I wish you'd come and do

my neck-tie."

"Lazy boy, come down here, and bring one of your black ties with you.

Shoe-strings are in the little brown bag on my bureau," called back Miss

Celia, adding, with a laugh, as the tumbled head disappeared mumbling

something about "bothering old bags":

"Thorny has been half spoiled since he was ill. You mustn't mind his

fidgets and dawdling ways. He'll get over them soon, and then I know you

two will be good friends."

Ben had his doubts about that, but resolved to do his best for her sake;

so, when Master Thorny presently appeared, with a careless "How are you,

Ben," that young person answered respectfully,

"Very well, thank you," though his nod was as condescending as his new

master's; because he felt that a boy who could ride bareback and turn a

double somersault in the air ought not to "knuckle under" to a fellow who

had not the strength of a pussy-cat.

"Sailor's knot, please; keeps better so," said Thorny, holding up his chin

to have a blue silk scarf tied to suit him, for he was already beginning

to be something of a dandy.

"You ought to wear red till you get more color, dear," and his sister

rubbed her blooming cheek against his pale one as if to lend him some of

her own roses.

"Men don't care how they look," said Thorny, squirming out of her hold,

for he hated to be "cuddled" before people.

"Oh, don't they; here's a vain boy who brushes his hair a dozen times a

day, and quiddles over his collar till he is so tired he can hardly

stand," laughed Miss Celia, with a little tweak of the ear.

"I should like to know what this is for?" demanded Thorny, in a dignified

tone, presenting a black tie.

"For my other boy. He is going to church with me," and Miss Celia tied a

second knot for this young gentleman, with a smile that seemed to brighten

up even the rusty hat-band.

"Well, I like that--" began Thorny, in a tone that contradicted his words.

A look from his sister reminded him of what she had told him half an hour

ago, and he stopped short, understanding now why she was "extra good to

the little tramp."

"So do I, for you are of no use as a driver yet, and I don't like to

fasten Lita when I have my best gloves on," said Miss Celia, in a tone

that rather nettled Master Thorny.

"Is Ben going to black my boots before he goes?" with a glance at the new

shoes which caused them to creak uneasily.

"No, he is going to black _mine_, if he will. You wont need boots for a

week yet, so we wont waste any time over them. You will find everything in

the shed, Ben, and at ten you may go for Lita."

With that, Miss Celia walked her brother off to the dining-room, and Ben

retired to vent his ire in such energetic demonstrations with the

blacking-brush that the little boots shone splendidly.

He thought he had never seen anything as pretty as his mistress when, an

hour later, she came out of the house in her white shawl and bonnet,

holding a book and a late lily-of-the-valley in the pearl-colored gloves,

which he hardly dared to touch as he helped her into the carriage. He had

seen a good many fine ladies in his life, and those he had known had been

very gay in the colors of their hats and gowns, very fond of cheap

jewelry, and much given to feathers, lace and furbelows, so it rather

puzzled him to discover why Miss Celia looked so sweet and elegant in such

a simple suit. He did not know then that the charm was in the woman, not

the clothes, or that merely living near such a person would do more to

give him gentle manners, good principles and pure thoughts, than almost

any other training he could have had. But he _was_ conscious that it was

pleasant to be there, neatly dressed, in good company, and going to church

like a respectable boy. Somehow, the lonely feeling got better as he

rolled along between green fields, with the June sunshine brightening

everything, a restful quiet in the air, and a friend beside him who sat

silently looking out at the lovely world with what he afterward learned to

call her "Sunday face." A soft, happy look, as if all the work and

weariness of the past week were forgotten, and she was ready to begin

afresh when this blessed day was over.

"Well, child, what is it?" she asked, catching his eye as he stole a shy

glance at her, one of many which she had not seen.

"I was only thinking you looked as if----"

"As if what? Don't be afraid," she said, for Ben paused and fumbled at the

reins, feeling half ashamed to tell his fancy.

"You was saying prayers," he added, wishing she had not caught him.

"So I was. Don't you, when you are happy?"

"No'm. I'm glad, but I don't say anything."

"Words are not needed, but they help, sometimes, if they are sincere and

sweet. Did you never learn any prayers, Ben?"

"Only 'Now I lay me.' Grandma taught me that when I was a little mite of a

boy."

"I will teach you another, the best that was ever made, because it says

all we need ask."

"Our folks wasn't very pious; they didn't have time, I s'pose."

"I wonder if you know just what it means to be pious?"

"Goin' to church, and readin' the Bible, and sayin' prayers and hymns,

aint it?"

"Those things are a part of it, but, being kind and cheerful, doing one's

duty, helping others and loving God, is the best way to show that we are

pious in the true sense of the word."

"Then you are!" and Ben looked as if her acts had been a better definition

than her words.

"I try to be, but I very often fail; so every Sunday I make new

resolutions, and work hard to keep them through the week. That is a great

help, as you will find when you begin to try it."

"Do you think, if I said in meetin', 'I wont ever swear any more,' that I

wouldn't do it again?" asked Ben, soberly, for that was his besetting sin

just now.

"I'm afraid we can't get rid of our faults quite so easily; I wish we

could; but I do believe that if you keep saying that, and trying to stop,

you will cure the habit sooner than you think."

"I never did swear very bad, and I didn't mind much till I came here, but

Bab and Betty looked so scared when I said 'damn,' and Mrs. Moss scolded

me so, I tried to leave off. It's dreadful hard, though, when I get mad.

'Hang it,' don't seem half so good if I want to let off steam."

"Thorny used to 'confound!' everything, so I proposed that he should

whistle instead, and now he sometimes pipes up so suddenly and shrilly

that it makes me jump. How would that do, instead of swearing?" proposed

Miss Celia, not the least surprised at the habit of profanity which the

boy could hardly help learning among his former associates.

Ben laughed, and promised to try it, feeling a mischievous satisfaction at

the prospect of out-whistling Master Thorny, as he knew he should for the

objectionable words rose to his lips a dozen times a day.

The bell was ringing as they drove into town, and by the time Lita was

comfortably settled in her shed, people were coming up from all quarters

to cluster around the steps of the old meeting-house like bees about a

hive. Accustomed to a tent where people kept their hats on, Ben forgot all

about his, and was going down the aisle covered when a gentle hand took it

off, and Miss Celia whispered, as she gave it to him:

"This is a holy place; remember that, and uncover at the door."

Much abashed, Ben followed to the pew, where the Squire and his wife soon

joined them.

"Glad to see him here," said the old gentleman with an approving nod, as

he recognized the boy and remembered his loss.

"Hope he wont nestle round in meeting-time," whispered Mrs. Allen,

composing herself in the corner with much rustling of black silk.

"I'll take care that he doesn't disturb you," answered Miss Celia, pushing

a stool under the short legs and drawing a palm-leaf fan within reach.

Ben gave an inward sigh at the prospect before him, for an hour's

captivity to an active lad is hard to bear, and he really did want to

behave well. So he folded his arms and sat like a statue, with nothing

moving but his eyes. They rolled to and fro, up and down, from the high

red pulpit to the worn hymn-books in the rack, recognizing two little

faces under blue-ribboned hats in a distant pew, and finding it impossible

to restrain a momentary twinkle in return for the solemn wink Billy Barton

bestowed upon him across the aisle. Ten minutes of this decorous demeanor

made it absolutely necessary for him to stir; so he unfolded his arms and

crossed his legs as cautiously as a mouse moves in the presence of a cat,

for Mrs. Allen's eye was on him, and he knew by experience that it was a

very sharp one.

The music which presently began was a great relief to him, for under cover

of it he could wag his foot and no one heard the creak thereof; and when

they stood up to sing, he was so sure that all the boys were looking at

him, he was glad to sit down again. The good old minister read the

sixteenth chapter of Samuel, and then proceeded to preach a long and

somewhat dull sermon. Ben listened with all his ears, for he was

interested in the young shepherd, "ruddy and of a beautiful countenance,"

who was chosen to be Saul's armor-bearer. He wanted to hear more about

him, and how he got on, and whether the evil spirits troubled Saul again

after David had harped them out. But nothing more came, and the old

gentleman droned on about other things till poor Ben felt that he must

either go to sleep like the Squire, or tip the stool over by accident,

since "nestling" was forbidden, and relief of some sort he _must_ have.

Mrs. Allen gave him a peppermint, and he dutifully ate it, though it was

so hot it made his eyes water. Then she fanned him, to his great

annoyance, for it blew his hair about, and the pride of his life was to

have his head as smooth and shiny as black satin. An irrepressible sigh of

weariness attracted Miss Celia's attention at last, for, though she seemed

to be listening devoutly, her thoughts had flown over the sea with tender

prayers for one whom she loved even more than David did his Jonathan. She

guessed the trouble in a minute, and had provided for it, knowing by

experience that few small boys can keep quiet through sermon-time. Finding

a certain place in the little book she had brought, she put it into his

hands, with the whisper, "Read if you are tired."

Ben clutched the book and gladly obeyed, though the title, "Scripture

Narratives," did not look very inviting. Then his eye fell on the picture

of a slender youth cutting a large man's head off, while many people stood

looking on.

"Jack, the giant-killer," thought Ben, and turned the page to see the

words "David and Goliath," which was enough to set him to reading the

story with great interest, for here was the shepherd-boy turned into a

hero. No more fidgets now; the sermon was no longer heard, the fan flapped

unfelt, and Billy Barton's spirited sketches in the hymn-book were vainly

held up for admiration. Ben was quite absorbed in the stirring history of

King David, told in a way that fitted it for children's reading, and

illustrated with fine pictures which charmed the boy's eye.

Sermon and story ended at the same time; and while he listened to the

prayer, Ben felt as if he understood now what Miss Celia meant by saying

that words helped when they were well chosen and sincere. Several

petitions seemed as if especially intended for him, and he repeated them

to himself that he might remember them, they sounded so sweet and

comfortable, heard for the first time just when he most needed comfort.

Miss Celia saw a new expression in the boy's face as she glanced down at

him, and heard a little humming at her side when all stood up to sing the

cheerful hymn with which they were dismissed.

"How do you like church?" asked the young lady as they drove away.

"First-rate," answered Ben, heartily.

"Especially the sermon?"

Ben laughed and said, with an affectionate glance at the little book in

her lap:

"I couldn't understand it, but that story was just elegant. There's more,

and I'd admire to read 'em, if I could."

"I'm glad you like them, and we will keep the rest for another

sermon-time. Thorny used to do so, and always called this his 'pew book.'

I don't expect you to understand much that you hear yet awhile; but it is

good to be there, and after reading these stories you will be more

interested when you hear the names of the people mentioned here."

"Yes'm. Wasn't David a fine feller? I liked all about the kid and the corn

and the ten cheeses, and killin' the lion and bear, and slingin' old

Goliath dead first shot. I want to know about Joseph next time, for I saw

a gang of robbers puttin' him in a hole, and it looked real interesting."

Miss Celia could not help smiling at Ben's way of telling things; but she

was pleased to see that he was attracted by the music and the stories, and

resolved to make church-going so pleasant that he would learn to love it

for its own sake.

"Now, you have tried my way this morning, and we will try yours this

afternoon. Come over about four and help me roll Thorny down to the grove.

I am going to put one of the hammocks there, because the smell of the

pines is good for him, and you can talk or read or amuse yourselves in any

quiet way you like."

"Can I take Sanch along? He doesn't like to be left, and felt real bad

because I shut him up for fear he'd follow and come walkin' into meetin'

to find me."

"Yes, indeed; let the clever Bow-wow have a good time and enjoy Sunday as

much as I want my boys to."

Quite content with this arrangement, Ben went home to dinner, which he

made very lively by recounting Billy Barton's ingenious devices to beguile

the tedium of sermon-time. He said nothing of his conversation with Miss

Celia, because he had not quite made up his mind whether he liked it or

not; it was so new and serious, he felt as if he would better lay it by,

to think over a good deal before he could understand all about it. But he

had time to get dismal again and long for four o'clock, because he had

nothing to do except whittle. Mrs. Moss went to take a nap; Bab and Betty

sat demurely on their bench reading Sunday books; no boys were allowed to

come and play; even the hens retired under the currant-bushes, and the

cock stood among them, clucking drowsily, as if reading them a sermon.

"Dreadful slow day," thought Ben, and, retiring to the recesses of his own

room, he read over the two letters which seemed already old to him. Now

that the first shock was over, he could not make it true that his father

was dead, and he gave up trying, for he was an honest boy and felt that it

was foolish to pretend to be more unhappy than he really was. So he put

away his letters, took the black pocket off Sanch's neck, and allowed

himself to whistle softly as he packed up his possessions ready to move

next day, with few regrets and many bright anticipations for the future.

"Thorny, I want you to be good to Ben and amuse him in some quiet way this

afternoon. I must stay and see the Allens who are coming over, but you can

go to the grove and have a pleasant time," said Miss Celia to her brother.

"Not much fun in talking to that horsey fellow. I'm sorry for him, but _I_

can't do anything to amuse him," objected Thorny, pulling himself up from

the sofa with a great yawn.

"You can be very agreeable when you like, and Ben has had enough of me for

this time. Tomorrow he will have his work and do very well, but we must

try to help him through to-day, because he doesn't know what to do with

himself. Besides, it is just the time to make a good impression on him,

while grief for his father softens him and gives us a chance. I like him,

and I'm sure he wants to do well; so it is our duty to help him, as there

seems to be no one else."

"Here goes, then. Where is he?" and Thorny stood up, won by his sister's

sweet earnestness, but very doubtful of his own success with the "horsey

fellow."

"Waiting with the chair. Randa has gone on with the hammock. Be a dear

boy, and I'll do as much for you some day."

"Don't see how _you_ can be a dear boy. You're the best sister that ever

was, so I'll love all the scallywags you ask me to."

With a laugh and a kiss, Thorny shambled off to ascend his chariot,

good-humoredly saluting his pusher, whom he found sitting on the high rail

behind, with his feet on Sanch.

"Drive on, Benjamin. I don't know the way, so I can't direct. Don't spill

me out,--that's all I've got to say."

"All right, sir,"--and away Ben trundled down the long walk that led

through the orchard to a little grove of seven pines.

A pleasant spot, for a soft rustle filled the air, a brown carpet of

pine-needles, with fallen cones for a pattern, lay under foot, and over

the tops of the tall brakes that fringed the knoll one had glimpses of

hill and valley, farm-houses and winding river like a silver ribbon

through the low green meadows.

"A regular summer house!" said Thorny, surveying it with approval. "What's

the matter, Randa? Wont it go?" he asked, as the stout maid dropped her

arms with a puff, after vainly trying to throw the hammock rope over a

branch.

"That end went up beautiful, but this one wont; the branches is so high I

can't reach 'em, and I'm no hand at flinging ropes round."

"I'll fix it," and Ben went up the pine like a squirrel, tied a stout

knot, and swung himself down again before Thorny could get out of the

chair.

"My patience! what a spry boy!" exclaimed Randa, admiringly.

"That's nothing; you ought to see me shin up a smooth tent-pole," said

Ben, rubbing the pitch off his hands, with a boastful wag of the head.

"You can go, Randa. Just hand me my cushion and books, Ben; then you can

sit in the chair while I talk to you," commanded Thorny, tumbling into the

hammock.

"What's he goin' to say to me?" wondered Ben to himself, as he sat down

with Sanch sprawling among the wheels.

[Illustration: BEN AND THORNY IN THE GROVE.]

"Now, Ben, I think you'd better learn a hymn; I always used to when I was

a little chap, and it is a good thing to do Sundays," began the new

teacher with a patronizing air, which ruffled his pupil as much as the

opprobrious term "little chap."

"I'll be--whew--if I do!" whistled Ben, stopping an oath just in time.

"It is not polite to whistle in company," said Thorny, with great dignity.

"Miss Celia told me to. I'll say 'Confound it,' if you like that better,"

answered Ben, as a sly smile twinkled in his eyes.

"Oh, I see! She's told you about it? Well, then, if you want to please

_her_, you'll learn a hymn right off. Come now, she wants me to be clever

to you, and I'd like to do it; but if you get peppery, how can I?"

Thorny spoke in a hearty, blunt way, which suited Ben much better than the

other, and he responded pleasantly:

"If you wont be grand I wont be peppery. Nobody is going to boss me but

Miss Celia, so I'll learn hymns if she wants me to."

"'In the soft season of thy youth' is a good one to begin with. I learned

it when I was six. Nice thing; better have it." And Thorny offered the

book like a patriarch addressing an infant.

Ben surveyed the yellow page with small favor, for the long _s_ in the

old-fashioned printing bewildered him, and when he came to the last two

lines he could not resist reading them wrong:

"The earth affords no lovelier _fight_

Than a religious youth."

"I don't believe I could ever get that into my head straight. Haven't you

got a plain one anywhere round?" he asked, turning over the leaves with

some anxiety.

"Look at the end and see if there isn't a piece of poetry pasted in? You

learn that, and see how funny Celia will look when you say it to her. She

wrote it when she was a girl, and somebody had it printed for other

children. _I_ like it best, myself."

Pleased by the prospect of a little fun to cheer his virtuous task, Ben

whisked over the leaves and read with interest the lines Miss Celia had

written in her girlhood:

"MY KINGDOM.

"A little kingdom I possess,

Where thoughts and feelings dwell;

And very hard I find the task

Of governing it well.

For passion tempts and troubles me,

A wayward will misleads,

And selfishness its shadow casts

On all my words and deeds.

"How can I learn to rule myself,

To be the child I should,

Honest and brave, nor ever tire

Of trying to be good?

How can I keep a sunny soul

To shine along life's way?

How can I tune my little heart

To sweetly sing all day?

"Dear Father, help me with the love

That casteth out my fear!

Teach me to lean on Thee, and feel

That Thou art very near;

That no temptation is unseen,

No childish grief too small,

Since Thou, with patience infinite,

Doth soothe and comfort all.

"I do not ask for any crown

But that which all may win;

Nor seek to conquer any world

Except the one within.

Be Thou my guide until I find,

Led by a tender hand,

Thy happy kingdom in _myself_,

And dare to take command."

"I like that!" said Ben, emphatically, when he had read the little hymn.

"I understand it, and I'll learn it right away. Don't see how she could

make it all come out so nice and pretty."

"Celia can do anything," and Thorny gave an all-embracing wave of the

hand, which forcibly expressed his firm belief in his sister's boundless

powers.

"I made some poetry once. Bab and Betty thought it was first-rate. _I_

didn't," said Ben, moved to confidence by the discovery of Miss Celia's

poetic skill.

"Say it," commanded Thorny, adding with tact, "_I_ can't make any to save

my life--never could; but I'm fond of it."

"Chevalita,

Pretty creter,

I do love her

Like a brother;

Just to ride

Is my delight,

For she does not

Kick or bite,"

recited Ben, with modest pride, for his first attempt had been inspired by

sincere affection and pronounced "lovely" by the admiring girls.

"Very good! You must say them to Celia, too. She likes to hear Lita

praised. You and she and that little Barlow boy ought to try for a prize,

as the poets did in Athens. I'll tell you all about it some time. Now, you

peg away at your hymn."

Cheered by Thorny's commendation, Ben fell to work at his new task,

squirming about in the chair as if the process of getting words into his

memory was a very painful one. But he had quick wits, and had often

learned comic songs; so he soon was able to repeat the four verses without

mistake, much to his own and Thorny's satisfaction.

"Now we'll talk," said the well-pleased preceptor, and talk they did, one

swinging in the hammock, the other rolling about on the pine-needles, as

they related their experiences boy-fashion. Ben's were the most exciting,

but Thorny's were not without interest, for he had lived abroad for

several years, and could tell all sorts of droll stories of the countries

he had seen.

Busied with friends, Miss Celia could not help wondering how the lads got

on, and, when the tea-bell rang, waited a little anxiously for their

return, knowing that she could tell at a glance if they had enjoyed

themselves.

"All goes well so far," she thought, as she watched their approach with a

smile, for Sancho sat bolt upright in the chair which Ben pushed, while

Thorny strolled beside him leaning on a stout cane newly cut. Both boys

were talking busily, and Thorny laughed from time to time, as if his

comrade's chat was very amusing.

"See what a jolly cane Ben cut for me. He's great fun if you don't stroke

him the wrong way," said the elder lad, flourishing his staff as they came

up.

"What have you been doing down there? You look so merry, I suspect

mischief," asked Miss Celia, surveying them from the steps.

"We've been as good as gold. I talked, and Ben learned a hymn to please

you. Come, young man, say your piece," said Thorny, with an expression of

virtuous content.

Taking off his hat, Ben soberly obeyed, much enjoying the quick color that

came up in Miss Celia's face as she listened, and feeling as if well

repaid for the labor of learning by the pleased look with which she said,

as he ended with a bow:

"I feel very proud to think you chose that, and to hear you say it as if

it meant something to you. I was only thirteen when I wrote it, but it

came right out of my heart, and did me good. I hope it may help you a

little."

Ben murmured that he guessed it would, but felt too shy to talk about such

things before Thorny, so hastily retired to put the chair away, and the

others went in to tea. But later in the evening, when Miss Celia was

singing like a nightingale, the boy slipped away from sleepy Bab and Betty

to stand by the syringa-bush and listen, with his heart full of new

thoughts and happy feelings, for never before had he spent a Sunday like

this. And when he went to bed, instead of saying "Now I lay me," he

repeated the third verse of Miss Celia's hymn, for that was his favorite,

because his longing for the father whom he had seen made it seem sweet and

natural now to love and lean, without fear, upon the Father whom he had

not seen.

(_To be continued_.)

THE SWALLOW.

BY NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

[Illustration]

Of all the birds that swim the air

I'd rather be the swallow;

And, summer days, when days were fair,

I'd follow, follow, follow

The hurrying clouds across the sky,

And with the singing winds I'd fly.

My eager wings would need no rest

If I were but a swallow;

I'd scale the highest mountain crest

And sound the deepest hollow.

No forest could my path-way hide;

No ocean plain should be too wide.

I'd find the sources of the Nile,

I'd see the Sandwich Islands,

And Chimborazo's granite pile,

And Scotland's rugged Highlands;

I'd skim the sands of Timbuctoo;

Constantinople's mosques I'd view.

I'd fly among the isles of Greece,

The pride of great Apollo,

And circle round the bay of Nice,

If I were but a swallow,

And view the sunny fields of France,

The vineyards merry with the dance.

I'd see my shadow in the Rhine

Dart swiftly like an arrow,

And catch the breath of eglantine

Along the banks of Yarrow;

I'd roam the world and never tire,

If I could have my heart's desire!

THE WILD MUSTANG.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.

All the horses we see in the streets, or along the country roads, are

tame. Such a thing as a real wild horse is hardly to be found anywhere,

save in certain places in Texas, California, and parts of South America.

Elsewhere, the horse is tame enough, and no one can remember, neither is

it told in any history or story book, when or where men first tamed him

and put a bit in his mouth. A long, long time ago, all the horses were

wild, but no one knows when that could have been, for, as long as men can

remember, they have had tame horses, dogs, cats, elephants, camels and

cattle.

Now, the curious part of this is that there are wild horses both in North

and South America at this day. They do not belong to any one in

particular, and run wild, without saddle or bridle, all the year round.

Yet they are not descendants of the original wild horses, for there was a

time when their fathers were good cavalry horses, and belonged to the

Spanish armies that invaded Mexico and Peru. When Europeans discovered the

two continents on this side of the world, such a thing as a horse was

totally unknown to the people living here, and, when they saw the Spanish

cavalry, they thought the horses and riders some new kind of animal.

Seeing the horses champ their brass bits, the people thought they were

eating gold. So they brought lumps of gold to see them eat it. The

soldiers slyly put the gold in their pockets, and said the horses had

eaten it up, and the natives were simple enough to believe this wonderful

story.

Many of the Spanish soldiers were killed in the wars with the Mexicans,

and their horses broke loose and ran away. Some of them may have been

caught again by the Mexicans, but many others escaped and were never

captured again, and ran wild through the country. The descendants of these

horses grew and multiplied and spread over parts of North and South

America, going south into the great plains or pampas, and north into the

prairie lands of Texas and the valleys of California. These horses still

run wild, and are the only really wild horses in the world. At the same

time, they may not precisely resemble the first real wild horses, for

their fathers were tame, and, perhaps, they still remember something of

this, and have strange legends among themselves of the old days when their

ancestors were good Spanish cavalry horses.

The early settlers that landed in other parts of the country, at New

Amsterdam, at Jamestown and Plymouth Bay, also brought tame horses with

them, and these, in turn, spread over North America, as the settlers moved

out toward the west. These horses are now called "American horses," to

distinguish them from the wild horses of Texas and California. The

American horses, in time, met the wild horses, and then men noticed that

they were very different animals. The wild horse is smaller and more

muscular, he has stronger and stouter limbs, a larger head, and a more

bushy mane and tail. His ears are longer and more inclined to lie back on

his head, his feet are smaller and more pointed in front, and his hair is

rougher and thicker. His color is often curiously mixed in black and white

dots and flecks, like some circus horses that you may have seen; and, if

his color is uniform, it is generally dark red or deep gray or mouse

color. These mustangs are quite wild, and have no fixed feeding-ground.

They scamper in droves over the rolling prairies and pampas, and sleep at

night in such dry places as they can find. They keep in companies for

protection against bears or other wild animals, and if they are attacked,

they put their noses together and form a circle with their heels out, as

if they had been told of the old Spanish fighting days, and of the

soldiers forming with their pikes solid squares to resist attacks of

cavalry.

They can defend themselves against the bears in this way, but against the

lightning and men they have no protection, except to run away as fast as

they can. A thunder storm, or a very high wind, fills them with terror,

and away they go at furious speed through the grass, and, at last,

disappear in a cloud of dust on the horizon.

The wild horse can run away from a man; but this protection fails at

times. The horse-catchers--or "vaqueros," as they are called--are famous

riders, and to see them capture a wild mustang is better than to go to a

circus. The vaquero puts a Spanish saddle on a tame horse, and starts out

to see what he can find. In front, on the high pommel of the saddle, he

hangs in large coils a leather rope, about a hundred feet long, and called

a lasso. It is made of strips of raw hide, braided by hand into a smooth,

hard and very pretty rope. One end is secured to the saddle, and the other

end has a slip-knot making a sliding noose.

[Illustration: CAPTURING A WILD MUSTANG.]

The vaquero has not long to wait, for there are droves of horses cantering

or walking about over the swells and hollows of the prairie, with here

and there a smaller group looking on, or watching a battle between two

horses who wish to be captains of their bands or companies. Presently,

there is a strange sound of tramping hoofs, like the sound of a squadron

of cavalry, except that it has a grand, wild rush and swing such as no

cavalry ever had, and a cloud of dark heads rises over a swell of the

land. The leader sees the vaquero, and he halts suddenly, and the others

pull up in a confused crowd, and toss their heads, and sniff the air, as

if they scented danger near. The leader does not like the looks of things,

and turns and slowly canters away, followed by all the rest, tramping in

confusion through the yellow grass and wild barley. Presently they become

frightened, and away they fly in a dusty throng.

The vaquero's horse seems to think his chance has come, and he pricks up

his ears, and is eager for the glorious fun of a dash after the mustangs.

Away they go pell-mell, in a panic, and the tame horse galloping swiftly

after them. Down they tumble--some knocked over in the confusion, snorting

and flinging great flecks of foam from their dilated nostrils, trampling

over each other in mad haste, each for himself, and the American horse

sweeping after them. Now the vaquero stands up in his saddle, and the

lasso swings round and round in a circle over his head. Swish! It sings

through the air with a whirring sound, and opens out in great rings, while

the loop spreads wider and wider, and at last drops plump over the head of

a mustang. The vaquero's horse pulls up with a sudden halt, and sinks back

on his haunches, and braces his fore feet out in front. Ah! How the dust

flies! The mustang is fast, held by the slip-knot, and he rears up and

plunges in wild and frantic terror. The rope strains terribly, but the

vaquero watches his chances, and takes in the rope every time it slackens.

It is of no use! The poor mustang is hard and fast. Perhaps another rider

comes up and flings another lasso over his head. Then they ride round him,

and the mustang is twisted and tangled in the ropes till he can hardly

move. He falls, and rolls, and kicks furiously, and all in vain. Panting,

exhausted and conquered, he at last submits to his fate. His free days are

over, and he seems to know it. A few more struggles, and he recognizes

that man is his master, and, perhaps, in one or two days he submits to a

bit in his mouth, and becomes a tame horse for the rest of his life. If,

by any chance, he escapes before he is broken in, and runs away to join

his wild companions, he seems never to forget that terrible lasso, and if

he sees the vaquero again, he will stand, trembling and frightened, too

much terrified to even run away.

The wild mustangs of the far West are rapidly disappearing. As the

settlers come in, they capture them and tame them, so that in places where

once the wild horses roamed in great droves, hardly one is now to be seen,

and the much better American horse has taken his place. This picture shows

two vaqueros in South America just making a capture. They came out from

the plantation under the palm-trees, and the powerful white mustang has

just felt the pull of the lasso round his splendid neck. Poor fellow! It

is hard, but it will soon be over, and then he will one day enjoy chasing

others quite as much as the splendid black horse has enjoyed the exciting

chase after him.

APRIL'S SUNBEAM.

BY JOY ALLISON.

"Here's a warm sunbeam, Daisy, Daisy;

April sent it to wake you, dear!

How can you be so lazy, lazy?

Haven't you heard that Spring is here?"

Daisy murmured, sleepy and surly:

"Spring's too young yet--the air is cool;

I don't believe in a sun so early,--

He's just playing at April fool!"

[Illustration: EASTER LILIES.]

OLD NICOLAI.

BY PAUL FORT.

One fine summer morning, many years ago, there sat upon a log, in a garden

in Russia, an old man, who was mending a rake. The rake was a wooden one,

and he was cutting a tooth to take the place of one that was broken. He

was a stout, healthy old fellow, dressed in a coarse blue blouse and

trousers; and as he sat on the log, whittling away at the piece of wood

which was to become a rake-tooth, he sang, in a voice that was somewhat

the worse for wear, but still quite as good a voice as you could expect an

old gardener to have, a little song. He sang it in Russian, of course, and

this was the way it ran:

"Zvoeri raboti ne znaiut

Ptitzi zhivut bes truda

Liudi ne zvoeri ne ptitzi

Liudi rabotoi zhivut."

Expressed in English, this ditty simply set forth the fact that the beasts

and the birds do not labor, but Man, who is neither a beast nor a bird, is

obliged to work.

The old fellow seemed to like the lines, for he sang them over several

times, as he went on with his whittling. Just as he was about to make a

new start on his "Zvoeri raboti," a boy, about fifteen years old, came

out of the house which stood by the side of the garden, and walked toward

him.

"Nicolai Petrovitch," said the boy, sitting down on a wheelbarrow, which

was turned over in front of the gardener, "why is it that you are so fond

of singing that song? One might suppose you are lazy, but we know very

well you are not. And then, too, there is no sense in it. Birds don't

work, to be sure, but what have you to say about horses and oxen? I'm sure

they work hard enough--at least, some of them."

"Martin Ivanovitch," said the old man, as he took up the rake and tried

the new tooth, to see if it would fit in the hole, "this stick will have

to be cut down a good deal more; it is hard wood. What you say about the

beasts is very true. But I like that song. It may not be altogether true,

but it is poetry, and it pleases me."

"You like poetry, don't you?" said Martin.

"Yes, indeed, little Martin, I like poetry. If it had been possible, I

should have been a poet myself. I often think very good poetry, but as I

cannot read or write, there is no sense in my trying to make use of any of

it."

"But how did you learn to like poetry, as you cannot read?" asked Martin.

"Oh! I heard a great deal of very good poetry when I was a young man, and

then I learned to like it. And I remembered almost all I heard. Now, my

daughter Axinia reads poetry to me every Sunday, but I do not remember it

so well."

"What kind of poetry suits you best?" asked the boy, who seemed to be

tired of studying, or working, or perhaps playing, and therefore glad to

have a quiet talk with the old man.

"I like all kinds, Martin Ivanovitch. I used to sing a great deal, and

then I liked songs best. I think you have heard me sing some of my good

songs."

"Oh yes!" said Martin, "I remember that song about the young shepherdess,

who wanted to give her sweetheart something; and she could not give him

her dog, because she needed him, nor her crook, because her father had

given it to her, nor one of her lambs, because they all belonged to her

mother, who counted them every day, and so she gave him her heart."

"Yes, yes," said old Nicolai, smiling; "I like that song best of all. I

should be proud to have written such poetry as that. He must have been a

great poet who wrote that. But I do not hear many songs now. My little

Axinia is reading me a long poem. It is called the 'Dushenka.' Perhaps you

have heard of it?"

"Oh yes!" said Martin.

"Well, she is reading that to me. She likes it herself, I do not

understand it all; but what I do understand, I like very much. It is good

poetry. It must have been a grand thing to write such poetry as that," and

the old man laid down his knife and his stick, and took off his cap, as if

in involuntary homage to the author of "Dushenka," which is one of the

standard poems in Russian literature.

"You were not a gardener when you were a young man, were you, Nicolai

Petrovitch?" asked Martin.

"O no! But long before you were born I became a gardener. When I was a

young man I had a good many different employments. Being a serf, I paid a

yearly sum to my master, and then I went where I pleased. Sometimes I was

well off, and sometimes I was badly off. I have been out on the lonely

steppes in winter, often only three or four of us together, with our

horses and carts, when the snow came down so fast, and the wind blew so

fiercely, that we could scarcely make our way through the storm; and even

the colts that were following us could hardly keep their feet in the deep

drifts. Sometimes, we would lose our way in these storms,--when we could

see nothing a hundred feet from us,--and then we should have wandered

about until we died, if we had not given up everything to the horses. They

could always find their way home, even in the worst storms. And then,"

said old Nicolai, knocking from the rake a tooth that was cracked (for the

new one was finished and hammered in), "I used to drive a sledge on a

post-road. That was harder, perhaps, than plunging through the snow-storms

on the steppes, for I used to have to drive sometimes by day and sometimes

by night, in the coldest weather; and a wind that is cold enough when you

are standing still, or going along the same road that it is taking, is

fifty times worse when you are driving, as fast as you can, right into the

teeth of it. I used to be glad enough when we reached a post-house and I

could crowd myself up against the great brick stove and try and get some

little feeling into my stiffened fingers. The winter that I drove a sledge

was the worst winter I have ever known. I did not care to try this hard

life another season, so I went to Moscow, and there I became servant to a

young fellow who was the greatest fool I ever knew."

"What did he do?" asked Martin. "Why was he a fool?"

"Oh! he was a boy without sense--the only Russian boy I ever knew who had

no sense at all. If he had belonged to some other nation, I should not

have wondered so much. This fellow was about fifteen or sixteen, and ought

to have known something of the world, but he knew nothing. He was going to

the university when I was with him, but you might have thought he was a

pupil at a mad-house. Whatever came into his cracked brain, came out of

his mouth; and whatever he wanted to do, he did, without waiting to think

whether it would be proper or not. The biggest fool could cheat him; and

when anybody did cheat him, and his friends found it out and wanted to

punish the rascal, this little fool of mine would come, with tears in his

eyes, to beg for the poor wretch, who must feel already such remorse and

such shame at being found out! Bah! I can hardly bear to think of him.

Why, there was once a house afire, in a neighborhood where one of his

friends lived, and what does this young fool do but jump out of his bed,

in the middle of a stormy night, and run to this fire, with nothing but

his night-clothes on!"

"This is very curious," said Martin, laughing. "Nicolai Petrovitch, do you

know----"

"Well, as I was going on to tell you," said the old man, who seemed

thoroughly wrapped up in his subject, "I couldn't stand any such folly as

that, and so I soon left him and went to live with Colonel Rasteryaieff. I

stayed there a long, long time. There I became a gardener, and there I

learned almost all the poetry that I know. The colonel had a daughter, who

was a little child when I went there; but when she grew old enough, she

became a girl of great sense, and she liked poetry, and used to come and

read to me, out of the books she had. I always tried to get at some work

which would let me listen to her, during the hour that she would come to

me in the afternoon. She read better than my little Axinia. I used to wish

I was a poet, so that I could hear her read some of my songs."

"But, Nicolai Petrovitch," cried Martin, his eyes fairly sparkling with a

discovery he had made, "do you know that I believe that that fool of a

boy you lived with was the poet who wrote the songs and the poetry that

you like best--that he wrote the 'Dushenka,' which Axinia Nicolaievna is

reading to you?"

"What!" said the old gardener, laying down his knife and the piece of wood

he was cutting.

"I mean what I say," said Martin. "Wasn't his name Bogdanovitch?"

[Illustration: A STORM ON THE STEPPES.]

"Bog-dan-ovitch!" repeated Nicolai, his eyes wide open in surprise.

"Yes--that was his name. How did you know him? It was nearly fifty years

ago since I lived with him."

"Oh yes!" said Martin, still laughing, "it must have been that long ago. I

read his life only a short time since, in the edition of 'Dushenka' which

we have. It was surely Bogdanovitch whom you lived with. Why, Nicolai

Petrovitch, you ought to be proud of having had such a master! He was one

of our great poets. He wrote the song of the shepherdess, and he wrote the

'Dushenka.' He might have acted very simply when he was young, but he

certainly became a great poet."

"So he wrote the shepherdess song, did he?" said Nicolai.

"Yes, he wrote that, and many other good things, and he became quite a

famous man. Queen Catharine thought a great deal of him, and the people at

court paid him many honors. They did not consider him a fool, as you did.

If you would like to know all about what happened to this young boy who

was such a simpleton, I will lend you the book with his life in it, and

Axinia Nicolaievna can read it to you."

"My little Martin Ivanovitch," said the old man, picking up his knife and

the yet unfinished rake, "I do not believe that I ever could have become a

poet, even if I had known how to read and write. It would have been

impossible for me to have gone to a fire in my night-clothes!"

[Illustration]

THE PROFESSOR.

BY CLARENCE COOK.

The Professor seated himself at the luncheon-table with an air of

importance. He was twelve years old, but he might have been taken for six,

or even for three, he looked so wise. The children's nurse poured herself

out a cup of tea. The teapot was too full, and a large drop fell upon the

shining mahogany table. The Professor looked at the drop with evident

pleasure.

"Stop, nurse!" he cried, as she was about to wipe it up with her napkin.

"Let's see who can take up that tea without touching it, and leave the

table dry!"

"Thuck it up," said Pip.

"Mamma doesn't like you to drink tea," said nurse.

"Besides, that would be touching it," said Tom.

"Take it up with a thpoon," said Pip.

"You couldn't do it; it would spread all over," said the Professor.

"And that would be touching it just as much," said Bob.

"Don't fink it can be done!" said Pip, shaking her head.

"All shut your eyes," said the Professor. "You, nurse, shut yours, too.

Don't any of you look."

Nurse shut both her eyes, hard. Pip put her two fat little fists into her

eyes, and listened. Tom laid his head down sideways on the table, and

curled his arms round it. Bob declared that he wouldn't shut his eyes; he

was going to see that the Professor acted fair.

"Now open your eyes," said the Professor.

They all looked up, and there stood the sage, who had covered the drop

with a little blue bowl. He lifted the bowl, and, on the spot where had

been the drop of tea, stood a lump of loaf-sugar holding up the tea in its

paws, or pores, whichever you please.

Nurse picked up the lump of sugar and ate it. The table was as dry as a

bone.

"Oh, my!" said Pip.

* * *

The Professor walked over to the window.

"Oh, nurse!" said he, "why don't you make Bridget wash this paint off the

glass?"

"She has tried to get it off," said nurse, "but she can't do it."

"What loths of little thpots!" said Pip.

"What careless fellows those painters were!" said Tom.

"Who knows how to get it off?" said the Professor.

"Take a thpunge and thum thope," said Pip.

"'T wont do," said nurse; "Bridget has tried."

"Oh, I know!" said Bob. "Kerosene!"

"Thath dangeruth," said Pip, "and thmells bad, bethides."

"Nurse," said the Professor, "what will you give me if I will show you how

to take it off?"

"I'll give you a cent," said nurse.

"Give me a cent and I'll do it," said the Professor. "But I must be paid

in advance." He took the cent. "Now look, all of you," he said; and,

laying it flat on the glass, he held it with the tips of the first and

second fingers, and rubbed it briskly over the pane. Off went the spots

like buckwheat cakes of a cold winter-morning!

"Oh, how nithe!" said Pip.

"Any feller could do that," said Bob.

"Yeth," said Pip, "if they'd theen anybody do it before."

* * *

"Why, Tom!" cried nurse, "where did you get that paint on your sleeve?"

"There! I told Fred Mason he'd get me all over paint, if he didn't stop

fooling," said Tom.

"It'th a wewy big thpot," said Pip.

"It'll never come off," said Tom; "and it's my new jacket, too! Mason

pushed me against the door."

"Well," said the Professor, "there's no use crying over spilt milk."

"Oh," said Pip, "is it milk in the paint that makth it so white?"

"Nonsense, Pip! The thing to do now is to get the paint off Tom's coat.

Who knows how to do it?"

"Don't fink anybody duth," said Pip.

"Hold out your arm," said the Professor. And, with the sleeve of his own

coat, he briskly rubbed the sleeve of Tom's; and away went the spot of

paint in a jiffy.

"He's wubbed it onto his own thleeve," said Pip.

But no; the Professor's sleeve was as clean as Tom's.

"Where ith it went to?" said Pip. "Oh, nurse! Ithn't that thingler?"

"I say," said Bob, "you couldn't have got it off if it had dried on your

coat."

"Perhaps not," said the Professor.

* * *

It was again luncheon-time, and Pip, Tom, and Bob were in the dining-room,

where nurse Charlotte, seated at the head of the table, was already

pouring herself out a cup of tea. She had cut bread and butter for the

children, filled their tumblers with milk, and was ready, when they should

be ready, to help them to the apple-and-sago pudding--"just the nithest

pudding in the world," as merry little Pip used to say every time it came

on table.

All the children were there but the Professor; the others did not know

where he was. Pip was the first one to see him coming across the lawn.

"How queer!" said Pip. "He'th all mud, and what hath he got in hith hand?"

"It's a turtle," says Tom.

"It'th a bird," says Pip.

"Perhaps it's a turtle-dove," says nurse.

"Should say 't was a mud-turtle by the looks of his legs," said Bob.

"Nurth, do turtle-doves live in the mud?" said Pip.

"Nonsense," said Bob, "as if birds ever lived in the mud!"

"Well," said Pip, "thum thwallows, I _know_, make their neths of mud, and

then they live in their neths, and that's living in mud. But here comth

the Profethor; let's see what heeth found. It's thumthin in a glath."

The Professor came up, walking very slowly across the grass; then stepped

carefully up upon the piazza, and, as he passed the window, he called for

some one to come and open the front door.

All the children ran together, and opened the door with such a flourish,

the Professor was obliged to call out, "Stand off! Hands off!"

"Will it splode?" said Pip.

"Will it bite?" said Bob.

"Will it fly away?" said Tom.

"It will splode," said the Professor, "and it will fly away; but it won't

bite."

"Oh my!" said Pip, "what can it be? I never heard of any creature

splodin!"

The Professor looked pleased; his face was red, his hair was tumbled, his

coat was torn, and his boots and trousers were muddy.

"You look as if you had had a hard time catching the creature, whatever it

is," said nurse. "You'd better leave it out-of-doors now, and clean

yourself, and come and eat your luncheon."

"Oh, please, nurse, let's see it now!" said all the children; and nurse,

who wanted to see it herself, agreed.

"You can't see it," said the Professor; "it's invisible! You can't see it

till it disappears!"

"Oh dear," said Pip, "I just ache to know about it."

"Well," said the Professor, "light mamma's wax-taper."

"I don't see what good lighting a taper will do, if the creature's

invisible," said Bob.

The Professor set his burden down on the table. It was a saucer filled

with water, and in the water stood a tumbler upside down. There was

nothing to be seen in the tumbler.

The Professor struck an attitude.

"What I have in this tumbler, nurse and children, was obtained with great

difficulty. I've been about it ever since lesson-time."

"Where did you find it?" says Pip.

"How came you to know about it?" says Tom.

"I should think it would be hard to catch nothing," says Bob.

"I found it in the water, in the little pool in our woods. I saw it first

the other night in the dark, and I caught it to-day when it was hiding. I

took a long stick and gently stirred up the dead leaves that lie rotting

on the bottom, and he began to come up--first one, then another--now here,

and now there."

"Ho! ho!" says Bob. "How could that be? How could _he_ come up in pieces,

and in different places?"

"Poor thing!" said Pip. "He wath dead!"

"Oh, if he's dead I don't care about him," says Bob.

"He's far from dead," said the Professor; "and though he was in pieces,

he's all together now, and safe in this tumbler." And then, seizing the

lighted taper, he turned up the tumbler, held the taper quickly to its

mouth, and--Pop! went something, with a quick flash.

"Oh, fire-works!" says Bob.

"Oh, tell us truly about it!" says Tom. "Where did you buy it? Let's have

some for the Fourth!"

"Children," said the Professor, "I have told you the truth about it. It's

gas. It's carbureted hydrogen. I found it in the pond. 'Carbureted

hydrogen' is its science name. Its poetry name is 'Will-o'-the-wisp,' and

there's another name besides."

"I should think two names were enough for nothing," says Bob.

"What'th the other name?" said Pip.

"_Ignis fatuus_," said the Professor. "It means 'Cheating-fire.' Sometimes

this gas, rising to the top of the water in bubbles, takes fire (by what

they call spontaneous combustion, or by mixing with some other gas, or in

some other way), and then, as one bubble after another takes fire and goes

flickering along, it looks as if some one were walking through the woods

with a lantern."

"And thath how it cheat-th, isn't it?" said Pip. "But I don't thee how it

is thet afire. Perhapth, now--perhapth it's the fire-flyth!"

"Oh, good for you!" said the Professor; and he chased her round the table,

and caught her, and kissed her.

"Well, how did you ever get it with that tumbler?" said Tom.

"Well, easy enough. First, I filled the tumbler with water. Then I laid

the saucer over the top. Then I plunged the whole under the water, holding

tumbler and saucer with both hands firm, and turned them over in the

water, and drew them out. The saucer, as well as the tumbler, was then

full of water, and though the tumbler was upside down the water couldn't

fall out."

"What hindered it, I'd like to know?" said Bob.

"Atmospheric pressure," said the Professor, pushing the words out slowly.

"The whole atmosphere weighs down on the water in the saucer and balances

the water in the tumbler and keeps it in."

"It had all leaked out before you reached home, anyway," said Bob.

"The gas pushed it out," said the Professor, "I told you how I stirred up

the bottom of the pool. It was all covered with dead leaves. These as they

rot give out gas, but it cannot easily escape from the bottom, and stays

down among the leaves and slime till it is stirred up. Then the little

bubbles of gas come popping up, and as they mount I am ready with my

tumbler and saucer. I slip them both softly into the water a little way

off, draw out the saucer, slide the inverted tumbler over the bubbles

before they break; and the gas mounts into the tumbler, each bubble of gas

displacing a little water; then over more bubbles, and more and more,

until all the water in the tumbler is out and the gas is in its place;

then I fill the saucer with water again, slide it under the tumbler, and

bring it home."

"Come to your luncheon, children," cried nurse. "The pudding will be

cold."

"Oh, wait a minute," said Tom. "You said the gas drove out the water in

the tumbler. Why don't it drive out the water in the saucer?"

The Professor looked puzzled.

"Well, it would in time, I suppose. But you see, its nature is to push

upward, because it's light----"

"Oh, now, it pushes the same every way," said Tom.

"There's something we don't know," said Bob.

"Oh, yeth, I am afwaid we don't know it all," said Pip.

"Well," drawled the Professor, "I don't know, only I guess it's because

the water is too dense--too close together, for one thing; and the same

atmospheric pressure that kept the water in keeps the gas in, for

another."

"There, I do believe that's it," said Pip. "Oh, how nice it did pop off!

Like a vewy small fwier-cracker a great way off. Now let's have some

pudding. Apple and sago! Just the nithest pudding in the world!"

One day an ant went to visit her neighbor;

She found her quite busy with all sorts of labor;

So she didn't go in, but stopped at the sill;

Left her respects, and went back to her hill.

[Illustrations: MOUSIE'S ADVENTURES FROM GARRET TO CELLAR.]

FOUR CHARADES.[A]

BY C. P. CRANCH.

I.

When swiftly in my first you glide along,

Naught ruffles up the temper of your mind;

All goes as smoothly as a summer song,

All objects flit beside you like the wind.

But if you should be stopped in your career,

And forced to linger when you fain would fly,

You'll leave my first, and, very much I fear,

Will fall into my second speedily.

Till in some snug and comfortable room

Your friends receive you as a welcome guest,

You'll own that Winter's robbed of half his gloom,

When on my whole your feet in slippers rest.

II.

MY FIRST.

I sunder friends, yet give to laws

A place to stand and plead their cause.

Though justice and sobriety

Still find their safest ground in me,

I spread temptation in man's way,

And rob and ruin every day.

MY SECOND.

Success and power are in my name,

Men strive for me far more than fame.

One thing I am unto the wise,

But quite another in fools' eyes,

Through me the world is rich and strong,

Yet too much love of me is wrong.

MY WHOLE.

My first and second when they meet,

As lawyers' fees, my whole complete.

And yet my first too oft enjoyed,

Is sure to make my second void.

My whole is good and bad by turns,

As every merchant daily learns.

III.

My first the stout Hibernian wields

On banks and streets and stubborn fields,

To earn the bread that labor yields.

My second is a name for one

Whose youth and age together run,

A leader all good people shun.

My whole in summer-time is sweet,

When youths and maids together meet

Beneath some shady grove's retreat.

(So simple is this short charade,

That I am very much afraid

You'll guess at once, without my aid.)

IV.

When I was a little boy, how welcome was my first;

When tired of play I went to bed, my lessons all rehearsed.

How soundly all the night I slept, without a care or sorrow,

And waked when sunshine lit the room, and robins sang good-morrow.

When I was a little boy, what joy it was to see

My second waiting at the door for Willy and for me;

And how we trotted off to bring ripe apples from the farm,

And piled our bags on Nellie's back, nor felt the least alarm.

But when I was a little boy, I had an ugly dream,

A huge black bear was in my bed, I gave a dreadful scream,

And roused the house; they brought in lights, and put my whole to

flight,

Since then I made a vow to eat no supper late at night.

[A] The answers will be given in the "Letter-Box" for May, 1878.

WISE CATHERINE AND THE KABOUTERMANNEKEN.

BY HOWARD PYLE.

In old times, there was once a quaint little dwarf, who was known as the

Kaboutermanneken of Kaboutermannekensburg.

In the very ancient times of good King Broderic and Frederic Barbarossa,

he constantly lived above ground, and many times was seen trudging along

through the moonlit forest with a bag over his shoulder. What was in the

bag nobody exactly knew, but most people supposed it to be gold.

The Kaboutermanneken was a peppery little fellow, and at the slightest

word his rage would fire up hotly. Since he was quite able, small as he

was, to thrash the strongest man, he was very generally avoided.

It is a well-assured fact that, as churches increase, dwarfs and

elfin-folk diminish; so, at last, when the town of Kaboutermannekensburg

was founded, and a church built, the Kaboutermanneken was fairly driven to

the wall, or, rather, into the ground, where he lived in the bowels of the

earth, and only appeared at intervals of a hundred years. But, upon the

last day that terminated each of these series of a hundred years, he would

re-appear in his old haunts, and, I believe, continues the practice to the

present day, in spite of railroads, steam-engines, and all the

paraphernalia of progress, so destructive to fairy lore.

I.--THE GOLDEN CUP.

Once upon a time, after the Kaboutermanneken's visits had become events of

such rarity, there lived a worthy wood-chopper, who had a daughter named

Catherine; a pretty little maiden of sixteen, and yet the wisest woman in

the kingdom of Kaboutermannekensburg. Shrewd as she was, she had yet the

best, the kindest, and the most guileless heart in the world; and many a

sick man, troubled woman, and grieved child had cause to bless her and her

wisdom. One winter, when labor was cheap and bread expensive, the

wood-chopper, whose name was Peter Kurtz, chopped his hand instead of the

stump he was aiming a blow at, and, in consequence, rendered himself unfit

for work for many a day. During his sickness, the whole care of the family

devolved upon Kate; for Peter's wife had died nearly two years before; so

it was Kate who tended the baby, dressed Johann, mended Wilhelm's

small-clothes, and attended to the wants of her father; for in those days

a sick man was more complaining than a child two years old. Beside these

acts of labor, she had to cook the meals, wash the dishes, sweep the

house, run of errands, chop the wood, make the fire, and many other little

odd duties of the kind; so that, upon the whole, her time was pretty well

occupied.

There seemed a probability now, however, that one of these duties would be

dispensed with, namely, cooking the meals; not that there was any

indolence upon Catherine's part, but because the necessary materials were

not forthcoming. Indeed, the extent of the larder at present consisted of

half a bowl of cold gravy, and about a quarter of a loaf of bread.

When Catherine, that cold morning, inspected the woeful emptiness of the

cupboard, she wrung her cold blue hands in despair; but, wring her poor

little hands ever so much, she could not squeeze good bread and meat out

of them; something must be done, and that immediately, if she would save

the children from starving. At length she bethought herself that many rich

people of Kaboutermannekensburg were fond of burning pine-cones instead of

rough logs, not only on account of the bright, warm and crackling fire

they produced, but also because of the sweet resinous odor that they threw

out, filling the house with a perfume like that which arose from the

censers in the cathedral.

It was woeful weather for Catherine to go hunting for pine-cones. The snow

lay a good foot deep over the glossy brown treasures, and she herself was

but thinly clad; yet the children must have bread. Not having eaten any

breakfast that morning, she slipped the remnant of the loaf into the

basket to serve as lunch, and then started to face the wind toward the

forest.

Bitterly cold blew the wind from the bleak north; tearing through the

moaning pine forest, that tossed and swayed before the tempest, gnawing

Catherine's nose and fingers, and snatching up, as it were, handfuls of

snow, and hurling them in a rage through the air. Poor Catherine was

nearly frozen, yet she struggled bravely on through the drifting snow.

Suddenly she caught sight of a quaint little cottage that she had never

seen before, much as she had traveled this portion of the forest; but a

more welcome sight still was the gleam of a cheery fire within, that

illuminated the frost-covered panes with a ruddy glow.

Catherine, stumbling, sliding, struggling through the drifts, reached the

cottage at last, raised the latch, and entered a door-way so low that even

she, small as she was, had to stoop her head in passing.

"Shut the door!" shrieked a shrill voice, with startling abruptness; and,

for the first time, Kate perceived a very little old man seated in a very

large chair, and smoking a very long pipe. A great beard reached below his

dangling feet and touched the floor.

[Illustration: "A VERY LITTLE OLD MAN SEATED IN A VERY LARGE CHAIR."]

"May I warm myself at your fire, kind gentleman?" said Kate, dropping a

courtesy. The little old man grunted without looking at her.

"May I warm myself at your fire, sir?" repeated Kate, in a louder voice,

supposing he must be deaf.

"I heard you!" growled the old dwarf, with sudden rage. "You don't suppose

I'm deaf, do you? I said yes. You don't want to argue, do you?"

Kate murmured her thanks, feeling much astonished and very uncomfortable

at the old gentleman's conduct. Thus they sat in silence for a long while,

the little old man smoking like a volcano. At length:

"Are you hungry?" said he, abruptly.

"Yes, sir," said Kate, bethinking herself of her bread.

"So am I!" said the old man, shortly, at the same time resuming his

smoking. Removing his pipe after another pause, "I haven't had anything to

eat for one hundred years; I feel kind of empty," said he.

"I should think so," thought Kate to herself; then, after regarding him in

silence for a few minutes, she said, timidly, "I--I have a--a piece of

bread in my basket, sir, if you would like to have it?"

"Like to have it? You speak as though you had no sense. Of course, I

should like to have it! Why didn't you offer it to me sooner?"

Kate, in spite of her hunger, that had recommenced gnawing her, now that

she was warm, handed him the piece of bread. The old man seized it

ravenously, opened his mouth to an astonishing extent, bolted the large

morsel as one does a pill, and then resumed his smoking as though nothing

of any note had occurred. Kate regarded him with silent astonishment.

"What are you doing out in this kind of weather?" said the old man,

suddenly.

"I came to gather pine-cones to sell in the town," said Kate.

"You're a fool!" snapped the old man. "How do you suppose you can gather

pine-cones in twelve inches of snow, not to mention the drifts?"

"Nevertheless, sir, I have to get the children something to eat, and

father----"

"Oh! don't bother me with that story!" said the old man, impatiently. "I

know all about it. Your father's Peter Kurtz, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Umph!" grunted the dwarf. Then, after another pause, "go to the closet

yonder, and take one of the cups there, in return for the bread you gave

me."

"Indeed, sir," said Kate, earnestly, "I do not care for any return

for----"

"Do as I tell you!" bellowed the dwarf, in a fury.

Kate crossed the room, opened the cupboard, and--what a sight met her

eyes! All the dishes, bowls, cups and saucers were of pure gold.

"Take one of the cups?" said Kate, in breathless doubt.

"That's what I said, wasn't it?" snarled the dwarf. "You are just like all

women, never contented with what you receive."

Catherine was far too wise to answer foolish abuse with useless excuse;

she silently took one of the beautiful cups and put it in her basket. She

was so overcome that she did not think of any word of thanks until she had

reached the door; then, turning: "May heaven bless you, sir, for----"

"Shut the door!" screamed the dwarf.

Kate hurried home, but before reaching the town she wisely covered the cup

with snow, that no gossiping neighbor might catch sight of it; for she

well knew that gossip was like the snow-ball that the little boys start

rolling from the top of a hill--small in the commencement, but sure to

grow before it ends its course.

"Where have you been all this time?" whined Peter.

When Kate recounted her adventure, her father could hardly believe her,

and when she had carefully removed the snow from the cup, he could hardly

believe his eyes. He placed it upon the table, and then, sitting down in

front of it, he examined it with breathless astonishment and delight.

The cup was of solid gold, heavy and massive; carved upon it in bold

relief was a group of figures representing a host of little elves at a

banquet. So exquisitely were they engraved that they appeared actually to

move, and it seemed as though one could almost hear their laughter and

talk. A glittering, carved golden snake, curled around the brim of the

cup, served as a handle; its eyes were two diamonds. After Peter Kurtz had

feasted his eyes upon this treasure for a long time, he arose suddenly,

and, without saying a word, wrapped up the cup in a napkin, drew his cowl

more closely around his face, and, taking his staff, prepared to leave the

house.

"Where are you going, father?" said Kate.

"I am going," said Peter, "to take this cup to our master, the Baron von

Dunderhead; that will be far more to our advantage than selling it to some

petty goldsmith or other."

"Take care what you do, father!" said Kate, quickly. "I foresee that

danger will come of it, if you fulfill your intention."

"Bah!" said Peter, and, without deigning another word, he marched out of

the house; for Peter, like a great many men in those days, had a very poor

opinion of the feminine intellect, and a very good opinion of his own. So

off he marched boldly toward castle Dunderhead.

When Peter presented the golden cup to the baron, with a low bow, that

nobleman could not find sufficient words to express his admiration. He

sighed with rapture, and examined the cup from every side with the utmost

minuteness.

"Give this worthy man," said he, "four bags of guilders; money is nothing

to the acquisition of such a treasure of beauty."

Here Peter secretly hugged himself, and chuckled at his daughter's

warning. Meanwhile, the baron examined the cup with huge satisfaction.

Suddenly turning to Peter, "Where is the saucer?" said he.

"The saucer?" repeated Peter, blankly. "Please you, my lord, it never had

a saucer!"

"Never had a saucer?" repeated the baron. "You don't mean to tell me that

such a cup as that was ever made without a saucer to go with it!"

[Illustration: "HE EXAMINED WITH ASTONISHMENT AND DELIGHT."]

"Nevertheless, my lord, _I_ have no saucer," said Peter, humbly.

"You are deceiving me," said the baron, sternly. Then, fixing his eye upon

poor Peter, "Where did you get that cup?" said he, abruptly. "Me-thinks

you are rather a poor man to possess such a treasure."

"Oh, good my lord!" cried poor Peter, "I will tell you the whole truth. An

old man in the forest gave it to my daughter Kate."

"Do you expect me to believe such a story as that?" exclaimed the baron.

"You stole it, you thief!" he roared, at the same time seizing Peter by

the collar. "Ho! guards! Arrest this man, and throw him into the dungeon,"

cried he to his attendants.

"Mercy! mercy, my lord!" cried poor Peter, falling on his knees. But the

guards dragged him off in spite of his cries, and popped him into a

dungeon, where he was left to meditate over his folly in not heeding his

daughter's advice.

II.--THE GOOSE THAT WAS TO LAY THE GOLDEN EGG.

Catherine waited anxiously for her father's return, but her fears told her

all when night came and he came not.

After she had put the children to bed, having given them each a piece of

bread, which she had borrowed from a kind neighbor, she threw a shawl

around her head and started off in the direction of Castle Dunderhead,

where her fears told her only too plainly her father was. The bars of the

dungeon windows came upon a level with the ground, like those of a cellar.

"Father!" murmured Catherine.

"Oh, Kate!" was the response, followed immediately by the sound of violent

crying, and Catherine knew her father was there. "Oh, Kate! if I--I had

but l-listened to you!" sobbed the poor fellow; for, now that the

discovery was too late to avail him, he felt perfectly sure of his

daughter's superior intelligence. Then, with much sobbing, he recounted

all the particulars of his interview with the baron. "Can't you do

something to get your poor old father out?" continued he.

Kate was thoughtful for a moment. "I'll try, father," said she, at length;

and, bidding him a hasty adieu, she hurried off. She ran, without

stopping, to where the little cottage stood in the forest; but, as you

have already probably guessed, the old man was the Kaboutermanneken, his

day's visit was over, and he had descended once more into the obscurity of

the earth; consequently Catherine, much to her perplexity, could not

discover the little cottage. After vainly seeking for some time, she at

length saw the hopelessness of her task, and wended her way sorrowfully

homeward. She lay awake nearly all night, vainly cudgeling her brains for

some plan by which to deliver her father from his confinement. At length

an idea occurred to her, and, smiling to herself, she turned on her pillow

and fell asleep until the sun shining in her eyes awakened her. Then,

arising, she donned her best frock and neatest cap, and proceeded to the

Castle Dunderhead. She was directly presented to the baron.

"My lord!" said she, falling upon her knees.

"Well, my pretty damsel," said he; for Kate looked very sweet in her saucy

cap.

"My lord," continued she, and the tears rose to her eyes as she spoke;

"you have my father in custody."

"Ha!" exclaimed the baron, frowning,--"Peter Kurtz?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Bring forth Peter Kurtz!" cried the baron to the guard, and soon Peter

made his appearance, crying like a good fellow. "Now that I have you

confronted with each other," continued the baron, "where did your father

get that cup?"

"_He_ did not get it, my lord; an old man in the forest gave it to me,"

answered Catherine.

"Humph!" grunted the baron. "Your father has taught you prettily."

"My lord," resumed Catherine, "I came to buy my father's liberty."

"Ha!" cried the baron, eagerly, "have you brought the saucer?"

"No, my lord." The baron's countenance fell. "But, if you release my

father, we have a goose at home that I will give you, and every egg it

will lay for you shall be of pure gold." The baron's countenance lifted

again. "This, my lord, I offer you."

Peter's eyes had been opening in wide astonishment as Kate proceeded.

"Why, Kate," exclaimed he, "_I_ don't know about----"

"Be quiet, father!" said Catherine.

The baron thought Peter's exclamation arose from his regret at parting

with such a treasure; so his eagerness arose in proportion.

"Can you swear to the truth of this?" asked the baron.

"I can!" said Kate, firmly.

Peter could contain himself no longer.

"Why, Kate! how can you----"

"Be quiet, father!" interrupted Catherine, again.

"He shall have his freedom," cried the baron, eagerly, "and the cup to

boot."

"We do not want the cup, my lord," answered wise Catherine.

"Yes, but we do!" cried Peter; for, as the prospect of his pardon

increased, respect for his daughter's wisdom diminished in direct ratio.

"You shall have it!" cried the baron; "release him, guards!"

"One thing more," said Catherine; "a proclamation must be issued stating

that you will never arrest my father again in connection with this

affair."

"It shall be done!" said the baron; upon which he dismissed them both with

the golden cup, which Peter had accepted in spite of his daughter's

protestations.

That same afternoon the proclamation was issued, and Catherine carried a

large gray goose to Castle Dunderhead.

"Father," said she, when she returned, "since you have accepted the golden

cup, you must leave this place, for the baron will always look enviously

upon you. Had you left it with him he would have paid no more attention to

you, but now it is different."

"Why so?" said Peter; "hasn't the baron given his promise that he will

never arrest me or mine again? And about that goose----"

[Illustration: "A PAGE WAS APPOINTED TO ESCORT IT."]

"Never mind the goose, father," interrupted Kate. "I say again that every

egg the goose lays _shall_ be of pure gold."

"Well, I'm sure I don't understand it," said Peter, testily; "and,

moreover, I am _not_ going to leave Kaboutermannekensburg. The idea of

_your_ trying to teach _me_ wisdom!"

"No, I could never do that," murmured Kate, with a sigh.

"No, I should think not, indeed!" said Peter, pompously.

The baron could not make enough of his goose. He had a splendid pen made

for it, of ebony inlaid with silver, the nest was of purest eider-down,

and a special page was appointed to escort it every morning to the water

and back. It was fed upon sweet herbs and sponge-cake; it grew enormously

fat; and, as time went on, its voice, its appetite, and its healthy

condition increased to an astonishing extent. Only one thing troubled the

baron, and that was it did not lay. Every day he himself went to the nest

expecting to find the much-looked-for golden egg, and every day he did

_not_ find it. So matters continued for a long time.

One morning, as Kate and her father were at breakfast, a squad of

soldiers, headed by the high-sheriff, marched into the house.

"Peter Kurtz and Catherine Kurtz, you are to consider yourselves under

arrest," said the sheriff.

"But the baron has issued a proclamation that he will never arrest me

again," said poor Peter.

"You are arrested," continued the sheriff, without paying the slightest

attention to Peter, "in the king's name, upon suit of the Baron von

Dunderhead, for obtaining goods under false pretense."

Catherine said never a word--not even "I told you so"--but submitted,

whilst poor Peter cried like a very child.

They were thrown into separate dungeons, in default of bail. Not many days

elapsed, however, before they were brought forth to be tried by the grand

tribunal.

The king sat upon a chair of state, with a learned judge at each side, to

decide the extraordinary cases that were brought before him.

Peter and Catherine were led up to the bar, the latter calm and collected,

the former weeping bitterly, and continually crying, "if I had but minded

her! if I had but minded her!"

This doleful cry, which was continued in spite of the violent

vociferations of "order in the court!" at length aroused the king's

curiosity, and he inquired what he meant. Amid many sobs, Peter contrived

to tell the king the whole story. "Had I minded," said he, in conclusion,

"when she advised me not to take the cup to the baron; had I minded when

she advised me not to receive it back again; or, had I minded when she

advised me to leave Kaboutermannekensburg, I had never gotten myself into

this trouble--miserable wretch that I am!" Here he commenced sobbing

afresh with great vehemence.

The king put on his spectacles and looked at Catherine. "Faith!" said he,

"thou art much wiser than most girls of thy age, and--ahem! very pretty,

too, I vow!" Then, turning to the baron, "Prefer your charge, baron," said

he. Hereupon the baron told how Catherine had given him the goose for her

father's freedom and the golden cup, and how she had sworn that every egg

it should lay would be of pure gold.

"Well," said the king, "did she forswear herself?"

"N-no, not exactly," hesitated the baron.

"I said that every egg it laid for you should be of pure gold, did I not?"

said Kate to the baron.

"Yes, you did," snarled the baron, whose anger was commencing to boil.

"And I say again," said Kate, calmly, "that every egg it lays for you

_shall_ be of pure gold."

"Well, then, what _is_ the matter?" said the king, scratching his nose in

great perplexity.

[Illustration: "THE KING SAT UPON A CHAIR OF STATE, WITH A LEARNED JUDGE

AT EACH SIDE."]

"Why, your majesty," bellowed the baron, losing all control of himself,

"_it is a gander_!"

The king burst into a roar of laughter.

"Faith!" said he, turning to Kate, "thou art the shrewdest maiden in the

world." Then, to the baron: "The maid was right, and every egg the goose

lays shall be of pure gold." And so Baron Von Dunderhead and his case were

dismissed.

Catherine had made a great impression upon the king, both on account of

her shrewdness and beauty; so, being a jolly monarch, he conceived the

notion of marrying her to the heir apparent. The heir apparent had no

objection, and so the ceremony was consummated with great state.

Even to this day the good folk of the kingdom of Kaboutermannekensburg

look back with longing to the time when Catherine the Wise was queen, and

ruled not only her husband, but his kingdom also.

As for Peter, he was appointed lord chief justice, for one did not have to

be very wise to be a judge in those days.

Open the snowy little bed,

And put the baby in it;

Lay down her pretty curly head,

She'll go to sleep in a minute.

Tuck the sheet down round her neck,

And cover the dimples over,

Till she looks like a rose-bud peeping out

From a bed of sweet white clover.

HOW THE STONE-AGE CHILDREN PLAYED.

BY CHARLES C. ABBOTT.

Not long since I wandered along a pretty brook that rippled through a

narrow valley. I was on the lookout for whatever birds might be wandering

that way, but saw nothing of special interest. So, to while away the time,

I commenced geologizing; and, as I plodded along my lonely way, I saw

everywhere traces of an older time, when the sparkling rivulet that now

only harbors pretty salamanders was a deep creek, tenanted by many of our

larger fishes.

How fast the earth from the valley's slopes may have been loosened by

frost and washed by freshet, and carried down to fill up the old bed of

the stream, we will not stop to inquire; for other traces of this older

time were also met with here. As I turned over the loose earth by the

brook-side, and gathered here and there a pretty pebble, I chanced upon a

little arrow-point.

[Illustration: THE HATCHET.]

Whoever has made a collection, be it of postage stamps or birds' eggs,

knows full well how securing one coveted specimen but increases eagerness

for others; and so was it with me, that pleasant afternoon. Just one

pretty arrow-point cured me of my laziness, banished every trace of

fatigue, and filled me with the interest of eager search; and I dug and

sifted and washed the sandy soil for yards along the brook-side, until I

had gathered at least a score of curious relics of the long-departed red

men, or rather of the games and sports and pastimes of the red men's hardy

and active children.

[Illustration: ARROW-HEADS.]

For centuries before Columbus discovered San Salvador, the red men (or

Indians, as they are usually called) roamed over all the great continent

of North America, and, having no knowledge of iron as a metal, they were

forced to make of stone or bone all their weapons, hunting and household

implements. From this fact they are called, when referring to those early

times, a stone-age people, and so, of course, the boys and girls of that

time were stone-age children.

But it is not to be supposed that because the children of savages they

were altogether unlike the youngsters of to-day. In one respect, at least,

they were quite the same--they were very fond of play.

Their play, however, was not like the games of to-day, as you may see by

the pictures of their toys. We might, perhaps, call the principal game of

the boys "Playing Man," for the little stone implements, here pictured,

are only miniatures of the great stone axes and long spear-points of their

fathers.

In one particular these old-time children were really in advance of the

youngsters of to-day; they not only did, in play, what their parents did

in earnest, but they realized, in part, the results of their playful

labor. A good old Moravian missionary, who labored hard to convert these

Indians to Christianity, says: "Little boys are frequently seen wading in

shallow brooks, shooting small fishes with their bows and arrows." Going

a-fishing, then, as now, was good fun; but to shoot fishes with a bow and

arrow is not an easy thing to do, and this is one way these stone-age

children played, and played to better advantage than most of my young

readers can.

Among the stone-age children's toys that I gathered that afternoon, were

those of which we have pictures. The first is a very pretty stone hatchet,

very carefully shaped, and still quite sharp. It has been worked out from

a porphyry pebble, and in every way, except size, is the same as hundreds

that still are to be found lying about the fields.

No red man would ever deign to use such an insignificant-looking ax, and

so we must suppose it to have been a toy hatchet for some little fellow

that chopped away at saplings, or, perhaps, knocked over some poor

squirrel or rabbit; for our good old Moravian friend, the missionary, also

tells us that "the boys learn to climb trees when very young, both to

catch birds and to exercise their sight, which, by this method, is

rendered so quick that in hunting they see objects at an amazing

distance." Their play, then, became an excellent schooling for them; and

if they did nothing but play it was not a loss of time.

The five little arrow-points figured in the second picture are among those

I found in the valley. The ax was not far away, and both it and they may

have belonged to the same bold and active young hunter. All of these

arrow-points are very neatly made.

The same missionary tells us that these young red men of the forest

"exercise themselves very early with bows and arrows, and in shooting at a

mark. As they grow up, they acquire a remarkable dexterity in shooting

birds, squirrels, and small game."

Every boy remembers his first pen-knife, and, whether it had one or three

blades, was proud enough of it; but how different the fortune of the

stone-age children, in this matter of a pocket-knife.

[Illustration: FLINT KNIFE.]

In the third picture is shown a piece of flint that was doubtless chipped

into this shape that it might be used as a knife.

I have found scores of such knives in the fields that extend along the

little valley, and a few came to light in my search that afternoon in the

brook-side sands and gravel. So, if this chipped flint is a knife, then,

as in modern times, the children were whittlers.

[Illustration: FISH-HOOKS.]

Of course, our boys nowadays would be puzzled to cut a willow whistle or

mend the baby's go-cart with such a knife as this; but still, it will not

do to despise stone cutlery. Remember the big canoe at the Centennial,

that took up so much room in the Government building. That boat, sixty

feet long, was made in quite recent times, and only stone knives and

hatchets were used in the process.

I found, too, in that afternoon walk, some curiously shaped splinters of

jasper, which at first did not seem very well adapted to any purpose; and

yet, although mere fragments, they had every appearance of having been

purposely shaped, and not of accidental resemblances to a hook or sickle

blade. When I got home, I read that perfect specimens, mine being

certainly pieces of the same form, had been found away off in Norway; and

Professor Nilsson, who has carefully studied the whole subject, says they

are fish-hooks.

Instead of my broken ones, we have in the fourth illustration some

uninjured specimens of these fish-hooks from Norway. Two are made of

flint, the largest one being bone; and hooks of exactly the same patterns

really have been found within half a mile of the little valley I worked in

that afternoon.

The fish-hooks shown in our picture have been thought to be best adapted

for, and really used in, capturing cod-fish in salt water, and perch and

pike in inland lakes. The broken hooks I found were fully as large; and so

the little brook that now ripples down the valley, when a large stream,

must have had a good many big fishes in it, or the stone-age fishermen

would not have brought their fishing-hooks, and have lost them, along this

remnant of a larger stream.

But it must not be supposed that only children in this by-gone era, did

the fishing for their tribe. Just as the men captured the larger game, so

they took the bigger fishes; but it is scarcely probable that the boys who

waded the little brooks with bows and arrows would remain content with

that, and, long before they were men, doubtless they were adepts in

catching the more valuable fishes that abounded, in Indian times, in all

our rivers.

So, fishing, I think, was another way in which the stone-age children

played.

THE MAN WHO DIDN'T KNOW WHEN TO STOP.

BY M. M. D.

[Illustration]

A very fair singer was Mynheer Schwop,

Except that he never knew when to stop;

He would sing, and sing, and sing away,

And sing half the night and all of the day--

This "pretty bit" and that "sweet air,"

This "little thing from Tootovere."

Ah! it was fearful the number he knew,

And fearful his way of singing them through.

At first, the people would kindly say:

"Ah, sing it again, Mynheer, we pray"--

[This "pretty bit," or that "sweet air,"

This "little thing from Tootovere"].

They listened a while, but wearied soon,

And, like the professor, they changed their tune.

Vainly they coughed and a-hemmed and stirred;

Only the harder he trilled and slurred,

Until, in despair, and rather than grieve

The willing professor, they took their leave,

And left him singing this "sweet air,"

And that "pretty bit from Tootovere;"

And then the hostess, in sorry plight,

While yet he sang with all his might,

Let down the blinds, put out the light,

With "Thanks, Mynheer! Good-night! good-night!"

My moral, dear singers, lies plainly a-top:

Be always obliging, and willing--to stop.

The same will apply, my dear children, to you;

Whenever you've any performing to do,

Your friends to divert (which is quite proper, too),

Do the best that you can--_and stop when you're through_.

PUCK PARKER. BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.

"Boom-er-oom, a boom-er-oom, a boom, boom, boom!

Zim-er-oom, a zim-er-oom, a zim, zim, zim!"

It was a familiar sound, that of the great bass-drum. Puck Parker and

Snarlyou and Kiyi had all heard it, time and time again. These little

friends lived in Paris during the late war between Germany and France,

when the German army was besieging the city, and soldiers were always

marching about to the sound of the drum. This morning all three of them

were at the kitchen door that opened into the corridor, which led into the

court where you had a view of the street. Snarlyou was a little white

Angora cat, and she puffed out her tail and waved it angrily over her back

as she snarled fiercely at Kiyi, who was a little Prussian pup. Unlike the

army he represented, he was getting the worst of the fray, and stood

yelping in a cowardly way behind the scraper. Puck was doing all he could

to encourage the dog by waving his porridge spoon at him, but it was of no

use.

[Illustration: "PUCK WAS LEANING OVER THE LITTLE GATE IN THE KITCHEN

DOOR."]

Puck Parker was a fat-faced little boy, who was leaning over the little

gate in the kitchen door. He had been very naughty this morning, having

run away with Kiyi, giving his nurse, Augustine, a regular hunt for him.

She found him at last, wandering quite independently in beautiful Park

Monceaux, a favorite resort for nurses and babies, where she had often

gone with him before; and she could have forgiven him easily enough for

running away, had he not sprawled himself upon the walk and kicked and

screamed so that she could scarcely get him home.

This Augustine was a peasant woman, and when a little girl she had tended

the sheep in the mountains of Auvergne, wearing the picturesque

peasant-costume and carrying her distaff with her. She now had two

children of her own, and every morning early before they were up she would

kiss them good-bye, leaving them in her sister's charge while she went to

take care of the little American boy, of whom she became very fond. She

would often tell stories to him and sing funny songs.

As we have said, Puck was leaning against the little gate which had been

placed across the door to keep him from running away, though it was of no

use now, for he was big enough to climb over it. Augustine, to punish him

for his naughtiness, as well as to guard against such a thing happening

again that morning, had undressed him, knowing that he would not be likely

to run away with nothing on but his little shirt.

At first, Puck was at a loss for amusement, and so wandered disconsolately

upstairs into his mamma's room. She was seated at his papa's writing-desk,

while in front of her lay lots of little cards, like this, "Mr. and Mrs.

Franklin Parker, P.P.C."

Some of these she put into small envelopes, directed to people that she

knew, and the rest she shut up in her card-case.

"What are those?" asked Puck.

"These are cards," said his mother, "which your papa and I are sending to

our friends, to let them know that we are going away from the city. The

letters 'P.P.C.' in the corner stand for '_Pour prendre conge_,' which is

French for 'To take leave.'"

"Is oo doin away," asked Puck, "an' me too?"

"Yes, you are going with us," replied his mother.

"Den me wants some tards, too," said the little fellow; and Mrs. Parker,

taking a number of blank cards, wrote upon them, "Puck Parker, P.P.C."

[Illustration: "UP IN A BALLOON."]

Cramming his mother's work-basket upon his comical little head, he seized

his cards and trudged away to distribute them among his friends. If he

could only have gone out-of-doors, he could have found friends enough to

have given them to; but he knew that Augustine would not relent so soon,

and so contented himself with carrying them down to Snarlyou and Kiyi. But

they were both out in the court, and would not come to him, even when he

dropped porridge on the steps to tempt them.

Puck did not have many opportunities to distribute his cards, for the next

day, while he was at dinner with his father and mother, they all heard a

sound which went

"Boom-er-oom, a boom-er-oom!

A boom! boom! boom!"

It sounded as if some one was playing an immense bass-drum, a long way

off, and playing very slowly.

"Listen!" Puck's father explained. "It is time we were off; there are the

cannon again, outside of the city."

And so that very afternoon they left Paris. Can you guess how? Not by the

railway, or by boat, or by omnibus, or by any ordinary means of travel.

Guess again--something queer this time. Not perched on the back of a

dromedary, or sent by express labeled "This side up with care, C. O. D.,"

or telegraphed, or shot through the air in a bomb-shell, though the last

is something like it. Yes, you are right now; they _did_ go by balloon.

There were Puck and his father and his mamma, and an accomplished aeronaut

to guide the balloon, which was one of the best kind, and, as the

professor said, perfectly easy to manage. You know, perhaps, that during

the siege of Paris it was almost impossible for any one to leave the city

unless he went up in a balloon, and floated off above the besieging army.

A great many persons escaped from Paris in this way.

Poor Augustine was very sorry to lose little Puck, who gave her one of his

cards when he bade her good-bye; and Kiyi set up a doleful howl when they

all left the court, as though he knew he should never see them again.

When everything was ready, the balloon rose into the air, and Puck nestled

down in his mother's arms and watched the ground and the roofs of the

houses sink away beneath him. That is, he looked over the side of the car

once, and saw them falling; but it made him dizzy, and he did not try it

again. His mother saw the sick look about her little boy's mouth, and

said, pleasantly:

"Isn't it nice? It's better than having wings. And then you can make

believe you are in a big ship; see all those ropes stretching away up

there; they look just like rigging."

Puck gave a quick, frightened glance up, then shuddered and said, faintly:

"Yes, it's awful nice; but me's 'fraid, and _so_ cold."

The cold was, indeed, intense; and his mamma wrapped Puck as warmly as she

could in a shawl, and held him tightly, and very soon he was fast asleep.

When he awoke, he found that his mother was also asleep, and his father

was holding him. He had forgotten all about the balloon while he was

asleep, and so looked dazed and startled when he opened his eyes; and his

father, to keep up his failing courage, sang cheerily:

"Up in a balloon, boys,

Up in a balloon,

All among the little stars

That twinkle round the moon."

"Don't see any stars crinkle," said Puck; "nuffin but ugly gray fog."

His mother awoke just then, and she caught her breath with a gasp as she

looked up, for all the rigging of the imaginary ship had disappeared, and

a dense fog was folded close around them. The balloon seemed, too, to have

met with a new current of wind, for it was rushing along with fearful

velocity, whither,--even the professor himself could not guess. Looking

downward, they saw the same impenetrable fog, and the professor concluded

to let the balloon drift on in its course for a while.

Presently, Puck exclaimed: "Mamma, don't oo hear ze bears g'owl?" For some

time, the others had heard a low menacing grumble. It sounded like the

roar of machinery, with the falling of a heavy trip-hammer at regular

intervals, and it seemed possible that they were in the vicinity of a

manufacturing town. There was a little light in the eastern horizon, and

Puck suddenly exclaimed, "T'ere's anoder b'loon!" It was the full moon,

instead, that rose majestically, and the fog seemed to be disappearing.

Looking down, the professor thought he could see the land, and he allowed

the balloon to slowly descend. By and by, they could all see that the

ground was marked with white streaks and spots, which they supposed to be

snow.

Lower and lower sank the balloon, and still Puck's bears continued to

"g'owl."

Suddenly, the professor uttered an exclamation of horror--only two words,

"The sea!" But they sounded like a sentence of doom to the travelers. They

were floating over a wide and angry sea!

The professor threw overboard a bag of ballast, and the balloon darted

upward again into space. Where were they? Was it the Bay of Biscay, the

North Sea, the English Channel, or the open Atlantic?

Very soon, the balloon began to descend again. The roar of the waves was

louder than ever, and they beat the same tune that the great bass-drum and

the cannon had played:

"Boom-er-oom, a boom-er-oom!

A boom! boom! boom!"--

for they were striking against a rocky wall, and the white cliffs of Dover

rose ghostly in the moonlight before them.

The professor threw overboard his last bag of ballast; Puck hid his face

in his mother's dress, while she, in the presence of that mighty danger,

sang a hymn. Mrs. Parker was one of the singers in the choir of a church

at Paris, and her voice had been much admired; but she had never sung

before as she sang now. Her voice was sustained instead of drowned by the

roar of the sea, and was re-echoed back from the rocky cliff marvelously

clear and pure, as she sang "Save me, O God, from waves that roll."

Slowly the balloon seemed to climb that sheer, chalky precipice,

frightening the sleepy sea-gulls from their nests, but never grazing

against the wall, as it seemed as if it inevitably must. Slowly it reached

the summit, paused a moment poised over the edge, then swept landward a

little way, when the guide-rope (which had been dragging in the water)

caught on the rocks, and it stopped. The professor opened the

escape-valve, and they alighted from the car, and then walked to the brink

of the abyss and, silently and solemnly, looked down.

This was the last of aerial navigation that any of the party ever indulged

in. The professor packed up his balloon and went to the United States to

exhibit it. Puck Parker left one of his "P.P.C." cards in the car of the

balloon, and his parents were glad enough to get to a land where they did

not forever hear the "Boom-er-oom, a boom-er-oom, a boom, boom, boom," and

the "Zim-er-oom, a zim-er-oom; a zim, zim, zim."

[Illustration]

EASTER EGGS.

BY CLARA W. RAYMOND.

Dear Grandpa Lee, with little Grace,

Followed the path-way to the mill;

Bright daisies starred the shady lane,

And now and then a bird would trill.

Once, when a birdling spread its wings,

She said, "All things are fair and gay,--

The sky so blue where birdie sings!"

Said grandpa, "This is Easter Day."

Thus happily they onward went,

Till Grace cried, "There is little Kate,

And Frank and Nellie, too--and oh!

Nell's swinging on the garden gate!"

As Grace and grandpa came in sight,

The little ones to meet them sped,--

Their eager, prattling lips apart,

Eyes flashing bright and cheeks rose-red.

"Oh, grandpa! in the hedge we've found

Four Easter eggs, all colored blue;

They're in the sweetest little nest;

We want to show our prize to you!"

Said grandpa, "Touch them not, my dears;

Those eggs God dyed with colors rare;

The mother-bird will soon come back,

And guard her nest with loving care.

"These Easter eggs, in leaf-hid nests,

Imprison countless song-birds bright,

That soon will break the tinted shell

And rise and sing in joyous flight."

[Illustration]

A VISIT TO A LONDON DOG-SHOW.

BY LAURA SKEEL POMEROY.

Some years ago I went to see a great dog-show at the Alexandra Palace, in

the north of London.

My friend Charley, a bright boy who knows the way all over this part of

the city, was my escort. We concluded to go to the show by the underground

railroad, and at half-past one o'clock we were at the station called South

Kensington. We bought our tickets there, and passed through gateways where

men in uniform examined our tickets, allowing but one person to pass at a

time, then descended two long flights of stone steps, and went down, down,

into the subterranean station.

[Illustration: A BLACK AND WHITE SETTER.]

Although it is nearly forty feet below the surface, daylight is let in

from above at this station, as in many of the others on the line.

Before and behind us we could see the great black-mouthed tunnels, through

which the trains were constantly passing.

When our train arrived we quickly found seats in a car, or carriage, as

they call them here, and were soon rushing along underground.

Now and again we came out into the open air for a while; soon we were at

Bayswater, then at King's Cross, at which station we got out of the car

and climbed up the iron stairs to the earth's surface again.

From King's Cross to Alexandra Palace was a ride of about twenty minutes

more, this time on a railroad which ran, for some distance, _above_ the

surface of the earth. We sped above the tops of smoky houses, by sooty

walls, through egg-shaped tunnels, beyond all these to the open country,

where were smooth green grass, groups of picturesque trees, and tangled

hedges.

The train stopped at the station called Muswell Hill, on which is built

the new Alexandra Palace--a large red-brick building at the top of the

hill. It is not so extensive as the Crystal Palace at Sydenham, but, like

it, is covered over with glass, and contains tropical plants, many

palm-trees, several theaters and lecture-rooms, and a large bazaar with

gay booths, at which you can buy almost anything you wish for.

As we approached the central part of the hall, a deafening chorus of dogs,

yelping, barking, growling and howling, assailed our ears. The stalls in

which the dogs were chained were arranged to form several aisles. They

faced each other, with a wide passage-way between, for the crowd of

spectators. The stalls were open, and each one had from one to five

animals chained in it.

The persons who exhibited dogs numbered one thousand and thirty-nine,

and, as each exhibitor sent several of his animals, you can roughly

estimate the immense number of dogs brought together.

It made my heart ache at first to see the poor creatures jumping and

pulling at their chains. Some looked worried and excited, and some of them

seemed bored to death, surly and contemptuous, as if saying, "Go away, or

I will bite you if you stare at me a moment longer;" and some were sulky

and turned their backs, hiding their noses in the straw.

The little puppies slept unconsciously through it all, while the mother

dogs struggled with their chains and barked furiously.

There were greyhounds,--great, tall, slender creatures, that looked as if

they could run a mile a minute,--deer-hounds, beautiful pointers, setters,

retrievers, and otter-hounds. These last were dangerous, and were kept in

wire cages. There were bull-terriers, fox-terriers, spaniels, white and

black Newfoundlands, shepherd dogs, mastiffs, and fierce bull-dogs that

looked as if they would be glad to eat you without ceremony.

There was every variety of lap-dog, and among them the tiniest little

Italian greyhound,--not more than eight inches long. This last was like a

porcelain toy dog, and looked brittle, as if its thin legs would snap if

much handled. I did not think it a pretty pet; it seemed too fragile to

play with.

[Illustration: A BLACK AND WHITE POINTER.]

A very different creature was a Siberian greyhound, about four feet and a

half tall, with long, wolf-shaped nose, and covered with bluish, short,

curly hair.

The pet dogs called "pugs" had short, black noses, turned up in about as

much of a curl as their tails. Their faces were sooty-black, and shone as

if polished with a brush. They curled up their black lips, showing two

small, very white teeth, with the tip of a pink tongue hanging out of the

mouth, the most comical, and at the same time, the ugliest little beasts

one ever saw.

[Illustration: AN IRISH SETTER.]

They were straddled upon showy velvet cushions, with their fore-paws wide

apart, and their round, black eyes looking straight at you, snarling all

the time, but not changing their position, being too fat and lazy to move.

All the black-and-tan terriers had their ears so cut as to make them very

sharp and pointed.

There were beautiful spaniels of all shades, and little Maltese terriers.

One of these was a perfect beauty. Its hair was like spun glass, of a

bluish, pinkish gray, snow-white in the partings. When it trotted about,

it looked like an opal, or a piece of live Venetian glass. Its name ought

to have been "Jewel," for it looked like one.

The King Charles spaniels were very like lovely English blondes, with

their golden-brown ears hanging like long curls on each side of their

innocent, milk-white faces. They had soft, hazel eyes, of melting

tenderness, like those of the prettiest little girl-baby.

Most of these lay upon handsomely embroidered cushions, with the dog's

name neatly worked in front. One fairy-like specimen had the name "Pixie"

worked in silver letters on a sky-blue velvet ground. Another tiny

creature looked like a snow-white ball of floss silk, rolled up in a

basket of quilted blue satin.

Ladies' maids were seated in chairs beside these dainty pets, with

ivory-handled brushes and tortoise-shell combs, to arrange their curls;

for many of them wore each a little top-knot curl, tied with a scarlet,

pink, or blue ribbon, as best became the wearer's complexion.

I could think of nothing but a dancing-school exhibition or a children's

ball, where nurse-maids sit by their charges, to keep their pretty finery

in order. So choice were some of these doggies that they were covered with

glass cases, open at the top.

[Illustration: HEAD OF BLOODHOUND.]

The grandest of all the dogs--the one I would have liked best to have--was

a fine St. Bernard, of a tawny color, with white spots, and a grand, noble

head. He sat up on his haunches and allowed every one to come and pet him,

lifting his big, honest paw, as if to shake hands with the little

children, and wagging his tail slowly back and forth in a very dignified

manner. What deep brown eyes he had, and what a soft, warm breast!

The Prince of Wales sent two black and brown Thibet mastiffs from the

north of India. They had long, black lips, and wore a very stern, dark

expression. The Princess of Wales, also, sent a snow-white Russian

wolf-hound.

Some of the dog-stalls were labeled "dangerous," and I wondered that many

of the persons who poked at the inmates with their canes were not bitten,

for every little while you would see a sudden falling back of the crowd,

and hear a sharp growl from some angry animal who was being teased, or was

impatient to go home.

The bloodhounds were the fiercest and most sullen-looking of all. They did

not join in the general barking and uproar, but kept their heads buried in

the straw. Once, as we were watching them, away off in a remote end of the

building, an acrobat began his performance of walking on a rope and

jumping through rings, high up in the air. Then these hounds suddenly

lifted themselves erect, and, fixing their sharp eyes on that little red

and blue speck of a man suspended in the air, set up a loud, long,

unearthly howl, which all the other dogs took up, and for a few minutes

the sounds shook the whole palace, like the roar of all the wild beasts of

the forest.

By and by four o'clock came, and the owners of the dogs came in to take

them home. How glad they were to see them! They jumped up, rolled about,

licked their keepers' hands and faces, whining and yelping for joy. One

dog, who had not been sent for, was jealous to see his neighbor petted. He

growled at every loving caress, and sat snarling in his corner,

discontented and sour, till he saw his own master, when he broke into a

howl of intense delight and tugged furiously at his chain.

[Illustration: A PAIR OF SPANIELS.]

When the big hampers were brought to confine the dangerous ones, and the

collars and chains were being unfastened, what a rollicking, rushing time

it was! The glad creatures jumped and galloped all the way to the station.

The train was full of dogs--they were everywhere. Eager to be off, they

were hurrying up and down the platform, dancing about the ticket offices,

racing over trunks, for all the world like boys let out of boarding-school

going home for the holidays.

We saw their impatient faces pushing out of every car-window, their tails

wagging out of every door.

A gentleman in our carriage had two little mites of terriers in his

overcoat pockets. One, he said, was a Skye, and the other a Yorkshire,

terrier. Little Skye was tired and sleepy, and showed just the tip of his

nose and one ear above the pocket; but little Yorkshire was perfectly wild

with fun. He had on a small brown blanket, bound with scarlet braid, which

his master said was his new Ulster coat.

He began his pranks by putting his nose in Charley's pockets, looking for

a shilling. Not finding one, the gentleman sent him into his own coat

pocket, whence, after burrowing and tugging for a while, out he came, with

a coin between his teeth, which he held tight and would not give up. His

master said that when the dog found a piece of money he went alone to the

cake shop, and the baker would give him a cake, which he would run home

with and eat up immediately, being particularly fond of sweets. He was two

years and a half old, ten inches long, with yellowish hair, which hung in

a fringe over his mischievous black eyes. He was elastic as a ball of

wool, and looked very much like one.

But we had to part company with him at King's Cross Station, where his

owner put him in his pocket again, and bade us good-bye. We could see the

tip of the little tail wagging till we lost sight of him in the distant

crowd.

It would take a long time to even mention all the handsome dogs, and many

of the young readers of ST. NICHOLAS will not need to be told more about

them, as there have been several dog-shows in America since the time when

Charley and I saw the one in the Alexandra Palace at London. The boys and

girls who visited any one of the dog-shows held recently in New York,

Boston, and other American cities, will no doubt remember many interesting

and curious sights. But they did not have a greater treat than Charley and

I had, all for the small price of one English shilling.

[Illustration: SKYE TERRIER.]

[Illustration: KEPT IN.]

MERRY RAIN.

BY FLETA FORRESTER.

Sprinkle, sprinkle, comes the rain,

Tapping on the window-pane;

Trickling, coursing,

Crowding, forcing

Tiny rills

To the dripping window-sills.

Laughing rain-drops, light and swift,

Through the air they fall and sift;

Dancing, tripping,

Bounding, skipping

Thro' the street,

With their thousand merry feet.

Every blade of grass around

Is a ladder to the ground;

Clinging, striding,

Slipping, sliding,

On they come

With their busy zip and hum.

In the woods, by twig and spray,

To the roots they find their way;

Pushing, creeping,

Doubling, leaping,

Down they go

To the waiting life below.

Oh, the brisk and merry rain,

Bringing gladness in its train!

Falling, glancing,

Tinkling, dancing

All around,--

Listen to its cheery sound!

DRIFTED INTO PORT.

BY EDWIN HODDER.

CHAPTER V.

A CATASTROPHE.

Blackrock School could never be the same again to Howard. Although he had

"the answer of a good conscience" in regard to the matters implied against

him, he could not but feel that, whereas he once could challenge all the

world against holding a suspicion of his integrity, now there might be

many who were in a state of doubt as to whether he were trustworthy or

not.

He grew dull and somber, and, although he had the satisfaction of knowing

that no cloud of distrust hovered over his home circle, he could not shake

off that uneasy feeling which haunted him, and which none know how to

appreciate save those who have been wrongfully suspected.

It was the early summer season, and the time was coming round for those

school sports which usually sink everything else into forgetfulness. The

cricket matches were planned, the bathing and boating season had

commenced, the woods were green with summer verdure. In former years

Howard and Digby always had thrown themselves heart and soul into all the

sports, as leaders of the school. But now neither took much interest in

things of the kind. Digby was morose and sullen, while Howard was sad, and

unusually depressed.

I have said that the bathing season had commenced at the school,

notwithstanding the fact that the weather was so changeable as to be one

night as cold as October, and the next morning as hot as July. But I have

not yet described the bathing-place, and, perhaps, I should have done so

at the commencement of the story, as it accounts for the somewhat singular

name of the school.

The river ran just at the end of the school grounds, within a stone's

throw of the favorite lounging-place of the boys, under the elms. The

river bank at that part was very steep, and just under the clump of trees

a huge black rock, fern-grown and slippery, stretched out into the river.

At one side of this rock the bank shelved down, gradually and evenly, into

a large basin or hole, partially overhung by the trees, and quite out of

the rapid current of the river.

This was the bathing-place, and it was one of the best I have ever seen.

The boat-houses were about half a mile down the river, and bathing and

boating were two of the special features of Blackrock sports. The Doctor

maintained (as every sensible person ought), that while cricket and

foot-ball are desirable, swimming is essential, and he laid it down as a

rule that everybody should learn to swim, and that on no account should a

boy be allowed to enter a boat until he was a sufficiently good swimmer to

get safely to shore, should his boat be upset.

Monday morning was as bright and warm as the previous evening had been

cold and miserable. Lessons were studied in the grounds instead of in the

class-rooms, and when the breakfast bell rang, there were not a few who

were talking about the forthcoming bath and the evening row.

At prayers, Digby was absent. Not for the first time, within the

recollection of many; but as he had not sent in any excuse for

non-attendance, Howard and McDonald, who occupied the rooms next to his,

were asked if they knew what had become of him. Neither of them did, but

McDonald remarked that he was up earlier than usual, which was not

considered at all remarkable, as the morning was deliciously warm and

bright.

The Doctor looked displeased, but no further notice was taken before the

boys, although he had made up his mind to administer a serious caution to

Master Digby for irregularities, which latterly were becoming so frequent

as to call for special notice.

The time for bathing was fixed for an hour after breakfast, the doctor

holding that while the weather was unsettled, and the water cold, bathing

was more beneficial a little while after a light meal than before.

A rush was made to the clump of trees, and a pell-mell scamper down the

steep bank. When Mr. Featherstone, one of the masters, came up two minutes

after with some of the older boys, amongst whom were Martin and Howard, he

was surprised to hear his name called loudly by several of the boys.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Digby Morton's clothes are on the bank," cried Aleck Fraser, excitedly,

"but we can't see him anywhere."

Mr. Featherstone had all his wits about him. He knew the rough

stepping-places up to the head of the Blackrock, from which he could scan

the river up and down. In a moment he was standing on the rock, carefully

taking within his view every yard of ground within range; but he could see

nothing of Digby.

"Martin Venables," he shouted from the rock, "run to the house, and ask

the Doctor to come here at once. Howard and Aleck hurry down to the

boat-house, and inquire about Morton. Send the boatman up at once with

boats and men. McDonald and Marsden, go up to the meadow-dell and search.

Look sharp, all of you!"

Swiftly sped the boys on their exciting errands, while Mr. Featherstone

remained upon the rock, and the other boys with hushed whispers talked

together in little groups, or looked into the water-holes with

half-averted eyes.

Howard and Martin were the first to return, both flushed with anxious

excitement. Then came the Doctor, sadly out of breath, and much

distressed.

"But Digby is a good swimmer, is he not?" asked the Doctor.

"Few better in the school," answered Mr. Featherstone. "I don't like to

think of the worst, but there are strong eddies in the pool this morning,

and the river runs at a furious rate after the heavy rain. My fear is that

he left the pool, and was caught by an eddy, and swung upon the rocks. In

that case he may have been rendered insensible, and so have been drowned."

The boys returned one after another, and each unsuccessful. The boatmen

soon arrived.

"Have you heard or seen anything this morning of Mr. Digby?" asked the

Doctor of Mason, the manager of all the boating arrangements of the

school.

"No, sir; but my man, who was agoing out to see after his lines, about six

this morning, said as how he see something dark floating down the river,

but he didn't pay much heed to it, till he called it to mind when the

young gentlemen came down just now, and said as how Mr. Digby were

missing."

"Then, should we not commence the search low down the river?" asked the

Doctor.

"'Taint no manner of use," answered Mason; "with the current runnin' like

this, he'd be ten mile away and more, by this time, if it was him, or more

likely out at sea, as the tide would have met the river by this time. But

you see, sir, it mightn't have been him after all, for there's lots o'

snags and things floating down this morning after last night's rain."

But Dr. Brier would leave no stone unturned. Messengers were sent on

horseback to every town and village on either side of the river, for

twenty miles down; the river was dragged; boatmen were sent out to search;

everything that could be done was done. But the afternoon came and no

tidings. Messengers were sent early to Mr. Morton. All the towns and

villages around were in excitement, but nothing came of it, and by evening

the conviction was borne home to every heart, too clearly for hope to set

aside, that Digby Morton was dead.