The wind was indeed "all right," but even Dab forgot, for the moment,
that the "Swallow" would go further and faster before a gale than she
was likely to with the comparatively mild southerly breeze which was
blowing. He was by no means likely to get home by dinner-time. As for
danger, there would be absolutely none, unless the weather should again
become stormy, which was not at all probable at that season. And so,
with genuine boyish confidence in boys, after some further conversation
over the rail, Frank Harley went on board the "Swallow" as a passenger,
and the gay little craft slipped lightly away from the neighborhood of
the very forlorn-looking stranded steamer.
"They'll have her off in less'n a week," said Ford to Frank. "My
father'll know just what to do about your baggage, and so forth."
There were endless questions to be asked and answered on both sides, but
at last Dab yawned a very sleepy yawn and said: "Ford, you've had your
nap. Wake up Dick there, and let him take his turn at the tiller. The
sea's as smooth as a lake, and I believe I'll go to sleep for an hour or
so. You and Frank keep watch while Dick steers."
Whatever Dab said was "orders," now, on board the "Swallow," and Ford's
only reply was: "If you haven't earned a good nap, then nobody has."
In five minutes more the patient and skillful young "captain" was
sleeping like a top.
"Look at him," said Ford Foster to Frank Harley. "I don't know what he's
made of. He's been at that tiller for twenty-three hours, by the watch,
in all sorts of weather, and never budged."
"They don't make that kind of boy in India," replied Frank.
"He's de best feller you ebber seen," added Dick Lee. "I's jes' proud of
'im, I is."
Smoothly and swiftly and safely the "Swallow" was bearing her precious
cargo across the summer sea, but the morning had brought no comfort to
the two homes at the head of the inlet, or the cabin in the village. Old
Bill Lee was out in the best boat he could borrow, by early daylight,
and more than one of his sympathizing neighbors followed him a little
later. There was no doubt at all that a thorough search would be made of
the bay and the island, and so Mr. Foster wisely remained at home to
comfort his wife and daughter.
"That sort of boy," mourned Annie, "is always getting into some kind of
mischief."
"Annie," exclaimed her mother, "Ford is a good boy, and he does not run
into mischief."
"I didn't mean Ford; I meant that Dabney Kinzer. I wish we'd never seen
him, or his sail-boat either."
"Annie," said her father, reprovingly, "if we live by the water, Ford
_will_ go out on it, and he'd better do so in good company. Wait a
while."
Summer days are long, but some of them are a good deal longer than
others, and that was one of the longest any of those people had ever
known. For once, even dinner was more than half neglected in the Kinzer
family circle. At the Fosters' it was forgotten almost altogether. Long
as the day was, and so dreary, in spite of all the bright, warm
sunshine, there was no help for it; the hours would not hurry, and the
wanderers would not return. Tea-time came at last, and with it the
Fosters all came over to Mrs. Kinzer's again, to take tea and to tell
her of several fishermen who had returned from the bay without having
discovered a sign of the "Swallow" or its crew.
Stout-hearted Mrs. Kinzer talked bravely and encouragingly,
nevertheless, and did not seem to abate an ounce of her confidence in
her son. It seemed as if, in leaving off his roundabouts, Dabney must
have suddenly grown a great many "sizes" in his mother's estimation.
Perhaps that was because he did not leave them off too soon.
There they sat, the two mothers and the rest, looking gloomy enough,
while, over there in her bit of a brown house in the village, Mrs. Lee
sat in very much the same frame of mind, trying to relieve her feelings
by smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of her boy's best clothes, and
planning for him any number of bright red neck-ties, if he would only
come back to wear them.
The neighbors were becoming more than a little interested and even
excited about the matter; but what was there to be done?
Telegrams had been sent to other points on the coast, and all the
fishermen notified. It was really one of those puzzling cases where even
the most neighborly can do no better than "wait a while."
Still, there were nearly a dozen people, of all sorts, including Bill
Lee, lingering around the "landing" as late as eight o'clock, when some
one of them suddenly exclaimed:
"There's a light, coming in."
And others followed with: "And a boat under it." "Ham's boat carried a
light." "I'll bet it's her." "No, it isn't." "Hold on and see."
There was not long to "hold on," for in three minutes more the "Swallow"
swept gracefully in with the tide, and the voice of Dab Kinzer shouted
merrily: "Home again! Here we are!"
Such a ringing volley of cheers answered him! It was heard and
understood away there in the parlor of the Morris house, and brought
every soul of that anxious circle right up standing.
"Must be it's Dab!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer.
"Oh, mother," said Annie, "is Ford safe?"
"They wouldn't cheer like that, my dear, if anything had happened,"
remarked Mr. Foster, but, in spite of his coolness, the city lawyer
forgot to put his hat on, as he dashed out of the front gate, and down
the road toward the landing.
Then came one of those times that it takes a whole orchestra and a
gallery of paintings to tell anything about, for Mrs. Lee as well as her
husband was at the beach, and within a minute after "Captain Kinzer" and
his crew had landed, poor Dick was being hugged and scolded within an
inch of his life, and the other two boys found themselves in the midst
of a tumult of embraces and cheers.
Frank Harley's turn came soon, moreover, for Ford Foster found his
balance, and introduced the "passenger from India" to his father.
"Frank Harley!" exclaimed Mr. Foster, "I've heard of you, certainly, but
how did you--boys, I don't understand----"
"Oh, father, it's all right! We took Frank off the French steamer after
she ran ashore."
"Ran ashore?"
"Yes; down the Jersey coast. We got in company with her in the fog,
after the storm. That was yesterday evening."
"Down the Jersey coast! Do you mean you've been out at sea?"
"Yes, father; and I'd go again, with Dab Kinzer for captain. Do you
know, father, he never left the rudder of the 'Swallow' from the moment
we started until seven o'clock this morning?"
"You owe him your lives!" almost shouted Mr. Foster; and Ford added,
"Indeed, we do."
It was Dab's own mother's arms that had been around him from the instant
he made his appearance, and Samantha and Keziah and Pamela had had to
be content with a kiss or so apiece; but dear old Mrs. Foster stopped
smoothing Ford's hair and forehead, just then, and gave Dab a right
motherly hug, as if she could not express herself in any other way.
As for Annie Foster, her face was suspiciously red at the moment, but
she walked right up to Dab, after her mother released him, and said:
"Captain Kinzer, I've been saying dreadful things about you, but I beg
pardon."
"I'll be entirely satisfied, Miss Annie," returned Dabney, "if you'll
ask somebody to get us something to eat."
"Eat!" exclaimed Mrs. Kinzer, "Why, the poor fellows! Of course they're
hungry."
Of course they were, every one; and the supper-table, after all, was the
best place in the world to hear the particulars of their wonderful
cruise.
Meantime, Dick Lee was led home to a capital supper of his own, and as
soon as that was over he was rigged out in his Sunday clothes,--red silk
neck-tie and all,--and invited to tell the story of his adventures to a
roomful of admiring neighbors.
He told it well, modestly ascribing pretty much everything to Dab
Kinzer; but there was no reason, in anything he said, for one of his
father's friends to ask, next morning:
"Bill Lee, does you mean for to say as dem boys run down de French
steamah in dat ar' boat?"
"Not dat, not zackly."
"'Cause, if you does, I jes' want to say I's been down a-lookin' at her,
and she aint even snubbed her bowsprit."
(_To be continued._)
GERTY.
BY MARGARET W. HAMILTON.
Ugh! How cold it was!--sleet driving in your face, wind whistling about
your ears, cold penetrating everywhere! "A regular nipper," thought Dick
Kelsey, standing in a door-way, kicking his feet in toeless boots to
warm them, and blowing his chilled fingers, for in the pockets of his
ragged trousers the keen air had stiffened them. He was revolving a
weighty question in his mind. Which should he do,--go down to "Ma'am
Vesey's" and get one of her hot mutton pies, or stray a little farther
up the alley, where an old sailor kept a little coffee-house for the
benefit of newsboys and boot-blacks such as he? Should it be coffee or
mutton pie?
"I'll toss up for it!" said Dick, finally; and, fumbling in his pockets,
the copper was produced ready for the test.
Just then, his attention was suddenly diverted. Close to him sounded a
voice, weak and not very melodious, but bravely singing:
"There is a happy land
Far, far away,
Where saints in glory stand
Bright, bright as day!"
Dick listened in silence till the last little quaver had died away, and
then said: "Whew! That was purty, anyhow. Where is the piper, I wonder!"
He looked about for the musician, but could see no one. He was the only
person in the alley.
Again the song began, and this time he traced the voice to the house
against which he had been leaning. The window was just at his right, and
through one of the broken panes came the notes. Dick's modesty was not a
burden to him, so it was the work of only a moment to put his face to
the hole in the window and take a view.
A small room, not very nice to see, was what he saw; then, as his eye
became used to the dim light, he espied on a low bed in the corner a
little girl gazing at him with a pair of big black eyes.
"I say, there! Was it you pipin' away so fine?" began Dick, without the
slightest embarrassment.
"If you mean, was I a-singin'?--I was," answered the child from the bed,
not seeming at all surprised at this sudden intrusion upon her privacy.
"I say, who are you, anyhow?"
"I'm Gerty, and I stay here all the day while mother is away washing;
and she locks the door so no one can't get in," explained the girl.
"My eye!" was Dick's return. "And what are you in bed for?"
"Oh, I have a pain in my back, an' I lie down most of the time," replied
Gerty in the most cheerful manner possible, as if a pain in the back
were the one desirable thing, while Dick withdrew his head to ponder
over this new experience.
A girl locked in a room like that, lying in bed with pain most of the
time, with nothing to do, yet cheerful and bright--this was something
he could not understand. All at once his face brightened. Back went his
eyes to the window.
"I say, got anything to eat in there?"
"Oh yes, some crackers; and to-night maybe mother'll buy some milk."
"Pooh!" said Dick, with scorn. "Crackers and milk! Did you ever eat a
mutton pie?"
"A mutton pie," repeated Gerty, slowly. "No, I guess not."
"Oh, they're bully! Hot from Ma'am Vesey's! Tip-top! Wait a minute,"--a
needless caution, for Gerty could not possibly have done anything else.
Away ran Dick down the alley and around the corner, halting breathless
before Ma'am Vesey.
"Gi'e me one, quick!" he cried. "Hot, too. No, I wont eat it; put it in
some paper." The old woman had offered him one from the oven.
"Seems to me we're gettin' mighty fine," she said; for Dick was an old
customer, and never before had he waited for a pie to be wrapped up.
"Never you mind, old lady," was his good-natured, if somewhat
disrespectful, reply; and, dropping some pennies, he seized his treasure
and was off again.
Gerty's eager fingers soon held the pie, which Dick dexterously tossed
on the bed, and Dick's eyes fairly shone as he watched the half-starved
little one swallow the dainty in rapid mouthfuls.
"Oh, I never in all my life tasted anything half so good! Don't you want
some?" questioned the child, whose enjoyment was so keen she feared it
hardly could be right.
"No, indeed!"--this with hearty emphasis. "I've had 'em. I'm goin' now,"
he added, reluctantly, "but I'll come back again 'fore long."
"Oh, do!" said Gerty, "an' I'll sing you some more of 'Happy Land,' if
you want me; and I know another song, too. I learned them up to the
horspital when I was there. You see, I was peddlin' matches and
shoe-strings, and it was 'most dark and awful slippery, and the horses
hit me afore I knowed it; and then they picked me up, and I didn't know
nothin', and couldn't tell where I lived, and so they took me to the
horspital; and the next day I told 'em where mother was, and she came.
But the doctors said I had better stay, and p'r'aps they could help me.
But they couldn't, you know, cos the pain in my back was too bad. And
mother, she washes, and I watch the daylight, and wait for night, and
sing; and when the pain aint too bad, the day don't seem so very long."
"My eye!" was all Dick could say, as he beat a hasty retreat, rubbing
the much appealed-to member with a corner of his ragged coat.
"Well, them's hard lines, anyhow," he soliloquized, as he went to the
printing-office. "An' she's chipper, too. Game as anything," he went on
to himself. "Now, I'm just goin' to keep my eye on that little un, and
some o' my spare coppers'll help her, I guess."
How he worked that night! His papers fairly flew, he sold them so fast;
and when, under a friendly street-lamp, he counted his gains, a
prolonged whistle was his first comment.
"More'n any night this week," he pondered. "Did me good to go 'thout the
pie. Gerty'll have an orange to-morrow."
So, next morning, when the last journal had been sold, a fruit-stand was
grandly patronized.
"The biggest, best orange you got, and never mind what it costs." Then
but a few moments to reach Gerty's alley, and Gerty's window.
Yes, there she was, just the same as yesterday, and the pinched face
grew bright when she saw her new friend peering at her.
"Oh! you're come, are you?" joyfully. "Mother said you wouldn't, when I
told her, but I said you would. She wouldn't leave the door unlocked,
cos she didn't know nothing about you; but she said, if you came to-day,
you could come back to-night when she was home, and come in."
"Oh, may I?" said Dick, rather gruffly; for he hardly liked the idea of
meeting strangers.
"Yes," went on Gerty; "I'll sing lots, if you want; and mother'll be
glad to see you, too."
"All right; mebbe I'll come. And say, here's suthin for ye," and the
orange shot through the window.
"Oh, my!" she gasped, "how nice! Is it really for me?" And Dick
answered, "Yes, eat it now."
Half his pleasure was in watching her eager relish of the fruit; and as
Gerty needed no second bidding, the orange rapidly disappeared, she
pausing now and again to look across gratefully at Dick and utter
indistinct expressions of delight.
"Now shall I sing?" she asked, when the last delicious mouthful was
fairly swallowed; for she was anxious to make some return for the
pleasure he had given her.
"All right," responded Dick, "I'm ready."
So the thin little voice began again the old refrain; Gerty singing with
honest fervor, Dick listening in rapt attention. Following "Happy Land"
came "I want to be an angel," "Little drops of water," etc.; and when
full justice had been done to these well-worn tunes, Dick suggested a
change.
"Don't you sing 'Mulligan Guards'?" he questioned, at the close of one
of the hymns.
"No," said Gerty, perplexed. "They didn't sing that up to the
horspital."
"Oh, mebbe they don't sing it to the horspital; but I've heard 'em sing
it bully to the circus. I say," he went on suddenly, "was you ever
there--to the circus, I mean?"
"No," said Gerty, eagerly. "What do they do?"
"Oh, it's beautiful!" was Dick's answer. "All bright, you know, and
warm, and the wimmin is dressed awful fine, and the men, too; and the
horses prance around; and they have music and tumbling, and--oh, lots of
things!"
"My! and you've been there?"
"Oh yes, I've been!" Then, as he watched her sparkling eyes, "Look here,
I'll take you. I could carry you, you know, and we'd go early, and I'd
put you up against a post, and----Don't you want to go?"
"Want to go?" she repeated with rapture. "Oh, it's too good to be true!
I was scared just a-thinkin' of it. Oh, if mother'd let me an' I could!
Wouldn't I be too heavy? Mother says I'm light as a feather,--and I
wouldn't weigh more'n I could help," she added, wistfully.
"Never you mind," was Dick's hearty reply. "I'll come to-night and see
the old lady,--your mother, I mean,--and we'll go next week, if she'll
let you."
So it was decided; and when Dick said "good-bye," and ran off, Gerty
settled back with a sigh, half of delight and half of anxiety, lest her
wild, wonderful hope should never be fulfilled.
But Dick came that night, and Gerty's mother, when she saw Dick's
honest, earnest face, and her little girl's eager, pleading eyes, gave
consent.
The next Monday night was fixed upon, and this was Thursday. "Four
days," counted Gerty on her fingers; and oh, they seemed so long! But
even four days _will_ crawl away, and Monday night came at last. By
seven o'clock, Dick appeared, his face clean and shining, radiant with
delight.
Gerty was dressed in the one dress owned by her mother beside her
working one, and the shrunken little figure looked pathetically absurd
in its ample proportions. It was much too long for her, of course, but
her mother pinned up the skirt. Good old Peggotty Winters, the
apple-woman, who lived in the back room, had lent her warm shawl for the
occasion, and the little French hair-dresser on the top floor had loaned
a knitted hood which had quite an elegant effect. So Gerty considered
herself dressed in a style befitting the event; and if she and Dick were
satisfied, no one else need criticise.
"Pooh!" was Dick's comment as he lifted her in his arms. "Like a baby,
aint you?"
"Oh, I'm so glad you don't think I'm heavy! It's the first time I ever
was glad to be thin," sighed Gerty, clinging around his neck.
Then away they went, out through alleys and across side-streets to the
main artery of travel, where Dick threaded his way slowly through
throngs of gay people. At length, after what seemed miles to Gerty, they
halted in front of a brilliantly lighted building, and in another
moment were in the dazzling entrance-way.
On went Dick slowly, patiently, with his burden, down the aisle, as near
to the front as possible, and--they were there!
Gerty was carefully set down in a corner place, and her shawl opened a
little to serve as a pillow; and then she began to look about her,
gazing with awe-struck curiosity at the great arena and the mysterious
doors.
After a while the house seemed full, the musicians came out and took
their places, the gas suddenly blazed more brightly, and the band struck
up a gay popular air. Gerty felt as if she must scream with delight and
expectation.
Presently, the music stopped, there was a bustle of preparation, a bell
tinkled, and the great doors slowly swung open. Gerty saw beautiful
ladies, all bright and glittering with spangles, and handsome horses in
gorgeous trappings, and great strong men in tights, all the wonders and
sights of the circus, and the funny jokes and antics of the clown and
pantaloon. And Gerty had never known anything half so fine; and there
was riding and jumping and tumbling, and all manner of fun, until the
doors shut again.
"Wasn't it lovely?" whispered Gerty. "Is that all?"
"Not half," said Dick; and Gerty leaned back to think it all over and
watch for the repetition. But the next scene was different; there came
an immense elephant, some little white poodle-dogs, and some mules, and
everybody clapped hands and laughed, and was delighted. At last, the
climax of ecstasy was reached,--a beautiful procession of all the gayly
dressed and glittering performers, with their wonderful steeds, the wise
old elephant, the queer little poodles, and the fun-provoking mules; and
the band struck up some stirring music, and Gerty was dumb with
admiration. But in another minute the arena was empty, the heavy doors
had shut out all the life and magnificence, the band was hushed, the
lights were dimmed, and Dick told her it was over.
Carefully he folded her in the shawl again, and once more the cold night
air blew in her face. Not a word could she say all the way home, but
when she sank in her mother's arms it was with the whisper, "I've seen
'Happy Land';" and Dick felt, somehow, as if no other comment were
needed.
And the winter days went on, Dick's faithful service and devotion never
ceasing. The window was mended, but Dick had a key to the door, and
spent many an hour with the sufferer. As spring approached, the two
watchers noted a change in the girl. She was weaker, and her pain
constant; and when Dick carried her out to the park in the April
sunshine, he was shocked to find her weight almost nothing in his arms.
Yes, Gerty was dying, slowly but surely; and Dick grew exceeding
sorrowful. By and by, she even could not be carried out-of-doors, but
lay all day on her little couch. Then Dick brought flowers and fruit,
and talked gayly of the next winter, when, said he, "We'll go every week
to the circus, Gerty."
[Illustration: AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE CIRCUS.]
"No, Dick," said the child, quietly, "I shall never go there again. But
oh! 't'll be suthin better!"--at which Dick rushed off hastily, and soon
after got into a quarrel with a fellow newsboy who had hinted that his
eyes were red. Anon he was back with some fresh gift, only to struggle
again with the choking grief.
And then came the end--quietly, peacefully. Near the close of a July
day, when the setting sun glorified every corner of the room, Gerty left
her pain, and, with a farewell sigh, was at rest.
"Oh, Gerty!" sobbed Dick, "don't forget me!"
Ah, Dick, you are held in everlasting remembrance, and more than one
angel is glad at thoughts of you, in the "Happy Land!"
THE CROW THAT THE CROW CROWED.
BY S. CONANT FOSTER.
"Ho! ho!"
Said the crow:
"So I'm not s'posed to know
Where the rye and the wheat
And the corn kernels grow--
Oh! no,
Ho! ho!
"He! he!
Farmer Lee,
When I fly from my tree,
Just you see where the tops
Of the corn-ears will be
Watch me!
He! he!"
Switch-swirch,
With a lurch,
Flopped the bird from his perch
As he spread out his wings
And set forth on his search--
His search--
Switch-swirch.
Click!-bang!--
How it rang,
How the small bullet sang
As it sped through the air--
And the crow, with a pang,
Went spang--
Chi-bang.
THE TAIL FEATHERS.
Now know,
That to crow
Often brings one to woe;
Which the lines up above
Have been put there to show,
And so,
Don't crow.
THE LONDON MILK-WOMAN.
BY ALEXANDER WAINWRIGHT.
Very sturdy in form and honest in face is the London milk-woman shown in
our picture. She has broad English features, smoothly parted hair, and a
nice white frill running round her old-fashioned, curtained bonnet. Her
boots are strong, and her dress is warm--the petticoats cut short to
prevent them from draggling in the mud. A wooden yoke fits to her
shoulders, which are almost as broad as a man's, and from the yoke hang
her cans, filled with milk and cream, the little ones being hooked to
the larger ones.
The London day has opened on a storm, and the snow lies thick on the
area railings, the lamp-posts and the roofs; but the morning is not too
cold or stormy for her. Oh, no! the mornings never are. It may rain, or
blow, or snow the hardest that ever was known, no inclemency of weather
keeps her from her morning round, and in the dull cold of London frosts
and the yellow obscurity of London fogs, she appears in the streets,
uttering her familiar cry, "Me-oh! me-oh!" which is her way of calling
milk.
Pretty kitchen-maids come up the area steps with their pitchers to meet
her, and detain her with much gossip. The one in the picture, whose arms
are comfortably folded under her white apron, may be telling her that
the mistress's baby is sick, and that the doctor despairs of its life.
She may even be saying to her: "The only thing it can swallow, poor
little dear, is a little milk and arrowroot, and the doctor says unless
it can have this it must die." A great deal of the London milk is
adulterated, and, perhaps, this honest-looking milk-woman knows that
water has been added to hers. May be, she has babies of her own, and
then her heart must be sore when she realizes that the little sick one
upstairs may perish through her employer's greed for undue profits.
[Illustration: AT THE AREA GATE.]
To-morrow, she may find the blinds drawn close down at that house, and
the maid-of-all-work red-eyed and tearful; then she will turn away,
bitterly feeling the pressure of her yoke on her shoulders, although,
from her looks, she herself appears to be incapable of dishonesty; she
is, and more than that, kindly, cheery, and industrious. Her cans are
polished to the brilliancy of burnished silver, and betoken the most
scrupulous cleanliness. Many breakfast-tables depend upon her for that
rich cream which emits a delicious flavor from her cans, in the sharp
morning air. "Me-oh! me-oh!" We turn over in bed when we hear her, and
know that it is time to get up.
[Illustration]
ALICE'S SUPPER.
Far down in the valley the wheat grows deep,
And the reapers are making the cradles sweep;
And this is the song that I hear them sing,
While cheery and loud their voices ring:
"'Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow,
And it is for Alice's supper--ho! ho!"
[Illustration]
Far down by the river the old mill stands,
And the miller is rubbing his dusty old hands;
And these are the words of the miller's lay,
As he watches the mill-stones grinding away:
"'Tis the finest flour that money can buy,
And it is for Alice's supper--hi! hi!"
[Illustration]
Down-stairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow,
And cook is a-kneading the soft white dough;
And this is the song she is singing to-day,
As merry and busy she's working away:
"'T is the finest dough whether near or afar,
And it is for Alice's supper--ha! ha!"
[Illustration]
To the nursery now comes mother, at last,--
And what in her hand is she bringing so fast?
'T is a plateful of something, all yellow and white,
And she sings as she comes, with her smile so bright:
"'T is the best bread and butter I ever did see,
And it is for Alice's supper--he! he!"
[Illustration]
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.
"Warm!" you say?
Don't mention it, but take it good-naturedly.
And, now, let's be quiet and have a talk about
HEARING FLIES WALK.
"Ho, ho; nobody can do that!"
But anybody _can_ do that,--with a microphone.
"And what's a microphone?"
Why, it's a machine by which very low sounds, that don't seem to be
sounds at all, may be made to grow so loud and clear that you can easily
hear them. If any of you come across one of these things, my dears, just
take it to some quiet green spot, and coax it to let you hear the grass
grow.
There's one feature of the microphone that is likely to be troublesome;
it makes loud noises sound hundreds of times louder. Something must be
done, therefore, to prevent the use of these machines on any Fourth of
July. That would be what nobody could stand, I should think.
A CRAB THAT MOWS GRASS.
Isn't this dreadful? In India--a long way off, I'm glad to say--there is
a kind of crab that eats the juicy stalks of grass, rice, and other
plants. He snips off the stalks with his sharp pincers, and, when he has
made a big enough sheaf, sidles off home with it to his burrow in the
ground, to feast upon it.
Ugh! I hope I shall never hear the cruel click of his pincers anywhere
near me!
WASHERWOMEN IN TUBS.
Over here, as I've heard, the clothes to be washed are put in tubs, and
the washerwomen or washermen stand outside at work. But I'm told that in
some parts of Europe the washerwomen themselves get into the tubs. They
do this to keep their feet dry. The tubs or barrels are empty, and are
set along the river banks in the water, and each washerwoman stands in
her tub and washes the clothes in the river, pounding, and soaping, and
rinsing them, on a board, without changing her position.
MICE IN A PIANO.
Chicago, Ill.
DEAR JACK: I have long wished to tell you of a little incident that
occurred in our family.
About a year ago we bought an upright grand piano, and after we had
had it a few months we noticed that one of the keys would stay down
when touched, unless struck very quickly and lightly, and the next
day another acted in the same way. That evening, after the boys had
gone to bed, father and myself were sitting by the grate fire, when
we thought we heard a nibbling in the corner of the room where the
piano stood. I exclaimed, "Do you think it possible a mouse can be
in the piano?" "Oh no!" he said; "it is probably behind it." We
moved the piano, and found a little of the carpet gnawed, and a few
nut-shells. Then we examined the piano inside, as far as possible,
but found no traces there. I played a noisy tune, to frighten the
mouse away, and we thought no more about it.
Two or three days after, more of the keys stayed down, and I said,
"That piano must be fixed." The tuner came, and the children all
stood around him, with curious eyes, as he took the instrument
apart. Presently I heard a great shout. What do you think? In one
corner, on the key-board, where every touch of the keys must have
jarred it, was a mouse's nest, with five young ones in it! Those
mice must have been fond of music! The mother mouse sprang out and
escaped; but the nest and the little ones were destroyed.
Well, what do you suppose the nest was made of? Bits of felt and
soft leather from the hammers and pedal; and the mouse had gnawed
in two most of the strips of leather that pull back the hammers!
So, when the piano had been fixed, there was a pretty heavy bill
for repairs.--Very truly yours,
P. L. S.
RATTLE-BOXES.
You'd hardly believe how old-fashioned rattle-boxes are,--those noisy
things that babies love to shake. Why, they are almost as old-fashioned
as some of the very first babies would look nowadays. A few very ancient
writers mention these toys, but, instead of calling them, simply,
"rattle-boxes," they refer to them as "symbols of eternal agitation,
which is necessary to life!"
Deacon Green says that this high-sounding saying may have been wise for
its times, when the sleepy young world needed shaking, perhaps, to get
it awake and keep it lively. "But, in these days," he adds, "the boot is
on the other leg. People are a little too go-ahead, if anything, and try
to do too much in too short time. Real rest, and plenty of it, is just
as necessary to life as agitation can be."
Remember this, my chicks, all through vacation; but don't mistake
laziness for rest.
A MOTHER WITH TWO MILLION CHILDREN.
No, not the old woman who lived in a shoe,--though old parties of the
kind I mean have been found with their houses fixed to old rubber
high-boots,--but a quiet old mother, who never utters a word, and whose
house is all door-way, as I'm told. Every year she opens the door and
turns two million wee bairns upon the world.
Away they rush, the door snaps shut behind them, and they can never come
back any more! They don't seem to mind that very much, however, for they
go dancing away in countless armies, without ever jostling, or meeting,
or even touching one another.
And how large a ball-room do you suppose a troop of them would need?
One drop of water is large enough for thousands upon thousands of them
to sport in!
The mother is the oyster, and her children are the little oysters, and a
curious family they must be, if all this is true, as I'm led to believe.
A CHINESE FLOATING VILLAGE.
The Little Schoolma'am wishes you a good and lively vacation, and sends
you a picture of a Chinese Floating Village,--a cool and pleasant kind
of village to live in through the summer, I've no doubt, with plashing
water, and fresh breezes, all about you. She goes on to say:
"In China, where there are about four hundred and fifty millions of
people, not only the land, but also much of the water, is covered with
towns and streets; and, although the Chinese are more than eleven times
as numerous as the people of the United States, their country is not
half as large as ours,--even leaving Alaska out of the count. So that
China is pretty well crowded.
[Illustration: A CHINESE FLOATING VILLAGE.]
"In the picture, the little boats belong to poor people, but the big
ones, called 'junks,' belong to folks who are better off. Sometimes
junks are used by rich people for traveling, and then they are built
almost as roomy, and fitted up quite as comfortably, as the homes on
shore.
"There are no railroads in China worth mentioning, so traveling has to
be done by highroad, or by river and canal; and, as this last, though
easy, is a very slow way, it is a good thing when, like the snail, a
traveler can take his house with him."
INFORMATION WANTED.
Providence, R. I.
Jack-in-the-Pulpit: SIR: I write to ask if any of your little birds
ever crossed the Equator; and, when just above it, whereabouts in
the sky did they look for the sun at noon?
If you will answer this you will oblige me very much, as I have
been wondering for about a month past.
Don't think this foolish.
EDWIN S. THOMPSON.
None of my feathered friends ever told me about this; but, perhaps, some
of you smart chicks who have just passed good examinations can answer
Edwin's question. If so, I'd be glad to hear from you; especially if
you'd let me know, also, what kind of a thing the equator _is_, and by
what marks or signs a bird or anybody might make sure he had pitched
upon it?
A BIRD THAT SEWS.
Sandy Spring, Md.
DEAR JACK: Have you ever heard of a bird that sews? Perhaps you
have, and some of your chicks have not. He is not much larger than
the humming-bird, and looks like a ball of yellow worsted flying
through the air. For his nest he chooses two leaves on the outside
of a tree, and these he sews firmly together, except at the
entrance, using a fiber for thread, and his long, sharp bill as a
needle. When this is done, he puts in some down plucked from his
breast, and his snug home is complete. He is sometimes called the
"tailor-bird."--Your friend,
M. B. T.
A BEE "SOLD."
Talk about the instinct of animals! I'm sure my little friends the bees
are as bright as any, yet I heard, the other day, a strange thing about
one. There was a flower-like sea-anemone, near the top of a little pool
of water, when a bee came buzzing along and alighted on the pretty
thing, no doubt mistaking it for a blossom. That anemone was an animal,
and had no honey. Now, where was the instinct of that bee? That's what I
want to know.
THE LETTER-BOX.
West Roxbury, Mass.
Dear St. Nicholas: I saw in your June number, in the "Letter-Box," an
account of a turtle; so I thought I would tell you about "Gopher Jimmy."
My uncle brought him from Florida. He is a gopher, and different from
the common kind of turtle. His back is yellow, with black ridges on it.
His feet are yellow and scaly. Gophers burrow in the ground; and, when
full grown, a man cannot pull one out of its burrow, and a child can
ride easily on its back. I feed mine on clover. He likes to bask in the
sun. My uncle named him "Gopher Jimmy." When full grown, they can move
with a weight of 200 pounds. Jimmy is a young one.--Your devoted reader,
FRANCIS H. ALLEN.
Baltimore, Md
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Perhaps the other readers of your magazine have heard
of "Tyrian purple," a dye which once sold in the shops of ancient Rome
for its own weight in silver. Well, after a while, the way to make this
dye was forgotten,--probably because those who had the secret died
without telling it to others. And now I want to let you know what I have
learned lately, in reading, about how the secret was found again, after
hundreds of years.
A French naturalist, named Lacazo Duthiers, was on board a ship, when,
one day, he saw a sailor marking his clothes and the sails of the ship
with a sharp-pointed stick, which, every now and then, he dipped into a
little shell held in his other hand. At first, the lines were only a
faint yellow in color; but, after being a few minutes in the sun, they
became greenish, then violet, and last of all, a bright, beautiful
purple, the exact shade called by the ancients "Tyrian purple"--a color
that never fades by washing, or exposure to heat or damp, but ever grows
brighter and clearer! The naturalist was rejoiced, and after trial found
that he really had discovered again the long-lost secret. He felt well
repaid for keeping his eyes open. The little shell was the "wide-mouthed
purpura," as some call it, some three inches long, found in the
Mediterranean Sea, and on the coasts of France, Ireland and Great
Britain. My book says that the difficulty of obtaining and preserving
these shells must always render "Tyrian purple" a rare and expensive
color.
I remember, too, that the Babylonians thought "Tyrian purple" too sacred
for the use of mortals, so they used it only in the dress of their
idols. Romulus, king of Rome, adopted it as the regal color, and the
Roman emperors forbade any besides themselves to wear it, on penalty of
death.--Yours truly, F. R. F.
The boys and girls who solved the poetical charade printed on page 639
of the July number, must have noticed that it is an unusually good one,
and we are sure that all our readers will admire the charade, after
comparing it with its solution, which we publish upon page 704 of this
number.
Alexandria, Ohio.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I should like to know who would succeed to the throne
in case of Queen Victoria's and her eldest son's deaths. My brother and
I sold hickory-nuts and onions to get the St. Nicholas last fall. We
have taken it ever since it was published. I am ten years old.
WILLIE CASTLE.
Prince Albert Victor, the Prince of Wales's eldest son, if then alive,
would succeed to the English throne after Queen Victoria, in case of the
previous death of her eldest son,--the Prince of Wales. A general answer
to this question will be found in the "Letter-Box" for May, 1877 (Vol.
IV., page 509), in a reply to an inquiry from "Julia."
Brunswick, Maine.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: It has occurred to me that some of my St. Nicholas
friends may like to know what I have learned from ancient books about
the constellation Ursa Major, or the Dipper, which, in St. Nicholas for
January, 1877 (vol. iv., p. 168), Professor Proctor has likened to a
monkey climbing a pole. It is about the other title of this
constellation, "Great Bear." I need not describe the group itself, for
that has been done already by Professor Proctor in ST. NICHOLAS for
December, 1876.
Sailors, in very ancient times, were without compasses and charts, and
when voyaging guided themselves by studying the situations and motions
of the heavenly bodies. They saw that most of the stars passed up from
the horizon and rose toward the zenith, the point right over head, and
then dropped westward to hide themselves beyond the earth. After a time
they noted some stars which never set, but every night, in fair weather,
were seen at that side where the sun never appears, or, in other words,
were seen at their left side, when their faces were toward the sunrise.
They did not long hesitate how to use these stars. And when, during foul
weather, the sailors were tossed to and fro, these same constant stars,
that again appeared after the storm, indicated to them their true
position, and, as it were, _spoke to them_. This caused them to give
more exact study to the constellations in that same part of the heavens.
None appeared more remarkable than that among which they reckoned seven
of the brightest stars, taking up a large space. Some who watched this
star-group, as it seemed to turn around in the sky, named it the
"Wheel," or "Chariot." The Phoenician pilots called it, sometimes,
"Parrosis," the Indicator, the Rule, or "Callisto," the Deliverance, the
Safety of Sailors. But it was more commonly named "Doube," signifying
the "speaking constellation," or the "constellation which gives advice."
Now, the word "Doube" signified also to the Phoenicians a "she-bear,"
and the Greeks are supposed to have received and used the word in its
wrong sense, and to have passed it down to us without correction. This
explanation seems plausible to me; and now, whenever I see the
star-group we call the "Dipper," I think how gladly it was hailed by
poor storm-tossed sailors upon the narrow seas, in the early ages,
before the "lily of the needle pointed to the pole."--Yours truly,
R. A. S.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The flowers are all in bloom; it looks so pretty.
Here is a little piece of poetry:
Lieutenant G----
Was lost in the sea,
He was found in the foam,
But he was carried home
To his wife,
Who was the joy of his life,
His lovely brunette,
His idolized pet.
She went to a ball,
And this is all.
I have a little sister named Henrietta, but we call her "Wackie,"
because when she cries she goes "Wackie, wackie, wackie!" I remain, your
constant reader,
ROWENA T. EWING.
Camp Grant, A. T.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little army boy. The other day my papa went
down to Mexico, and I went with him. The first day I rode fifty-seven
miles on a mule; the next day, thirty-five miles; and the third day,
forty miles. If you know any boy East, eleven years of age, who can do
that, tell me his name. Lots of Indians out here.
PAUL COMPTON.
Here is an account of how four enterprising girls from an inland
district spent ten summer days by themselves at the sea-side.
FOUR "INLAND" GIRLS BY THE SEA.
For boys there are all sorts of real camping-out, fishing and hunting
parties, and it's almost enough to set their sisters wild with envy.
Nevertheless, "we girls"--four of us--succeeded one year in having a
deal of holiday enjoyment all by ourselves out of the old sea. This is
how we did it, what sort of place it was, and how we lived:
We engaged a room in a cottage close to the sea, not fifty miles from
Boston. We paid one dollar per day for a medium-sized chamber, with the
privilege of parlor, dining-room, kitchen, kitchen utensils, and china.
Our cottage had fine sea-views from three sides, and roomy balconies all
around, where the salt breezes came up fresh and strong. We had a large
closet for our one trunk, not a Saratoga and not full of finery, for we
had run away from work, company, fashion. We spent whole days in
Balmoral and calico redingotes.
We took with us a few pounds of Graham flour, some fresh eggs, pickles,
tumbler of jelly, plenty of delicately corned beef,--boiled and
pressed,--salt and pepper and French mustard; some tea and coffee and
condensed milk. Fresh vegetables, milk and fruits, could be obtained
from neighbors; and fun it was to be one's own milkmaid and market
merchant; but still more fun to play gypsy and forage for light
driftwood for firing. Then, at a pinch, there were a baker and a
fish-man within easy reach.
The place was quiet, and nobody disturbed us, by day or by night; and it
was delightful to go to sleep, lulled by the music of the waves and
pleasant breeze.
We took turns presiding over the meals of the day, and none but the
day's caterer had any thought or care about that day's bill of fare.
The oldest of our party was "Aunty True," one of the real folks, and a
confirmed Grahamite. The next in age was Helen Chapman, the head and
front of the quartette; a good botanist and geologist, and acquainted
with all manner of things that live in the sea, and from her we had
delightful object lessons fresh from Nature. Next came I, and then Jo,
the youngest of us, a girl of fifteen, ready to run wild on the least
excuse. She was fairly quelled and awe-struck, however, at her first
sight of the sea. "You'll never get me to go into that!" she exclaimed,
fairly shuddering. Yet that very day she was enjoying, bare-foot, the
cool, soft sand, and playing with the foamy wavelets as the tide came
in. But she screamed like an Indian if but invited to plunge beneath the
curling surf. There was every day fresh fun in the water,--we frolicked
like fishes in their own element. And what ludicrous sights we enjoyed
watching the bathers who came from the hotels and
boarding-houses,--whole family parties, big and little!
Our party had fine weather, for in our ten days there was only a half
day of cloud and rain; but it would have been a fresh delight to see the
ocean in a storm.
The last of our pleasures was watching the sun rise out of the sea, a
crimson streak, growing into the great red sun!
C. N. EFF.
Charleston, S. C.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I would like to tell the boys and girls how to make a
pretty little ornament. You take a shell, and bore two holes in each
side, then run a piece of ribbon in each hole with a bow on the top, and
it has a very pretty effect. It can hold knickknacks, or a plant; but if
you want it for a plant, you must bore a hole in the bottom for
drainage.--Your friend,
CARMEN BALAGUER.
E. M.--George Washington's wife was called "Lady" Washington out of
respect for her husband's high position as President, at a time when
titles of courtesy were sometimes given to people not of noble rank who
were in authority. The title has always clung to Martha Washington,
partly from custom, and partly also from the great reverence of all
Americans for General Washington and his wife.
Florence Wilcox, M. B., Isabelle Roorbach, and Lillie M. Sutphen sent
answers to E. M.'s question.
Baltimore, Md.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I would like to tell you my experience with wild
mice. Some time ago I spent the summer in the Sierra Nevada range. Our
family had a little cabin right in the woods, built of single boards.
One day our servant went to her valise, which had been left slightly
open; to her surprise, she found, neatly packed away, in one corner, a
small quantity of bird-seed; she at once accused a young friend, who was
staying with us, of having put it there for fun; but the accused pleaded
"not guilty," and the matter began to look mysterious. One day my papa
took down a pair of heavy mining boots, which were hung from the
rafters; he went to put his foot in, and found he couldn't; then he
turned the boot upside down. A lot of bird-seed ran out! The mystery
thickened. Another time a little dish of uncooked rice was left in the
kitchen overnight. The next morning the rice had disappeared. Then we
began to suspect mice, and hunted for the rice. It was three or four
days before we found it, in a box containing sewing materials, on the
top shelf of a cupboard. Then we took the same rice and put it in with
some broken bits of cracker, and tied a string to one of the pieces.
Papa left all on the kitchen floor. It had disappeared the next day,
except the bit with the string; this the wise little mice had not
touched. That night we heard pattering all over the house. Next day we
began to hunt for the rice again; but it was only just before we left
the cabin that we found it. It was in the tray of a trunk; and the end
of the matter was, that the poor mice had all their trouble for nothing.
I am a little girl just nine and a half, and have every number of ST.
NICHOLAS, and have them all bound, and love it dearly.--Yours truly,
LIZETTE A. FISHER.
A correspondent sends us the following description of what she calls the
"Island of Juan Fernandez," near Paris.
* * * * *
One of the most attractive places for out-door amusement, just outside
of Paris, is a spot fitted out to be a counterpart of the Island of Juan
Fernandez, described by Daniel de Foe in his story of Robinson Crusoe.
After leaving the railroad depot, you enter an omnibus on which are
painted the words "Robinson Crusoe." This leaves you at an arch-way
bearing the curious inscription: "A mimic island of Juan Fernandez, the
abode of Robinson Crusoe, dear to the heart of childhood, and a
reminder of our days of innocence." You pass under this with high hope,
and are not disappointed.
Inside, you find a kind of gypsy camp. Groups of open "summer-houses,"
built of bark, unhewn wood, and moss, are clustered here and there. Some
stand on the earth, others are in grottoes or by shady rocks, and some
are even among the branches of the great trees. All these houses are
meant for resting-places while you are being served with such delicacies
as pleasure-seekers from Paris are wont to require. In each of those
huts, which are in the trees, stands a waiter who draws up the luncheon,
the creams, or ices, in a kind of bucket, which has been filled by
another waiter below. All is done deftly and silently, and you are as
little disturbed as was Elijah by the ravens who waited on him.
The trees in which these houses are built are large old forest-trees,
each strong enough in the fork to hold safely the foundation of a small
cottage; and the winding stairs by which you get up into the tree are
hidden by a leafy drapery of ivy, which covers the trunk also, and hangs
in fluttering festoons from limb to limb.
From one of these comfortable perches you look down upon a lively scene
of foliage, flowers, greensward, gay costumes and frolicking children.
The view is wide, and has many features that would be strange to "dear
old Robinson Crusoe." His cabin is multiplied into a hamlet, and his
hermit life is gone. But you still recognize the place as a modernized
portrait of the island of De Foe's wonderful book. And, as if to furnish
you with a fresh piece of evidence, yonder appears Robinson Crusoe
himself, in his coat of skins, and bearing his musket and huge umbrella.
Instead of Man Friday, Will Atkins, and the rest, you see donkeys
carrying laughing children and led by queer-looking old women. And you
heave a little sigh when you think: "How few of these French boys and
girls really know old Crusoe and his adventures! To them this charming
place has nothing whatever to do with running away to sea, shipwrecks,
cannibals, mutinies, and such things. It is nothing but a new kind of
pleasure-ground to them."
However, everybody feels at home here, and so everybody is happy; for,
after all, looking for happiness is much like the old woman's search for
her spectacles, which all the time are just above her nose.
O dear delightful island, how glad we were to chance upon you right here
in gay, care-free Paris! And what an enchanted day we spent amid your
thousand delights and thronging memories!
C. V. N. C. U.
HERE are two welcome little letters received some time ago from a boy
and girl in Europe:
Nice, France.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am in Europe now, in Nice. I have seen a great deal
already. Nice is a nice place. And it is the only city in the world that
one may call "Nice" always. I can talk French now a little, enough to be
understood. I go to the "Promenade des Anglais" by the sea every
morning, and I like it very much. Nice is situated in the south-eastern
part of France, very near Italy. It once did belong to Italy. It was
given to Napoleon III. as a reward for helping the late king of Italy,
Victor Emanuel II., to the throne of Sardinia. I get the ST. NICHOLAS
sent from home, and like the stories very much.--Your loving subscriber,
CHARLES JASTRON.
(Age 12.)
Nice, France.
DARLING ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl seven years old, and I live in
Nice. I enjoy myself very much here, and have a great deal of fun. I
have nothing to do. I like it here very much. There are a great many
mountains here, but now I do not know any more to write.--Your loving
reader,
NELLIE JASTRON.
Pittsburgh, Penn.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have never written to you before, but I have
thought about it several times. I live in the east end of the city. I
like your magazine very much, and always read it through. I had a
dispute to-day with a boy friend of mine. It was about the gypsies, who
camp near our place every year. He said that not all people who lived
that way were gypsies; but that only those who were descended from the
Egyptians were so named. I did not agree with him, because, in the first
place, I do not think that they are descended from the Egyptians, and,
in the second place, I think that all people who live in that way are
called gypsies, no matter what country they come from. I must now
close.--Your constant reader,
FRANK WARD.
New York, N. Y.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Did you know that we once had musical watchmen in
this country? Less than fifty years ago, it was quite usual in
Pennsylvania for the watchmen to sing the passing hours during the
night. I suppose the custom was brought over by the Germans, who settled
in the Keystone State. I fancy it must have been sleepy work for the
poor watchman, calling the quiet hours, and adding, as he always did,
his little weather report; at least, he invented a very drowsy,
sing-song sort of tune for it.
In these days of telegraphing, and other scientific improvements, we
should think it a very uncertain, and rather stupid, way to judge of the
weather, to say it was "past ten o'clock on a starry evening," or "a
cloudy evening," or "a frosty morning." Now, we have only to pick up the
morning paper, and consult "Old Probabilities," who nearly always
forecasts truly. But in those times there were no telegraph wires
running the length and breadth of the land, and no Signal Service,
either, so that the regular cry of the watchman may have been held in
high esteem; and, perhaps, the sleepy folk would raise an ear from the
pillow to hear the "probabilities" for the coming day, and lie down
again to arrange business or pleasure accordingly.
A hundred years ago the people of Philadelphia were startled by a
famous cry of a watchman at dead of night, making every one who heard it
wild with joy. It was just after the battle of Yorktown, the last of the
Revolution, when Lord Cornwallis and his army surrendered to Washington.
The bearer of the news of victory, entering Philadelphia, stopped an old
watchman to ask the way to the State House, where Congress was in
session, waiting for news from the army. As soon as the watchman heard
the glad tidings, he started off on his rounds, singing out to his
monotonous tune the remarkable words--
"Past four o'clock, Cornwallis is taken!"
Up flew the windows on all sides, and every ear was strained to catch
the joyful sound. The old bell sent forth a glad peal, houses were
thrown open and illuminated, and the streets were filled with happy
people congratulating one another, paying visits, and drinking toasts;
so that, could but one thousand of the seven thousand British soldiers
captured that day by Washington have entered the city that night, they
might have taken it without a struggle.--Yours very truly,
E. A. S.
St. James House, King's Lynn, Norfolk, England.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: A few days ago my brother and I had a little bazaar
which I should like to tell you about. We had been collecting and making
things for a good long time, so we had nearly forty, most of which we
made ourselves, but some were given to us by friends. I copied some of
the things out of "A Hundred Christmas Presents," in ST. NICHOLAS for
November, 1877. They were very pretty, especially the little
wheelbarrow. We had a little refreshment stall with sweets,
ginger-snaps, etc., and they sold more quickly than anything. We got L1,
1s., a guinea, which we sent to an orphan institution in London.
I like your magazine very much, I do not know which part is the
best.--Yours truly,
M. Y. GIBSON.
Bay Shore, Long Island.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I lived in Germany over four years, so I know
something about it. I should like to tell you about rafts on the Elbe.
They are of several kinds. Some are of boards all ready to be sold,
others of round timber, just cut; another kind is of squared logs, and a
fourth of both logs and boards. As the Elbe is not a rapid river, the
unaided progress of a raft is very slow. So each man on it has a pole
with an iron point on one end, while the other end fits to the shoulder;
and the men pole along most of the time. To each end of the raft there
are fastened three or four oars about twenty feet long; and with these
they steer. The Elbe is so shallow that in the summer time boys walk
through it; but in the spring the snow melting in the mountains at the
river's source (Bohemia) makes freshets which carry off animals, boards,
planks and sometimes houses. Under the arch-ways of the bridge at
Dresden during these freshets, there are suspended large nets, two
corners of each of which are fastened to the railing of the bridge, the
lower side is heavily weighted and dropped, and so the net catches
anything which comes down the stream.--Yours respectfully,
FRANK BERGH TAYLOR.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wish that you would tell me how to make skeleton
leaves. I have seen some done just lovely, and so I think that I should
like to try--even if I don't succeed--to make some myself. I am going to
the country this summer to stay quite a long time, and so I shall have a
chance to get a great many different kinds of leaves.--Your constant
reader,
IRENE C. W.
Irene's question is answered in Volume III. of ST. NICHOLAS, pages
115 and 116,--the number for December, 1875.
THE VOYAGES AND ADVENTURES OF VASCO DA GAMA. By George M. Towle. Eight
Full-page Illustrations. Published by Lee & Shepard, Boston. In 294
pages of clear type this book gives a cleverly condensed account of the
most interesting events in the life of Vasco da Gama, the Portuguese
navigator who first found the way from Europe to India around the Cape
of Good Hope. His daring nobility of character and true and exciting
adventures are presented in such a way as to delight boys and girls, and
yet the romance that cannot be taken from the story is not allowed to
interfere with historical truth. As the first of a series entitled
"Heroes of History," this volume makes a good start in a pleasant and
fruitful field.
THE RIDDLE-BOX.
DOUBLE ACROSTIC.
The initials and finals name a flower. 1. A fruit. 2. A Shakspearean
character. 3. A neck of land. 4. A spice.
ISOLA.
NUMERICAL ENIGMA.
It was 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 to the teacher's 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 me to go
home early, that I escaped the shower.
C. D.
PICTORIAL TRANSPOSITION PUZZLES.
Find for each picture a word, or words, that will correctly describe it,
and then transpose the letters of the descriptive word so as to form
another word, which will answer to the definition given below the
picture.
B.
[Illustration: 1. Aromatic kernels of a much used kind.]
[Illustration: 2. Sovereigns.]
DIAMOND PUZZLE.
1. In martin, not in curlew. 2. A rather showy bird. 3. A very showy
bird. 4. An Oriental animal. 5. In sparrow.
C. O.
SQUARE-WORD.
1. A wading-bird. 2. A talking-bird. 3. To turn aside. 4. Steadiness of
courage, or fortitude. 5. To go in.
R. K. D.
SHAKSPEAREAN REBUS.
[Illustration: A three-line quotation from one of Shakspeare's plays.]
GEOGRAPHICAL DOUBLE ACROSTIC.
The initials name a large country of Asia, and the finals a country of
Europe renowned for its climate.
1. A country of South America. 2. An ancient name for a narrow strait in
South-eastern Europe. 3. A British possession in Asia. 4. A kingdom of
Northern Hindostan. 5. A North American mountain system.
SEDGWICK.
METAGRAM.
I am a word, with meanings many; To plunge, is just as good as any. With
new head, I'm a piece of money; With other head, I'm "sweet as honey."
Another still, I'm a projection; One more, I sever all connection.
Another change, I'm the teeth to stick in; Another still, I plague your
chicken. One more new head, and I'm to taste; One more, and I discharge
with haste.
I. W. H.
VERY EASY HIDDEN FURNITURE.
(FOR LITTLE FOLKS.)
1. May got a tablet for her Christmas. 2. My father walks so fast! 3.
Such air as we breathe in our school-room is hurtful. 4. My brother's
tools are always out of place. 5. What? not going to the party to-night?
6. Vic! Ribbons are out of place on school-girls. 7. _What_ spool-cotton
is the best to use? 8. Boys, stop that racket! 9. Lily made skips going
along to school every day.
C. I. J.
DOUBLE CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.
1. In shelf, but not in seat;
2. In food, but not in meat;
3. In slow, but not in fast;
4. In model, but not in cast;
5. In hovel, but not in hut;
6. In almonds, but not in nut.
Read this aright, and you will find
Two Yankee poets will come to mind.
I. E.
TRANSPOSITIONS.
In each of the following sentences, fill the first blank, or set of
blanks, with an appropriate word, or set of words, the letters of which
may be transposed to fill the remaining blanks, as often as these blanks
occur.
Thus, in No. 1, the first blank may be appropriately filled with the
word "warned." The letters of this word, when transposed once, give
"warden" for the second blank, and, transposed again, "wander" for the
third.
1. Though ---- before setting forth, the church ---- lost his way and
continued to ---- helplessly for some time.
2. If a ----, or even a ---- had ---- at will through that well-kept
----, the plants would have been in great ----.
3. If ---- grow in the Levantine island of ----, at least ----and ----
are to be found there. This was told me as a ---- fact.
4. Neither a precious stone such as a ----, nor a ---- ---- of pealed
willow, nor even a ---- of the sweet-pea vine, is of much account to an
animal so savage as the ----. W.
PROVERB REBUS.
[Illustration]
CHARADE.
Within my first, by no breeze stirred,
My second, mirrored, saw my third,
And plucked it, juicy, ripe and red,
From a stray branch just overhead.
A town in India, owned by France,
My whole, might well enrich romance.
J. P. B.
HOUR-GLASS PUZZLE.
Central, read downward, an implement formerly used in war and the chase.
Horizontals: 1. To sing in solemn measure. 2. Mineral produce. 3. In
administrator. 4. A part of a toothed wheel. 5. An arbor.
C. H. S.
CONTRACTIONS.
1. Curtail a color, and leave the forehead. 2. Curtail a joiner's tool,
and leave a plot or draught. 3. Curtail a machine tool, and leave an
article used in house-building. 4. Curtail a shrub, and leave warmth. 5.
Curtail another shrub, and leave fog. 6. Curtail an ornament, and leave
a fruit. 7. Curtail a badge of dignity or power, and leave a bird. 8.
Curtail a thrust, and leave an organ of the human body. 9. Curtail a
number, and leave a building for defense.
I. A.
WORD-SYNCOPATIONS.
In each of the following sentences, remove one of the defined words from
the other, and leave a complete word.
1. Take always from a young hare, and leave to allow. 2. Take a tree
from random cutting, and leave to throw. 3. Take part of the eye from
cuttings, and leave what children often say the kettle does. 4. Take a
sty from a workman in wood, and leave a carrier. 5. Take a favorite from
floor-coverings, and leave vehicles.
CYRIL DEANE.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN JULY NUMBER.
DIAMOND REMAINDERS.--1. Dry. 2. Elope. 3. Drovers. 4. Spend. 5. Try.
Remaining diamond: 1. R. 2. Lop. 3. Rover. 4. Pen. 5. R.
A CONCEALED BILL-OF-FARE.--1. Tea. 2. Beef. 3. Butter. 4. Ham. 5. Egg.
6. Meat. 7. Pie. 8. Fish. 9. Shad. 10. Salad. 11. Peas. 12. Hash.
EASY "ANNIVERSARY" PUZZLES.--Three anniversaries: 1. Fourth of July; J
is a fourth part of the word "July." 2. First of May; M is the first
letter of the word "May." 3. Holidays; hollied A's.
GEOGRAPHICAL SINGLE ACROSTIC.--Liverpool 1. Liffey. 2. Irrawaddy. 3.
Vienne. 4. Euphrates. 5. Rhone. 6. Po. 7. Oder. 8. Ohio. 9. Lena.
EASY HIDDEN LATIN PROVERB.--Tempus fugit: (Time flies.) Totem pushed:
Orfugito.
DROP-LETTER PUZZLE.--"Make hay while the sun shines."
SQUARE-WORD.--1. Bread. 2. Rumor. 3. Emery. 4. Aorta. 5. Dryad.
ANAGRAM DOUBLE-DIAMOND AND INCLOSED DOUBLE WORD-SQUARE.--Diamond,
across: 1, R; 2, hat; 3, mated; 4, pen; 5, S. Word-square, downward: 1,
Hap; 2, ate; 3, ten.
EASY BEHEADINGS.--1. Y-awning. 2. G-ape. 3. W-ant. 4. C-rate. 5.
S-crape. 6. P-lace. 7. L-oaf. 8. S-hocks. 9. S-pin. 10. B-lot. 11.
B-ranch. 12. S-lack.
SHAKSPEAREAN ENIGMA.--Rosalind.
PICTORIAL PUZZLE.--Patience: Pan, pence, ape, can, cane, cent, ice,
pint, tin, ten, tie, net, pie, tea, cat, cape.
NUMERICAL PUZZLE.--Belle's letters; _Belles-lettres._
CHARADE.--Harpsichord: Harp, sigh, chord.
SYNCOPATIONS.--1. Pilaster, plaster, paster, pater. 2. Harem, harm, ham.
3. Clamp, clap, cap.
ACROSTIC.--Mignonette. 1. MaN. 2. IcE. 3. GnaT. 4. NuT. 5. OdE.
DOUBLE, REVERSED ACROSTIC.--
D--i--D
E--k--E
E--v--E
D--eifie--D
ENIGMA.--Hans Christian Andersen. 1. Shasta. 2. Chin. 3. Reins. 4. Red.
5. Nan.
EASY ENIGMA.--Tennis: Sin, net.
BIOGRAPHICAL DOUBLE ACROSTIC.--Abraham Lincoln. 1. AdmiraL. 2. BandittI.
3. RobiN. 4. ArC. 5. HerO. 6. AnviL. 7. MarteN.
HOUR-GLASS PUZZLE.--Chamois. 1. DisCern, 2. ScHah. 3. DAn. 4. M. 5. FOe.
6. PaIns. 7. VasSals.
REVERSALS.--1. Flow, wolf. 2. Draw, ward. 3. Gulp, plug, 4. Laud, dual.
5. Leer, reel.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE JUNE NUMBER were received, before June 18,
from "Allie," Milly E. Adams, Maude Adams, George J. Fiske, Jeanie A.
Christie, "Fannie," Edward Vultee, "Aimee," Estella Lohmeyer, Bertha
Keferstein, Willie B. Deas, "Winnie," "Vulcan," "St. Nicholas Club,"
Chas. Carhart, "Patrolman Gilhooley," Harry Price, Frankie Price, M. W.
C., "Prebo," "Cozy Club," E. S. G., M. H. G., "Lillian," Gertrude H.,
Bessie G., Georgie B., Adele F. Freeman, Nessie E. Stevens, Minnie
Thiebaud, Eleanor P. Hughes, Ella Blanke, Kittie Blanke, "Bessie and her
Cousin," Alice Robinson, C. S. King, Wm. H. McGee, Adele G. D., E. F.
T., Nettie Kabrick, Debe D. Moore, Neils E. Hansen, Isabel Lauck, "O.
K.," Alfred Terry Barnes, Florence Wilcox, Francis H. Earp, Imogene M.
Wood, Horace F. W., Rowen S. McClure, Julia Crofton, "The P. L. C.," S.
Norris Knapp, "K. Y. Z.," "Nameless," W. C. Eichelberger, John Cress,
Daisy Briggs, Romeo Friganzi De Plonzies De Flon, G. P. Dravo, Marshall
B. Clarke, Mary L. Fenimore, Bessie H. Jones, Samuel Hoyt Brady, Edith
McKeever, R. Townsend McKeever, Annie L. Volkmar, E. Gilchrist, H. B.
Ayers, S. A. Gregory, Virgie Gregory, "Caprice," Lewis G. Davis, Charles
Fritts, Frances Hunter, Ray T. French, Nellie Zimmerman, Kittie Tuers,
Etta Taylor, Guardie Kimball, Lulu Loomis, W. A. Ricker, Florence R.
Swain, Nellie Baker, Gracie Van Wagenen, Rosie Van Wagenen, C. B.
Murray, Gertrude Cheever, Albert T. Emery, Florence Van Rensselaer,
"Hard and Tough," Nellie Emerson, Hans Oehme, Paul Oehme, C. N.
Cogswell, Louisa Blake, W. H. Patten, Clara F. Allen, Caroline Howard,
Helen Jackson, Ethel S. Mason, Helen S. Rodenstein, Harry Durand,
Charles H. Stout, Sarah Duffield, Constance Grand-Pierre, "Prince
Arthur," Madeleine Boniville, K. Beddle, Georgine C. Schnitzspahn, Mamie
Robbins, C. L. S. Tingley, A. M. Holz, "Black Prince," J. R. Garfield,
Anna E. Mathewson, "Adrienne," Grace A. Smith, M. H. Bradley, Gladys H.
Wilkinson, and "John Gilpin."
THE LABYRINTH PUZZLE was solved by Esther L. Fiske, "Aimee," Estella
Lohmeyer, Bertha Keferstein, "Vulcan," "Patrolman Gilhooley," Chas. H.
Stout, M. W. C., "Cozy Club," R. M., Nessie E. Stevens, Minnie Thiebaud,
Eleanor P. Hughes, Ella Blanke, Kittie Blanke, "Bessie and her Cousin,"
Adele G. D., Horace F. W., S. Norris Knapp, W. C. Eichelberger, John
Cress, Romeo Friganzi De Plonzies De Flon, Samuel Hoyt Brady, Eddie K.
Earle, R. Townsend McKeever, Nettie F. Mack, "Caprice," C. Maud Olney,
Frances Hunter, Charles Fritts, Harvey E. Mason, Lulu B. Monroe, Nellie
Baker, Nellie Emerson, Caroline Howard, "Diaconos," Sarah Duffield,
Constance Grand-Pierre, William T. Gray, K. Beddle, Georgine C.
Schnitzspahn, Gladys H. Wilkinson, and H. Martin Vail.