"That's him!"
Dab was standing by the ponies, in front of a store in the village.
His mother was making some purchases in the store, and Dab was
thinking how the Morris house would look when it was finished, and it
was at him the old farmer was pointing in answer to a question which
had just been asked.
The questioner was the sharp-eyed boy who had bothered poor Dick Lee
that morning.
At that moment, however, a young lady--quite young--came tripping
along the sidewalk, and was stopped by Dab Kinzer with:
"There, Jenny Walters, I forgot my label!"
"Why, Dabney, is that you? How you startled me! Forgot your label?"
"Yes," said Dab; "I'm in another new suit to-day, and I want to have a
label with my name on it. You'd have known me, then."
"But I know you now," exclaimed Jenny. "Why, I saw you yesterday."
"Yes, and I told you it was me. Can you read, Jenny?"
"Why, what a question!"
"Because, if you can't, it wont do me any good to wear a label."
"Dabney Kinzer," exclaimed Jenny. "There's another thing you ought to
get?"
"What's that?"
"Some good manners," said the little lady, snappishly. "Think, of your
stopping me in the street to tell me I can't read."
"Then you mustn't forget me so quick," said Dab. "If you meet my old
clothes anywhere you must call 'em Dick Lee. They've had a change of
name."
"So, he's in them, is he? I don't doubt they look better than they
ever did before."
And Jenny walked proudly away, leaving her old playmate feeling as
if he had had a little the worst of it. That was often the way with
people who stopped to talk with Jenny Walters, and she was not as much
of a favorite as she otherwise might have been.
Hardly had she disappeared before Dab was confronted by the strange
boy.
"Is your name Dabney Kinzer?" said he.
"Yes, I believe so."
"Well, I'm Mr. Ford Foster, of New York."
"Come over here to buy goods?" suggested Dab. "Or to get something to
eat?"
Ford Foster was apparently of about Dab's age, but a full head less in
height, so that there was more point in the question than there seemed
to be, but he treated it as not worthy of notice, and asked: "Do you
know of a house to let anywhere about here?"
"House to let?" suddenly exclaimed the voice of Mrs. Kinzer, behind
him, much to Dab's surprise. "Are you asking about a house? Whom for?"
If Ford Foster had been ready to "chaff" Dick Lee, or even Dab Kinzer,
he knew enough to speak respectfully to the portly and business-like
lady now before him.
[Illustration: "IS YOUR NAME DABNEY KINZER?"]
"Yes, madam," he said, with a ceremonious bow. "I wish to report to my
father that I've found an acceptable house in this vicinity."
"You do!"
Mrs. Kinzer was reading the young gentleman through and through as she
spoke, but she followed her exclamation with a dozen questions, and
then wound up with:
"Go right home, then, and tell your father the only good house to let
in this neighborhood will be ready for him next week, and he'd better
see me at once. Get into the buggy, Dabney."
"A very remarkable woman!" muttered Ford Foster to himself as they
drove away. "I must make some more inquiries."
"Mother," said Dabney, "you wouldn't let 'em have Ham's house?"
"No, indeed; but I don't mean to have our own stand empty." And, with
that, a great deal of light began to break in on Dabney's mind.
"That's it, is it?" he said to himself, as he touched up the ponies.
"Well, there'll be room enough for all of us there, and no mistake.
But what'll Ham say?"
It was not till late the next day, however, that Ford Foster completed
his inquiries. He took the afternoon train for the city, satisfied
that, much as he knew before he came, he had actually learned a good
deal more which was valuable.
He was almost the only person in the car. Trains going toward the city
were apt to be thinly peopled at that time of day, but the empty cars
had to be taken along all the same, for the benefit of the crowds who
would be coming out, later in the afternoon and in the evening. The
railway company would have made more money with full loads both ways,
but it was well they did not have one on that precise train. Ford had
turned over the seat in front of him, and stretched himself out with
his feet on it. It was almost like lying down for a boy of his length,
but it was the very best position he could have taken if he had known
what was coming.
Known what was coming?
Yes, there was a pig coming.
That was all, but it was quite enough, considering what that pig was
about to do. He was going where he chose, just then, and he chose not
to turn out for the railway train.
"What a whistle!" Ford Foster had just exclaimed. "It sounds more like
the squeal of an iron pig than anything else. I----"
But at that instant there came a great jolt and a shock, and Ford
found himself suddenly tumbled, all in a heap, on the seat where his
feet had been. Then came bounce after bounce and the sound of breaking
glass, and then a crash.
"Off the track!" shouted Ford, as he sprang to his feet. "I wouldn't
have missed it for anything, but I do hope nobody's killed."
In the tremendous excitement of the moment he could hardly have told
how he got out of that car, but it did not seem ten seconds till
he was standing beside the conductor and engineer, looking at the
battered engine as it lay on its side in a deep ditch. The baggage
car, just behind it, was broken all to pieces, but the passenger cars
did not seem to have suffered very much, and nobody was badly hurt, as
the engineer and fireman had jumped off in time.
"This train'll never get in on time," said Ford to the conductor, a
little later. "How'll I get to the city?"
"Well," replied the railway man, who was not in the best of humors, "I
don't suppose the city could do without you overnight. The junction
with the main road is only two miles ahead, and if you're a good
walker you may catch a train there."
Some of the other passengers, none of whom were very much hurt, had
made the same discovery, and in a few minutes more there was a long,
straggling procession of uncomfortable people marching by the side
of the railway track, under the hot sun, The conductor was right,
however, and nearly all of them managed to make the two miles to the
junction in time.
Mr. Ford Foster was among the very first to arrive, and he was likely
to reach home in very fair season in spite of the pig.
As for his danger, he had hardly thought of that, and he would not
have missed so important an adventure for anything he could think of,
just then.
It was to a great, pompous, stylish, crowded, "up-town
boarding-house," that Ford's return was to take him. There was no
wonder at all that wise people should wish to get out of such a place
in such hot weather. Still, it was the sort of a home Ford Foster had
been best acquainted with all his life, and it was partly owing to
that that he had become so prematurely "knowing."
He knew too much, in fact, and was only too well aware of it. He had
filled his head with an unlimited stock of boarding-house information,
as well as with a firm persuasion that there was little more to be
had,--unless, indeed, it might be scraps of such outside, knowledge as
he had now been picking up over on Long Island.
In one of the great "parlor chambers" of the boarding-house, at about
eight o'clock that evening, a middle-aged gentleman and lady, with a
fair, sweet-faced girl of about nineteen, were sitting near an open
window, very much as if they were waiting for somebody.
Such a kindly, motherly lady! She was one of those whom no one can
help liking, after seeing her smile once, or hearing her speak.
Whatever may have been his faults or short-comings, Ford Foster could
not have put in words what he thought about his mother. And yet he
had no difficulty in expressing his respect for his father, or his
unbounded admiration for his pretty sister Annie.
"Oh, husband!" exclaimed Mrs. Foster, "are you sure none of them were
injured?"
"So the telegraphic report said. Not a bone broken of anybody but the
pig that got in the way."
"But how I wish he would come!" groaned Annie. "Have you any idea,
papa, how he can get home?"
"Not clearly," said her father, "but you can trust Ford not to miss
any opportunity. He's just the boy to look out for himself in an
emergency."
Ford Foster's father took very strongly after the son in whose ability
he expressed so much confidence. He had just such a square, active,
bustling sort of body, several sizes larger, with just such keen,
penetrating, greenish-gray eyes. Anybody would have picked him out, at
a glance, for a lawyer, and a good one.
That was exactly what he was, and if any one had become acquainted
with either son or father, there would have been no difficulty
afterward in identifying the other.
It required a good deal more than the telegraphic report of the
accident or even her husband's assurances, to relieve the motherly
anxiety of good Mrs. Foster, or even to drive away the shadows from
the face of Annie.
No doubt if Ford himself had known the state of affairs, they would
have been relieved earlier; for even while they were talking about him
he was already in the house. It had not so much as occurred to him
that his mother would hear of the accident to the pig and the railway
train until he himself should tell her, and so, he had made sure of
his supper down-stairs, before reporting himself. He might not have
done it, perhaps, but he had come in through the lower way, by the
area door, and that of the dining-room had stood temptingly wide open
with some very eatable things ready on the table.
That had been too much for Ford, after his car-ride and his smash-up
and his long walk. But now, at last, up he came, brimful of new and
wonderful experiences, to be more than a little astonished by the
manner and enthusiasm of his welcome.
"Why, mother!" he exclaimed, when he got a chance for a word, "you and
Annie couldn't have said much more if I'd been the pig himself."
"The pig?" said Annie.
"Yes, the pig that stopped us. He and the engine wont go home to their
families to-night."
"Don't make fun of it, Ford," said his mother, gently; "it's too
serious a matter."
Just then his father broke in, almost impatiently, with, "Well, Ford,
my boy, have you done your errand, or shall I have to see about it
myself? You've been gone two days."
"Thirty-seven hours and a half, father," replied Ford, taking out his
watch. "I've kept an exact account of my expenses. We've saved the
cost of advertising."
"And spent it on railroading," said his father, with a laugh.
"But, Ford," asked Annie, "did you find a house?--a good one?"
"Yes," added Mrs. Foster, "now I'm sure you're safe, I do want to hear
about the house."
"It's all right, mother," said Ford, confidently. "The very house you
told me to hunt for. Neither too large nor too small, and it's in
apple-pie order."
There were plenty of questions to answer now, but Ford was every way
equal to the occasion. His report, in fact, compelled his father to
look at him with an expression of face which very clearly meant, "That
boy resembles me. I was just like him at his age. He'll be just like
me at mine."
There was really very good reason to approve of the manner in which
the young gentleman had performed his errand in the country, and
Mr. Foster promptly decided to go over, in a day or two, and settle
matters with Mrs Kinzer.
(_To be continued_.)
[Illustration: MAKING READY FOR A CRUISE.]
HOW WILLY WOLLY WENT A-FISHING.
BY S.C. STONE.
One day, on going fishing
Was Willy Wolly bent;
And, as it chanced a holiday,
Why, Willy Wolly went.
[Illustration: Willy Wolly going fishing.]
Now, Willy Wolly planned, you see,
To catch a speckled trout;
But caught a very different fish
From what he had laid out!
In view of all the fishes,--
Who much enjoyed the joke,
With many a joyous wriggle
And finny punch and poke,--
Young Willy Wolly, leaping
A fence with dire design,
Had carelessly left swinging
His fishing-hook and line.
[Illustration: Willy Wolly caught himself.]
How Willy Wolly did it,
He really could not tell,
But instantly he had his fish
Exceeding fast and well!
He hooked the struggling monster
Securely in the sleeve;
And, all at once, he found it time
His pleasant sport to leave;--
'T was not a very gamy fish
For one so large and strong,
That Willy Wolly, blubbering,
Helped carefully along.
The giggling fishes crowded to
The river bank to look,
As Willy Wolly, captive, led
Himself with line and hook!
[Illustration: Mother unhooks Willy Wolly.]
When Willy Wolly went, you see,
To catch a speckled trout,
Why, Willy Wolly caught _himself!_
And so the joke is out.
His mother saved that barbèd hook,
And sternly bid him now
No more to dare a-fishing go,
Until he has learned how!
CRUMBS FROM OLDER READING.
BY JULIA E. SARGENT.
III.--THOMAS CARLYLE.
"Shakespeare says we are creatures that look
before and after. The more surprising, then, that
we do not look around a little, and see what is
passing under our very eyes."
So writes Thomas Carlyle.
Although he politely says "we," when speaking
of people in general, that part of the "we" known
as Thomas Carlyle certainly keeps his eyes wide
open. So wide, indeed, that much that is disagreeable
comes under his notice, as always will
be the case with those who choose to see everything.
I once watched the round, red sun as it crimsoned
the sparkling waters in which it seemed
already sinking. When, at last, I turned my
dazzled eyes away, all over lake and sky I saw
dancing black suns. Perhaps it is through dwelling
long on one idea that Carlyle sees only spots
of blackness on what others call clear sky. The
great want of that foggy, smoky city where he lives
is pure, health-giving light, and this we also miss
in his writings, which, like London, have not
enough sunshine.
But, whatever people may say, when Carlyle
speaks the world is quite ready to listen.
Who is Thomas Carlyle?
He is a Scotchman, a philosopher, an essayist,
an historian, a biographer, and an octogenarian.
What has he done to be so famous?
He has written twenty books. But you might
live to be an octogenarian yourself without meeting
twenty persons who would have read them all. It
would not be a hard matter, though, to find those
who have read one of his books twenty times;
perhaps this very green-covered book with "Sartor
Resartus" on the back.
What does it mean, and what is it all about?
It means "The Tailor Re-tailored," and Carlyle
says it is a book about clothes. But you need not
look for fashion-plates; there are none there. You
will hear nothing about new costumes; for this
book is full of Carryle's own thoughts, clothed in
such words that you will surely enjoy the book.
Hear how he tells us that nothing that we do is
really "of no matter," as we so often think:
"I say, there is not a red Indian hunting by
Lake Winnepeg can quarrel with his squaw but the
whole world must smart for it: will not the price
of beaver rise?"
You think it would not make much difference if
the price of beaver should rise? Let us look at
the matter. First, Mr. B. Woods, the trader, must
pay a larger price for his beaver, and therefore
must sell for more to the firm of Bylow & Selhi.
These shrewd gentlemen do not intend to lose on
their purchase, so they pay a less sum to Mr.
Maycup, the manufacturer. This reduction in his
income causes Mr. Maycup to curtail family expenses.
So his subscription to ST. NICHOLAS is
discontinued, and the youthful Maycups are overwhelmed
with grief, because of that unfortunate
quarrel which raised the price of beaver.
But why should the price change because of that?
Really, Mr. Carlyle should answer you. Perhaps
the Indian in his quarrel forgets to set his traps, or
the whole neighborhood may become so interested
in the little affair that beavers are forgotten.
"Were it not miraculous could I stretch forth
my hand and clutch the sun? Yet thou seest me
daily stretch forth my hand and clutch many a
thing and swing it hither and thither. Art thou a
grown baby, then, to fancy that the miracle lies in
miles of distance, or in pounds avoirdupois of
weight; and not to see that the true miracle lies
in this, that I can stretch forth my hand at all?"
What is it that Carlyle thinks so wonderful?
See how quietly my hand rests on this table. Why
should it move any more than the table on which
it rests? Is not Carlyle right when he calls every
movement of my hand a wonder? You never
thought of it before? That is as Carlyle says:
"We do not look around a little and see what is
passing under our very eyes."
It was this great old man whose hand brushed
the clinging mud from a crust of bread, and placed
it on the curbstone, for some dog or pigeon, saying,
"My mother taught me never to waste anything."
Here is a word for those who are always planning
what great things they will do--who think so much
_about_ doing that no time is left _for_ the doing:
"The end of man is an action, and not a
thought, though it were the noblest."
Now, for our final crumb, comes a well-clothed
thought that I like better than quarreling Indians
or familiar wonders. It is the reason why selfish
people are never really happy. Carlyle thinks they
have only themselves to blame, for he says:
"Always there is a black spot in our sunshine;
it is even, as I said, _the shadow of ourselves_."
[Illustration: "JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT."]
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.
Hurrah for June!--bright, rosy June! "Joy
rises in me like a summer's morn!" as one of
those pleasant people, the poets, has said.
Let everybody be glad! But most of all, you,
my youngsters! The month properly belongs to
you. Don't I know? Wasn't it set apart by
Romulus, ages and ages ago, especially for the
young people, or "Juniores," as they then were
called? And hasn't their name stuck to it ever
since? Yes, indeed! So, be as merry as you can,
my chicks; but, with all your fun and frolic, be
thankful, and make June weather all about you.
June time--any time--is full of joy when hearts,
brimming over with thankfulness, carry cheer to
other hearts, making
"A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune,"--
like the little stream that bubbles by the foot of our meadow.
Now to business. First comes a letter about
A ROPE OF EGGS.
Brooklyn, N.Y.
My Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: I know about a rope of eggs, and I
will tell you. It is in Japan. The eggs are plaited and twisted
into ropes made from straw, and so it is safe and easy to handle
them. Just think how queer it would seem to buy eggs by the yard!
AMY M.
CONVERSATION BY FISTICUFFS.
After being flurried by clouds of paragrams about sphygmographs,
and phonographs, and pneumatic telegraphs, and scores of other
extraordinary scientific ways of communication, I'm not in the least
surprised to learn that ants converse by one tapping another's head.
I'm told that an Englishman named Jesse once put a small caterpillar
near an ants' nest, and watched. Soon an ant seized it; but the
caterpillar was too heavy to be moved by one ant alone, so away he ran
until he met another ant. They stopped for a few moments, during which
each tapped the other's head with his feelers in a very lively manner.
Then they both hurried off to the caterpillar, and together dragged it
home.
A HORSE THAT LOVED TEA.
Roxbury, Mass.
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: This is a true story of Mary's horse. He
was just as black as a coal all over, except a pretty white star
on his forehead.
Once in two or three weeks Mary had him take tea with her and her
little brother and sisters. She went to the stable where he lived
with Kate and Nell, two pretty twin ponies, and said to him:
"Come, Jack! Don't you want some, tea?"
At that, he came right up to her, and found out the buttons on
her dress, and tried to pull them off, and then untied her apron
strings.
"Now, Jack," Mary said, "tea is all ready. Come along!"--and he
followed her along the walk to the back door and up the three
steps into the house.
What a clatter his iron shoes made along the entry to the
dining-room!
Harry and Annie and Fanny rushed out, crying:
"Oh, mamma! Here's Jack coming to tea!"
Then mamma filled a large bowl with tea, put in plenty of milk and
three or four pieces of white sugar (for Jack had a sweet tooth),
and cut a slice of bread into pieces, and put them on a plate,
with a doughnut or piece of gingerbread. And Mary said:
"Now, Jack, come up to the table!"
You see, he was too big to sit in a chair; but he came close up to
the table and stood there, and drank his tea without slopping any
over, and ate up his bread and cake. And when he had done, what
do you think he did? Why, he went up to the piano that stood in a
corner of the room and smelled the keys, and looked round at Mary.
That was to ask her to play him a tune before he went home.
Then she said, "Oh, you dear Jack! I know what you want!" And she
sat down and played some merry tune, while he pricked up his ears
and put his nose down close to her fingers, he was so pleased.
Then he rubbed her shoulder with his nose, and Mary played another
tune for him.
"Now, Jack," mamma said, "you've had a nice time; but you must
go back to your stable. Kate and Nell will miss you if you stay
longer."
Then Mary opened the dining-room door, and Jack followed her down
the long entry and out to the stable, just like a dog.--Yours
truly,
B.P.
TONGUES WHICH CARRY TEETH.
You've heard of folks with biting tongues, I dare say, and very
disagreeable they are, no doubt, though, of course, they do not
actually bite with their tongues. However, there really is an
unpleasant fellow whose tongue carries twenty-six thousand eight
hundred teeth! A capital one for biting, you'd suppose. He is nothing
but a slug, though, and his army of teeth only scrape, not bite, I'm
told. Then, too, there is a sort of cousin of his, a periwinkle, who
has a long ribbon-like tongue, armed with six hundred crosswise rows
of hooks, about seven in a row.
You can make sure of these surprising facts, my dears, with the aid of
patience and a microscope.
DIZZY DISTANCES.
The other day, one of the school-children said to a chum, "The Little
Schoolma'am told us this morning that some parts of the ocean are more
than four miles deep!"
That's easy to say, thought I, but try to think it, my dear! Fix on
a place four miles away from you, and then imagine every bit of that
distance stretching down under you, instead of straight before you.
Perhaps in this way you may gain an idea of the depth of the ocean;
but just consider the height of the air--which, I'm told, is a sort
of envelope about the earth--more than nine times the depth of the
ocean! Yet, what a wee bit of a way toward the moon would those
thirty-six miles take us! And from the earth to the moon is only a
very little step on the long way to the sun.
Oh dear! Let's stop and take a breath! Why did I begin talking of such
dizzy distances?
LAND THAT INCREASES IN HEIGHT.
Here is a letter in answer to the Little School-ma'am's question which
I passed over to you in April, and it raises such startling ideas,
that, may be, you'd do well to look farther into the matter:
DEAR JACK: We suppose that the Little Schoolma'am and her writers
on Greenland will concede its accidental discovery by Gunnbjorn,
as narrated by Cyrus Martin, Jr., in his "Vikings in America" [ST.
NICHOLAS, Vol. III., page 586]. We have always thought Iceland
appropriately named, and Greenland the reverse.
And now about that question of temperature. If portions of
Greenland are colder than formerly, may it not be because less
heat comes through its crust from subterranean fires, as well
as because the surface is constantly gaining in height, as some
report?--Very truly yours,
NED AND WILL WHITFORD.
THE ANGERED GOOSE.
The picture of which you here have an engraving formed at first a kind
of panel of a wall, and occupied a space beneath one of the cartoons
of Raphael, the great Italian painter, whose grand picture of "The
Transfiguration" is thought to be his chief work. This panel-picture,
also, was painted by Raphael, as some say, though others think it may
be the work of one of his pupils.
[Illustration: THE ANGERED GOOSE.]
A curious thing about the picture is this: the goose is so excited,
and scolding its tortoise so angrily for going slowly, that it has
forgotten its own wings, when, if it would only use them, it could fly
to its journey's end long before the tortoise could crawl there. Now,
there are other two-legged geese who let themselves get angered and
excited easily, and so lose many chances of serving others and helping
themselves. Perhaps you may know some of them.
That is what the Deacon says; but, for my part, I never knew a goose
that _hadn't_ two legs.
A CITY UNDER THE WATER.
In past ages, as the Deacon once told some of his older boys in my
hearing, the people of some parts of Europe used to live above the
surfaces of lakes, in huts built on spiles driven into the water.
Well, now I hear that some one has found, under the water of Lake
Geneva, a whole town, with about two hundred stone houses, a large
public square, and a high tower; and, from the looks of the town, the
shape of the houses, and the way the stones are cut, some say that the
place must have been built more than two thousand years ago!
Now, I can understand how men were able to live in the way the Deacon
described, but it strikes me that this other story has something in it
that's harder to swallow than water.
Who ever heard of men living in cities under the water, as if they
were fishes?
REFLECTION.
The Red School-house.
My Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: Many thanks for putting into your
April sermon the picture and letter which I sent to you. Now, I
must let you know about the explanations that some of your bright
chicks have given.
Arnold Guyot Cameron, S.E.S., O.C. Turner, Louise G. Hinsdale, and
the partners E.K.S. and M.G.V. guessed the right word, which is
"Reflection"; and, of course, it needed some "reflection" to find
it out. The lady in the picture is absorbed in "reflection" upon
something she has been reading in her book; but, besides this,
the water is represented as sending back a "reflection" of nearly
every other object in the picture.
Several others of your youngsters wrote, but they were not so
fortunate in their attempts. "Mignon" suggests the word "Heads,"
for the reason that the guessing has given employment to many
heads. John F. Wyatt thinks that "Beautiful" is the word. Alfred
Whitman, C.H. Payne, and Nellie Emerson, though writing from three
places far apart, agree in giving the word "Reverie" as their
notion of the right one. George A. Mitchell thinks it is "Study";
Arthur W. James guesses "Meditation"; and Hallie quietly hints
"Calm." "P.," however, believes that the word is "Misrepresented,"
which he inclines to write, "Miss represented." But Nathalie
B. Conkling puts forward the exclamation "Alas!" as the proper
solution, spelling it "A lass."
Now, puns are not always good wit, and these two are not puns of
the best kind; but they, as well as the other guesses, show that
your chicks have lively minds, able to see a thing from more than
one point of view, even although their conjectures do not hit the
very center of the mark in every instance. I am much obliged
to them all for their letters, and to you, dear Jack, for your
kindness.--Sincerely your friend,
THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM.
"FIDDLE-DIDDLE-DEE!"
Little Davie ran through the garden,--a great slice of bread and
butter in one hand, and his spelling-book in the other. He was going
to study his lesson for to-morrow.
You could not imagine a prettier spot than Davie's "study," as he
called it. It was under a great oak-tree, that stood at the edge of a
small wood. The little boy sat down on one of the roots and opened his
book.
[Illustration: The Little Brown Wren.]
"But first," thought he, "I'll finish my bread and butter."
So he let his book drop, and, as he ate, he began to sing a little
song with which his mother sometimes put the baby to sleep. This is
the way the song began:
"I bought a bird, and my bird pleased me;
I tied my bird behind a tree;
Bird said----"
"Fiddle-diddle-dee!" sang something, or somebody, behind the oak.
Davie looked a little frightened, for that was just what he was about
to sing in his song. But he jumped up and ran around to the other side
of the tree. And there was a little brown wren, and it had a little
golden thread around its neck, and the thread was tied to a root of
the big tree.
"Hello!" said Davie, "was that you?"
Now, of course Davie had not expected the wren to answer him. But the
bird turned her head on one side, and, looking up at Davie, said:
[Illustration: The Little Bantam Hen.]
"Yes, of course it was me! Who else did you suppose it could be?"
"Oh yes!" said Davie, very much astonished. "Oh yes, of course! But I
thought you only did it in the song!"
"Well," said the wren, "were not you singing the song, and am not I in
the song, and what else could I do?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Davie.
"Well, go, then," said the wren, "and don't bother me."
Davie felt very queer. He stopped a moment, but soon thought that he
must do as he was bid, and he began to sing again:
"I bought a hen, and my hen pleased me;
I tied my hen behind a tree;
Hen said----"
"Shinny-shack! shinny-shack!" interrupted another voice, so loudly
that Davie's heart gave a great thump, as he turned around. There,
behind the wren, stood a little Bantam hen, and around her neck was a
little golden cord that fastened her to the wren's leg.
[Illustration: The Speckled Guinea-Hen.]
"I suppose that was you?" said Davie.
"Yes, indeed," replied the hen. "I know when my time comes in, in a
song. But it was provoking for you to call me away from my chicks."
"I?" cried Davie. "I didn't call you!"
"Oh, indeed!" said the Bantam. "It wasn't you, then, who were singing
'Tied my hen,' just now! Oh no, not you!"
"I'm sorry," said Davie. "I didn't mean to."
"Well, go on, then," said the little hen, "and don't bother."
Davie was so full of wonder that he did not know what to think of it
all. He went back to his seat, and sang again:
"I had a guinea, and my guinea pleased me;
I tied my guinea behind a tree----"
[Illustration: The Duck.]
But here he stopped, with his mouth wide open; for up a tiny brown
path that led into the wood, came a little red man about a foot
high, dressed in green, and leading by a long yellow string a plump,
speckled guinea-hen! The little old man came whistling along until he
reached the Bantam, when he fastened the yellow string to her leg, and
went back again down the path, and disappeared among the trees.
Davie looked and wondered. Presently, the guinea stretched out her
neck and called to him in a funny voice:
"Why in the world don't you go on? Do you think I want to wait all day
for my turn to come?"
Davie began to sing again: "Guinea said----"
"Pot-rack! pot-rack!" instantly squeaked the speckled guinea-hen.
Davie jumped up. He was fairly frightened now. But his courage soon
came back. "I'm not afraid," he said to himself; "I'll see what the
end of this song will be!"--and he began to sing again:
"I bought a duck, and my duck pleased me;
I tied my duck behind a tree;
Duck said----"
"Quack! quack!" came from around the oak. But Davie went on:
[Illustration: The Dog.]
"I bought a dog, and the dog pleased me;
I tied my dog behind a tree;
Dog said----"
"Bow-wow!" said a little curly dog, as Davie came around the spreading
roots of the tree. There stood a little short-legged duck tied to the
guinea's leg, and to the duck's leg was fastened the wisest-looking
Scotch terrier, with spectacles on his nose and a walking-cane in his
paw.
The whole group looked up at Davie, who now felt perfectly confident
He sat down on a stone close by, and continued his song:
"I had a horse, and my horse pleased me;
I tied my horse behind a tree."
Davie stopped and looked down the little brown path. Then he clapped
his hands in great delight; for there came the little old man
leading by a golden bridle a snow-white pony, no bigger than Davie's
Newfoundland dog.
"Sure enough, it is a boy!" said the pony, as the old man tied his
bridle to the dog's hind leg, and then hurried away. "I thought so!
Boys are always bothering people."
[Illustration: The Horse.]
"Who are you, and where did you all come from?" asked delighted Davie.
"Why," said the pony, "we belong to the court of Her Majesty the Queen
of the Fairies. But, of course, when the song in which any of the
court voices are wanted, is sung, they all have to go."
"I'm sure I'm very sorry," said Davie. "But why haven't I ever seen
you all before?"
"Because," said the pony, "you have never sung the song down here
before." And then he added: "Don't you think, now that we are all
here, you'd better sing the song right end first, and be done with
it?"
"Oh, certainly!" cried Davie, "certainly!" beginning to sing.
If you could but have heard that song! As Davie sang, each fowl or
animal took up its part, and sang it, with its own peculiar tone and
manner, until they all joined in.
"I had a horse, and my horse pleased me;
I tied my horse behind a tree.
Horse said, 'Neigh! neigh!'
Dog said, 'Bow-wow!'
Duck said, 'Quack! quack!'
Guinea said, 'Pot-rack! pot-rack!'
Hen said, 'Shinny-shack! shinny-shack!'
Bird said, 'Fiddle-diddle-dee!'"
Davie was overjoyed. He thought he would sing it all over again. But
just then he was sure that his mother called him.
[Illustration: All in Procession.]
"Wait a minute!" he said to his companions. "Wait a minute! I'm coming
back! Oh, it's just like a fairy-tale!" he cried to himself, as he
bounded up the garden-walk. "I wonder what mother'll think?"
But his mother said she had not called him, and so he ran back as fast
as his legs would carry him.
But they were all gone. His speller lay on the ground, open at the
page of his lesson; a crumb or two of bread was scattered about; but
not a sign of the white pony and the rest of the singers.
"Well," said Davie, as he picked up his book, "I guess I wont sing it
again, for I bothered them so. But I wish they had stayed a little
longer."
THE LETTER-BOX.
A BRAVE GIRL.
One summer day, in Union square, New York City, a beautiful deed was
done, which our frontispiece tells so well as almost to leave no need
of words. A poor blind man started to cross the street just as a car
was rapidly approaching. He heard it coming, and, growing confused,
stood still--his poor, blind face turned helplessly, pathetically
up, as if imploring aid. Men looked on heedlessly, regardless of his
danger, or the voiceless appeal in his sightless eyes.
Suddenly, from among the passers-by, a young girl sprang to his side,
between him and the great horses which were so near they almost
touched her, laid her dainty hand on his, and led him safely over the
street, and with gentle words that brought a smile to his withered old
face, set him safely on his way.
It was a brave, kindly act, and one may be sure it was neither the
first nor the last, of the brave girl who did it.
* * * * *
If Charles Dudley Warner had never been a boy, it would have been
impossible for him to write the very interesting little volume he
calls "Being a Boy," for it is evident that he knows well, from
experience, all that he writes about. It may be that many of our
young readers have seen this book, for it has already reached several
editions; but if there are any of them who have not read it, and who
take an interest in the life of boys who are born, and brought up, and
have fun, and drive oxen, and go fishing, and turn grindstones, and
eat pumpkin-pie, and catch wood-chucks, all on a New England farm,
they would do well to get the book and read it.
If any of those who read it are boys on a farm in New England, they
will see themselves, as if they looked in a mirror; and if any of them
are city boys or girls, or live in the South or West, or anywhere in
the world but in New England, they will see what sort of times some of
the smartest and brightest men in our country had, before they grew up
to be governors, book-writers, and other folks of importance.
There is a particular reason why readers of ST. NICHOLAS should see
this book, for in it they will meet with some old friends.
* * * * *
Williamsburgh, L.I.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I read in the May "Letter-Box" your answer to
Stella G. about long and short words. It reminded me of what I read
once about Count Von Moltke, the great German general. The writer
described him as "the wonderful silent man who knows how to hold his
tongue in eight different languages."--Yours truly,
Willie, M.D.
* * * * *
Santa Fé, N.M.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The donkeys here are called "burros." They are very
tame, and do not get frightened at anything. A few days ago, the boys
in our school tied a bunch of fire crackers to the tail of one, and
fired them off. We all thought he would be very frightened at the
noise, but he just walked off and began eating grass. My brother Barry
had one of these little burros, when we were in Texas, and every
evening he would go to a lady's house for something to eat, although
he had more than he could eat at home; and if she did not come to the
window soon, he would bray as loudly as he could, and she would have
to come out and give him something, even if it was only a lump of
sugur. Good-bye,--From, your affectionate friend,
Bessie Hatch.
* * * * *
Coldwater, N.Y.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Having read in the March number an account of the
"Great Eastern," I thought perhaps your readers would like to hear
something of the history of her captain, which I read a short time
ago.
When he was a little boy, he went to sea. As he left home, his mother
said: "Wherever you are, Jamie, whether on sea or land, remember
to acknowledge your God. Promise me that you will kneel down every
morning and night and say your prayers, no matter whether the sailors
laugh at you or not."
Jamie gave his promise, and soon he was on shipboard, bound for India.
They had a good captain; and, as several of the sailors were religious
men, no one laughed at the boy when he knelt down to pray.
On the return voyage, however, some of the former sailors having run
away, their places were filled by others, and one of these proved to
be a very bad fellow. When he saw little Jamie kneeling down, this
wicked sailor went up to him, and, giving him a sound box on the ear,
said, "None of that here, sir!"
Another seaman, who saw this, although he himself swore sometimes, was
indignant that the child should be so cruelly treated. He told the man
to come up on deck and he would give him a thrashing. The challenge
was accepted, and the well-deserved beating was duly bestowed. Both
then returned to the cabin, and the swearing man said, "Now, Jamie,
say your prayers, and if he dares to touch you, I will give him
another dressing."
The next night, Jamie was tempted to say his prayers in his hammock.
The moment that the friendly sailor saw Jamie get into his hammock
without first saying his prayers, he hurried to the spot and, dragging
him out, said, "Kneel down at once, sir! Do you think I am going to
fight for you, and you not say your prayers, you young rascal?" During
the whole voyage back to London this same sailor watched over the
boy as if he were his father, and every night saw that he said his
prayers.
Jamie soon began to be industrious, and during his spare hours studied
his books; he learned all about ropes and rigging, and became familiar
with latitude and longitude. Some years after, he became captain
of the "Great Eastern." On returning to England after a successful
voyage, Queen Victoria bestowed upon him the honor of knighthood, and
the world now knows him as Sir James Anderson.
MABEL R.
* * * * *
B.P.R.--Perhaps the little book called "Album Leaves," by Mr. George
Houghton, published by Estes & Lauriat, will help you to some verses
suitable to be writen (sic) in autograph albums.
* * * * *
Mobile, Ala.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The "that" question in your recent numbers brings
to mind some "thats" I had when I went to school long years ago, and
which some of your young grammarians may never have seen. I would like
to have them, especially C.P.S., of Chicago, parse them.
E.S.F.
Now that is a word which may often be joined,
For that that may be doubled is clear to the mind,
And that that that is right, is as plain to the view
As that that that that we use is rightly used too;
And that that that that that line has in it, is right,
And accords with good grammar, is plain in our sight.
* * * * *
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you about my aunt Hattie. She is
only nine years older than I am, being twenty-one, and seems more like
a sister than an aunt. When she was about fifteen she was thrown from
her pony and hurt her spine, so that she hasn't taken a step since.
But in spite of her great suffering she is the brightest, happiest
one in the house, brimful and running over with fun and spirits.
Papa calls her our sunbeam, and no one can grumble when they see how
patiently and cheerfully she bears her pain. Her bright face and merry
laugh will cure the worst case of "blues." She wants me to tell you
how much she enjoys ST. NICHOLAS. It is a great comfort to her, and
helps to pass away many an hour of pain and loneliness when I am at
school and mamma is busy. She says she doesn't know what she could do
without it.
Auntie says you must make allowance for what I say of her as I am a
partial judge; but she _is_ the dearest, best auntie in the world, and
I'm not the only one who thinks so. Everybody loves her, and I shall
be satisfied if I ever learn to be half as good and patient and
unselfish as she is. I don't see how she can be so good and patient
and happy when she has to lie still year after year and suffer so
much, I should get cross and fret about it, for I can't bear to be
sick a day. But she never thinks of her own troubles, but is so afraid
she will make us care or trouble. When the pain is very bad she likes
to hear music or poetry. It soothes her better than anything else.
Whittier's poem on "Patience," is a favorite with her, and so is Mrs.
Browning's "Sleep."--Ever your true friend,
ALLIE BERTRAM.
* * * * *
Salem, Mass.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you about my little turtle. I got
him up in the country last summer, and have had him about six months.
I keep him in a bowl of water, with a shell in it. In summer I feed
him with flies, and in winter I give him pieces of cooked meat about
the size of a fly. My turtle's shell is nearly round, and he is small
enough to be put in a tumbler, and then he can turn round as he likes.
I named him "Two-forty" (a funny name), because, when you put him
down, he stands still, looks around a minute, and then starts off on a
run,--Your friend and reader,
JOHNNY P. WILLIS.
* * * * *
Camp Grant, Arizona.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Your coming every month fills us with delight. We
cannot wait to read you separately, so mamma reads you aloud after the
lamps are lighted, the first evening you are here. Papa lays aside his
pen to listen, just like any boy, and so we all enjoy your pages at
once. I have one little sister, but no brother. We live in camp, in
far-away Arizona; and, although the "buck-board" brings the mail in
every other day, it takes a long while for a letter to come from the
East.
There is a pet deer here. He comes out to "guard mounting" on the
parade-ground, and trots after the band when the guard passes in
review. Every one is kind to him; even the dogs know they must not
chase him.--Your true friend,
MOLLIE GORDON.
* * * * *
New Brunswick, N.J.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I would like to tell you of the nice times that the
country children have, although they have no parks. In summer they can
go on picnics, and they have a nice garden to play in. And most of the
children have little gardens of their own to plant things in,--one for
flowers and the other for vegetables. Then, in the winter-time, they
can go coasting, sliding and skating; then, last but not least,
sleigh-riding on the lovely, pure white snow.
I, for one, would not be a city child. If I lived in the city, I
could not have my old pet hen. Good-by, dear ST. NICHOLAS.--From your
friend--
MATHILDE WEYER.
P.S.--I have a cat by the name of Pussy Hiawatha.
* * * * *
Covington, Ohio.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Would you like to know how I came to get you? I
worked for you. My brother made a bank for me out of a cigar-box, and
said if I put ten cents into it every week, I could begin taking you
in November. That was in March. Sometimes, I could not get the ten
cents, but I made it up the next week, and more, too, if I could; and
before July, I had more than enough to pay for you. After that, I
saved nearly enough to buy me a suit of clothes. I am working for you
for another year. My age is twelve.--From your constant reader,
W.H. PERRY.
* * * * *
The following is sent to us from Josie C.H., aged eleven years, as her
own composition:
SOME THINGS WHICH WE EXPECT IN YEARS TO COME.
Some boys, when they go to school, expect to learn. When they are a
little older, they expect to go to college; and then, to learn trades
and professions, and to become men. The farmer, when he plants his
seed in the spring, expects a harvest. The merchant, when he buys his
goods, expects to sell them at a profit. The student expects to become
a lawyer, minister, etc. All boys expect to become men. We often
expect things that never happen, but what we expect we cannot always
get; yet we can try for them, which is a good rule to go by.
* * * * *
THE TRUE STORY OF "MARY'S LITTLE LAMB."
Saratoga Springs, N.Y.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you what I read lately in a
newspaper about Mary and her lamb. Mary herself is now a delightful
old lady of threescore and ten, and this is her story:
"I was nine years old, and we lived on a farm. I used to go out to the
barn every morning with father, to see the cows and sheep. One cold
day, we found that during the night twin lambs had been born. You know
that sheep will often disown one of twins, and this morning one poor
little lamb was pushed out of the pen into the yard. It was almost
starved, and almost frozen, and father told me I might have it if I
could keep it alive. So I took it into the house, wrapped it in a
blanket, and fed it on peppermint and milk all day. When night came, I
could not bear to leave it, for fear it would die. So mother made me
up a little bed on the settle, and I nursed the poor little thing all
night, feeding it with a spoon, and by morning it could stand. After
this, we brought it up by hand, until it learned to love me very much,
and would stay with me wherever I went, unless it was tied. I used,
before going to school in the morning, to see that the lamb was all
right, and securely fastened for the day.
"Well, one morning, when my brother Nat and I were all ready, the lamb
could not be found, and, supposing that it had gone out to pasture
with the cows, we started on. I used to be very fond of singing, and
the lamb would follow the sound of my voice. This morning, after we
had gone some distance, I began to sing, and the lamb hearing me,
followed, and overtook us before we got to school. As it happened, we
were early; so I went in very quietly, and took the lamb into my seat,
where it went to sleep, and I covered it up with my shawl. When
the teacher and the rest of the scholars came, they did not notice
anything amiss, and all was quiet until my spelling-class was called.
Hardly had I taken my place when the patter of little hoofs was heard
coming down the aisle, and the lamb stood beside me ready for its
word. Of course, the children all laughed, and the teacher laughed
too, and the poor creature had to be turned out-of-doors. But it kept
coming back, and at last had to be tied in the wood-shed until school
was out. Now, that day, there was a young man in the school, John
Roulston by name, who had come as a spectator. He was a Boston boy and
son of a riding-school master, and was fitting for Harvard College. He
was very much pleased over what he saw in our school, and a few days
after gave us the first three verses of the song. How or when it got
into print, I don't know.
"I took great care of my pet, and would curl its long wool over a
stick, Finally, it was killed by an angry cow. I have a pair of little
stockings, knitted of yarn spun from the lamb's wool, the heels
of which have been raveled out and given away piecemeal as
mementoes."--Yours truly,
J.M.D.
* * * * *
Bolinas, Cal.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Were the "Arabian Nights" written by an Englishman
or translated from the Arabic? In either case can you tell us the name
of the author?--Yours sincerely,
ESTHER R. DE PERSE AND JIMMIE MOORE.
The "Arabian Nights" were collected and translated into English by
Edward William Lane, an Englishman; but no one ever has found out
where or by whom the tales were first told. On page 42 of ST. NICHOLAS
for November, 1874 (the first number), is an article on the subject by
Mr. Donald G. Mitchell, which you would do well to read.
* * * * *
Geneva, Switzerland.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Perhaps some of your American readers have visited
this far-away city, and even attended school here. Pupils come here
for schooling from all parts of the world,--from America, Cuba,
England, Germany, Russia, Greece, and even from Egypt. But many of the
ST. NICHOLAS children never have been here; so I will tell them about
the country and the people.
In the first place, Switzerland is a republic, with president and
vice-president, as in the United States, but chosen every year.
Switzerland is made up of twenty-two cantons, or states, each of which
has two representatives; and, besides these, there are 128 members of
the National Assembly, and seven members of the Federal Council, each
of which last is chosen once in three years. The country is only
one-third as large as the State of New York, being 200 miles long and
156 broad; and two-thirds of it is composed of lofty mountains or deep
ravines. The people are apparently such lovers of law and order as to
need no rulers at all. I think there must be propriety in the air they
breathe. They have honest faces, and honesty beams out of their clear
blue eyes. The school-boy even, instead of stopping to throw stones or
climb fences or wrestle with another boy, walks along to school, at
eight o'clock in the morning, with his square hair-covered satchel on
his back, as orderly as if he were the teacher setting an example to
his pupils. The laborers, in blouse-frocks of blue or gray homespun,
make no noise, no confusion. All is done quietly, orderly and
correctly; each one knows his duty and does it.
Although Berne is the capital, Geneva is the largest city; and I think
if you could see it as it is, with grand snow-capped mountains at both
sides, the clear blue lake,--not always blue, for sometimes it is
green, and then the blue Rhone can be distinctly seen flowing through
it,--the pretty green parks and gardens, clean streets, and oddly
dressed people, you would think, as I do, that it is a very nice place
to be in.
There are several little steamers which ply on the lake, and
numberless little sail and row boats, and beautiful white swans, with
tiny olive-colored cygnets, swimming and diving for food. On the
banks of the rapid river, which leaves the lake at the city, are the
wash-houses--a great curiosity. But my letter is getting too long, so
I must stop.--Yours truly,
S.H. REDFIELD.
* * * * *
Easton, Pa.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I send you an acrostic which I have made, and I
hope you will print it.--Yours truly,
B.
ACROSTIC.
My first has a heart that has ne'er throbbed with pity;
My next has strong arms, but ne'er strikes for the right;
My third has a head, but is not wise or witty;
My fourth, a neat foot, but in country or city
Is never seen walking, by day or by night;
My fifth, with a mouth that is surely capacious
Enough for a lion, is never voracious.
Guess from these five initials my whole, if you can;
'Tis a path ever used, yet untrodden by man.
_Ans._ Orbit. Oak, Reel, Barrel, Iambic, Tunnel.
* * * * *
CITY CHILDREN'S COUNTRY REST.
Brooklyn, E.D.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Here is news to do your heart good. Last summer, a
Brooklyn lady, who herself has been bed-ridden and in pain for many
years, felt very sorry for the children of the tenement houses, who
are unable to get relief or a chance to enjoy the fresh air and bright
sunlight of the country. She longed to help them, and said so to
Mr. P., a clergyman in northern Pennsylvania. He spoke of it to his
congregation, and asked them if they would invite some of the poor
city children to visit their farm-houses and cottages for a week or
so; and they gladly said they would, and told him he might bring along
as many as he could get to come. This generous reply he told to the
lady, and she let others know, and the result was that, although late
in the season, more than sixty children from the poorest neighborhoods
of Brooklyn--pale, deformed, city-worn, and ill-fed--spent a happy
fortnight in the country.
The children were ferreted out, and their parents persuaded. They were
then taken to the railroad depot, and there given in charge of Mr. P.,
who went with them, and sorted them among his people; and, when the
time was up, brought them back, and turned them over to us at the
depot. Then we took them to their homes. The total expense of carrying
all the children there and back in three lots was about $180, and more
money could have been had if it had been wanted. In fact, the minute
the subject was broached every hearer wanted to help. The railroad
company charged only half fares, and the employés got to know Mr. P.
and his batches of children, and did all they could to make things
easy and cheerful for them.
I can fancy how glad you would have been, dear old ST. NICHOLAS, to
see the happy, hearty, bright-eyed boys and girls that came home in
place of the pale-faced, dead-and-alive children that left two weeks
before! They talked of nothing but the good times they had had. One
little fellow, thinking to surprise us, said, "I seen a cow!" All of
them fared well, and particularly enjoyed the "good country milk."
When they came back, many wore better clothes than they had gone
in, and all were laden with good things for the home folks. One boy
carried under each arm a "live" chicken,--special gifts for his
mother!
Now, if some of your readers in the country follow the example of
these Pennsylvania people, they will know what it is to be downright
happy; for every person who has had anything to do with this
enterprise feels happy about it, and longs to do it again, and more
besides.--Yours truly,
C.B.
* * * * *
ANSWERS TO MR. CRANCH'S POETICAL CHARADES, published on page 406
of the April number, were received, before April 18, from Neils E.
Hansen, C.W.W., Arnold Guyot Cameron, Helen and Frank Diller, "Sadie,"
"Marshall," Emma Lathers, Arthur W. James, Louise G. Hinsdale, Ada C.
Okell, E.K.S. and M.G.V., "Sunnyside Seminary," "Persephone," M.W.C.,
Genevieve Allis and Kittie Brewster, Florence Stryker, "Cosey Club,"
Mary and Willie Johnson, and Jeanie A. Christie.
ERRATUM.--The answer to No. 23 in "Presidential Discoveries" is "More"
(Sir Thomas), not "William Henry," as given in the May number.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES in the April number were received, before April
18, from R.H. Marr, Grace Sumner, "Prebo," Marion Abbot, Maxwell W.
Turner, Willie W. Cooper, "Cosey Club," Samuel J. Holmes, "Three
Sisters," Charles G. Todd, W.M., M.E. Adams, Mamie G.A., W. Thomas,
Jeanie A. Christie, T. Bowdoin, Robert M. Webb, Allie Bertram, Willie
Wilkins, Maggie Simon, Kitty P. Norton, M.W. Collet, Jay Benton,
"Kaween," Morris M. Turk, Leonie Giraud, Catherine Cook, Willie B.
Dess, Willie Cline, Frances M. Griffitts, Nellie J. Towle, "Isola,"
Mary C. Warren, Florence I. Turrill, Charles Fritts, "Angeline," Sam
Cruse, John V.L. Pierson, "Ollie;" Tillie Powles and May Roys; Tyler
Redfield, Grace A. Jarvis, Bennie Swift; Sarah Duffield and "No Name"
and Constance F. Grand-Pierre; "Romeo and Juliet," "Jupiter," O.C.
Turner, Jessie D. Worstell, Melly Woodward, R. Townsend McKeever,
Eleanor N. Hughes, Ben Merrill; Annie and Lucy Wollaston; William
Eichelberger and John Cress; "Clover-leaf and Pussy-willow," Alice
Getty, Herbert D. Utley; Bertha and Carl Heferstein and Estella
Lohmeyer; C. Speiden and M.F. Speiden; Angeline O., May Filton,
"Winnie," Maggie J. Gemmill, Jennie McClure, "X.Y.Z.," Neils E.
Hansen, Clara B. Dunster, Bessie L. Barnes, Willie B. McLean, Bessie
T., Lauretta V. Whyte, Hattie M. Heath; Charles W. Hutchins and Abbie
F. Hutchins; Belle Murray, Harry A. Garfield; Helen and Frank Diller;
Gertrude A. Pocock, Helena W. Chamberlain, "Al Kihall," Wm. F. Tort,
"Lizzie and Anna," Kittie Tuers, Taylor Goshorn, Emma Lathers,
"Marshall," Arthur W. James, Otto A. Dreier, "O.K.," Ada B. Raymond,
"Seymour-Ct.," "Three Cousins," "Hallie," Alice Lanigan, Alfred
Whitman, "Golden Eagle;" E.K.S. and M.G.V.; H.B. Ayers, Fred
Chittenden; William McKinley Cobb and Howell Cobb, Jr.; Katie Hackett
and Helen Titus; "35 E. 38th St.," W.D. Utley, Mary Lewis Darlington,
Louisa L. Richards, James Barton Longacre, Nellie Emerson, Chas.
B. Ebert, Jennie A. Carr, W.H. Wetmore, Mattie Olmsted; Arthur W.
Hodgman, E.H. Hoeber, A.H. Peirce; Kittie Brewster and Genevieve
Allis; Fannie B. Bates, Louise Egleston, Florence Stryker, Hattie
H. Doyle, Mattie Doyle, Mabel Chester, Alice N. Dunn. A.R., Mary F.
Johnson, M. Alice Chase, Alice Anderson, Bessie T. Hosmer, "Heath Hill
Club," Anna E, Mathewson, I. Sturges, Addie B. Tiemann, Harriet A.
Clark, Clarence H. Young, B.P. Emery, Victor C. Sanborn, "Persephone,"
Eddie Vultee; "M.," Staten Island; Fred M. Pease, Cyrus C. Clarke,
Geo. J. Fiske; and George H. Nisbett, of London, England.
Correct solutions of all the puzzles were received from Arnold Guyot
Cameron, "Bessie and her Cousin," Louise G. Hinsdale, Lucy C. Johnson;
and L.M. and Eddie Waldo.
THE RIDDLE-BOX.
=EASY BEHEADINGS.=
The whole, most animals possess; behead it, and transpose, and there
will appear an emblem of grief; behead again, and see what all men
have; behead and curtail, and find an article. J.F.S.
=ACCIDENTAL HIDINGS.=
Find concealed in the following quotations three names for
METRICAL COMPOSITIONS.
"As hope and fear alternate chase
Our course through life's uncertain race."--_Scott_.
"Trained to the chase, his eagle eye
The ptarmigan in snow could spy."--_Scott_.
"Well-dressed, well-bred,
Well-equipaged, is ticket good enough."--_Cowper_.
Find concealed in the following quotations three names for
PORTIONS OF TIME.
"From better habitations spurned,
Reluctant dost thou rove."--_Goldsmith_.
"As ever ye heard the greenwood dell
On morn of June one warbled swell."--_Queen's Wake_.
"Each spire, each tower and cliff sublime,
Was hooded in the wreathy rime."--_Hogg_.
=MELANGE.=
1. Behead a plant, and leave a friend. 2. Curtail the plant, and give
a pungent spice. 3. Syncopate the plant, and find an envelope. 4.
Behead the spice, and leave affection. 5. Syncopate and transpose the
friend, and find learning. 6. Behead the envelope, and leave above.
7. Syncopate and transpose the envelope, and give the inner part. 8.
Transpose above, and find to ramble. 9. Syncopate to ramble, and leave
a wild animal. ISOLA.
=EASY CLASSICAL ACROSTIC.=
My first is in deaf, but not in hear;
My second in doe, and also in deer;
My third is in May, but not in June;
My fourth is in song, but not in tune;
My fifth is in house, and also in shed;
My sixth is in cot, but not in bed;
My seventh is in chair, but not in stool;
My eighth is in lake, but not in pool;
My ninth is in pencil, and also in ink;
My tenth is in blue, but not in pink;
My eleventh is in dish, but not in pan;
My whole was a Greek and a well-spoken man.
ANNAN.
=ENIGMA.=
I am a common adage frequently used by good housewives, and am
composed of twenty-two letters.
My 9 15 3 8 16 22 is pertaining to the place of birth. My 10 20 19 14
are things used to cook with. My 6 1 5 is a domestic animal. My 11 21
is a preposition. My 18 17 13 12 is to appear. My 7 4 2 is a pronoun.
BESSIE.
=ANAGRAMS.=
Each anagram is formed from a single word, and a clue to the meaning
of that word is given after its anagram.
1. A dry shop; rambling composition. 2. I clean rum; belonging to
number. 3. Poet in dread; the act of making inroads. 4. Oxen are set;
clears from blame. 5. Gin danger; displacing.
CYRIL DEANE.
=PICTORIAL PUZZLE.=
[Illustration: What animal, besides the dog and cat is to be found in
the above picture?]
=EASY DIAMOND PUZZLE.=
1, A vowel. 2. A fairy. 3. Change. 4. Not many. 5. A consonant.
WILLIE F.
=CHARADE.=
I.
My first, a god once worshiped, now fills a lowly place, Though
sometimes raised to favor by the wayward human race.
II.
My second, a bold captain, leads a goodly company, Whose numbers march
in columns, like knights of chivalry. They serve us at our bidding,
yet we are in their power, And the weapons that they carry may wound
us in an hour. It grandly leads the ages, as their cycles onward roll,
But stoops to lend its presence to my shadowy, fearful whole. It lives
in ancient romance, it floats upon the air, And flower-deck'd May
without it would not be half so fair.
III.
My third holds humble office, a servant at your will, But an
instrument of torture if 'tis not used with skill. Beauty before her
mirror studies its use with care, And deigns, perchance, to choose it
an ornament to wear.
IV.
Consider, all ye people, what my strange whole may be; 'Tis gloomy,
dark and awful, and full of mystery. Ponder the tales of ages, of
human sin and woe, Turn to historic pages, if you its name would know.
E'en kings their heads have rested, a-weary of the crown, Upon its
curious couches, though not of silk or down. The stately seven-hilled
city may boast her ancient birth, But this was old and hoary ere she
had place on earth. Some tremble when they see it; some its secrets
would explore, And, peering through its shadows, they seek its mystic
lore.
A.M.W.
=NUMERICAL PUZZLE.=
A boy named 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 thought it singular he should become
such a monster as a 1 2 3 4 6 7 8 9 10 by dropping the first letter of
his surname.
C.D.
=FOUR-LETTER SQUARE-WORD.=
The base is a title. Fill the blanks in the following sentence
with words which can be arranged in order, as they come, to form a
word-square:
The (1)---- made an (2)---- of his minstrel, and yet he himself could
not tell one (3)---- from another, or distinguish a dirge from a
(4)----.
B.
=EASY CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.=
1. In road, but not in street;
2. In hunger, not in eat;
3. In inn, but not in tavern;
4. In grot, but not in cavern.
The whole is the name of one of the United States.
R.L. M'D.
=METAGRAM.=
Whole, (1) I am to beat; change my head, and I become, in succession,
(2) stouter, (3) final, (4) substance, (5) to sprinkle, (6) to rend,
and (7) a terrier of a much prized kind.
A.C. CRETT.
=EASY ACROSTIC.=
My first is in can, but not in may;
My second in opera, not in play;
My third is in shine, but not in bright;
My fourth is in string, but not in kite;
My fifth is in tea, but not in coffee;
My sixth in candy, also in taffy;
My seventh is in rain, but not in hail;
My eighth is in bucket, but not in pail;
My ninth is in ice, but not in snow;
My tenth is in run, but not in go;
My eleventh is in hop, but not in run;
My twelfth in powder, but not in gun;
My thirteenth is in bell, but not in ring;
My fourteenth is in scream, but not in sing.
My whole is a noted city of Europe.
GOLD ELSIE.
=BLANK WORD-SYNCOPATIONS.=
Fill the first blank, in each sentence, with a certain word; the
second, with a word taken out of the word chosen for the first blank;
and the third with the letters of that word which remain after filling
the second blank.
1. On the ---- we first played ----, and then we all began to
----. 2. While ---- on the wharf, we saw a vessel come into ----,
which made us ---- again. 3. The game of ---- I will ---- you
play, if you will show me the ---- to the fair.
CYRIL DEANE.
=CHARADE.=
My first embodies all despair;
My second fain my first would flee,
Yet, flying to my whole, full oft
Flies but to life-long misery.
Still Holy Writ doth plainly show;
My whole, though causing, cureth woe.
M. O'B D.
=TRANSPOSITIONS OF PROPER NAMES.=
1. At ----, Fla., may be obtained ---- ---- for washing purposes.
2. Are not the public ---- small in the State of ----?
3. In ---- you may not see ---- ---- ----, though you certainly
will see many in Pennsylvania.
4. Amid the mountains of ---- there is doubtless many a ---- ----.
5. Having occasion to visit the city of ----, to my surprise I ----
---- except a few worn-out ---- ----.
6. If you wish to find or to ---- ---- -trees, you need not go to----.
7. When in ---- City I saw an old ---- ----, which was quite a relic.
8. In the city of ---- the cooks surely know how to ---- ----.
9. ----, my brother, ---- the falsehood by giving it a flat ----.
10. My aunt ---- planted a rose-bush ---- ---- ---- allotted to
fruit trees.
W.
=SQUARE-WORD.=
1. Sour fruit. 2. Imaginary. 3. To immerse. 4. A large bird. 5.
Unconscious rest.
B.
=ADDITIONS.=
1. Add some liquor to a spirit, and make to fix on a stake. 2. Add
something belonging to animals to the animals themselves, and make a
lantern. 3. Add sharp to a girl's name, and make a kind of cloth. 4.
Add an era to a vegetable, and make a boy-servant. 5. Add a boy's name
to a cave, and make a foreign country. 6. Add anger to a serpent, and
make to long after.
CYRIL DEANE.
=LABYRINTH.=
[Illustration: Trace a way to the center of this labyrinth without
crossing a line.]
* * * * *
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN MAY NUMBER.
* * * * *
HOUR-GLASS PUZZLE.--Centrals: Greyhound. Across: Alligator. 2.
Adoring. 3. Enemy. 4. Dye. 5. H. 6. Pop. 7. Elude. 8. Evangel. 9.
Amendable.
BLANK APOCOPES.--1. Rafters, raft. 2. Rushlight, rush. 3. Larder,
lard. 4. Scarlet, scar.
FRAME PUZZLE.--
F G
R R
H E A D B A N D
G D
R U
C H A P L A I N
N T
T E
EASY BEHEADINGS.--1. Beat, eat. 2. Candy, Andy. 3. She, he; your,
our. 4. Table, able. 5. Pink, ink. 6. Scent, cent. 7. Brain, rain. 8.
Orange, range. 9. Skate, Kate. 10. Helm, elm. 11. Crow, row. 12. Hash,
ash. 13. Bowl, owl. 14. Scare, care. 15. Brush, rush.
EASY TRIPLE ACROSTIC.--Primals, Crow; centrals, Bear; finals, Gnat, 1.
ComBinG. 2. ReverbEratioN. 3. OmAhA. 4. WoRsT.
HIDDEN FRENCH SENTENCE.--Ma ville de pierre,--"My city of stone,"
or "My city of Peter;" _i.e._. St. "Peter's-burg." ["Pierre" means
"Peter" as well as "stone."]
PICTORIAL ANAGRAM PROVERB .--"It is good to be merry and wise."
THREE EASY SQUARE-WORDS.--
I.--P O E II.--F I R III.--L A W
O R E I R E A G E
E E L R E D W E D
EASY ENIGMA.--Diamond.
REVERSIBLE DOUBLE DIAMOND AND CONCEALED WORD-SQUARE. Perpendiculars,
Revel; horizontals, Lever. Word-square: 1. Ten. 2. Eve. 3. Net.
EASY SYNCOPATIONS.--1. Brass, bass. 2. Bread, bead. 3. Chart, cart. 4.
Clove, cove. 5. Crane, cane. 6. Farce, face. 7. Heart, hart. 8. Horse,
hose. 9. Mouse, muse. 10. Peony, pony.
PICTORIAL TRANSPOSTION PUZZLES.--1. Entitles (ten tiles). Raja (ajar).
3. Palm (lamp). 4. Satyr (trays). 5. Causer (saucer).
EASY SQUARE-WORD.--1. Balm. 2. Aloe. 3. Lore. 4. Meek.
EASY DIAMOND.--1. W. 2. Nag. 3. Water. 4. Gem. 5. R.
[For the names of those who sent answers to puzzles in the April
number, see the "Letter-Box," page 574.]