In order that his grief might not be noticed, and the cause

[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE

AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]

* * * * *

VOL. II.--NO. 75. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR

CENTS.

Tuesday, April 5, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per

Year, in Advance.

* * * * *

[Illustration: AT THE COTTAGE DOOR.]

THE BLACKBIRDS' NEST.

BY MARY CECIL HAY.

"Put it back, Jim. Do put it back."

"Why?" Jim whispered, with a startled glance along the wood path. "Is

the master in sight, Ned?"

"We are in sight of the Master, Jim."

Jim drew a long breath of relief, and put his finger into the open mouth

of one of the unfledged blackbirds. "You frightened me for a moment," he

said, "but I see you were only talking Sunday-school stuff. Of course,

as Squire's forbid us to touch the nests here, we must mind he doesn't

see, that's all."

"Put it back, Jim, lad," pleaded the elder boy, without resenting his

companion's sneer. "It's as much a home, you know, as your own cottage;

and those four little blackbirds can no more live and grow if you

destroy it, than your baby sisters could live and grow if they had no

home and no mother."

"I ain't harmin' the mother," muttered Jim.

"Suppose your mother came home one night, after her work, feeling happy,

and thinking of the rest she should have in her own snug little house,

where you would all be looking out for her, and just when she came close

up to your cottage--just at the old lilac-tree by the gate, you

know--she looked up and saw there were no little ones to meet her, no

bright little room to rest in, no sign, even, of where the dear old home

had been: if you could see her then, Jim, would you say that anybody

who'd taken it all away hadn't harmed _her_?"

"I don't know nothin' 'bout that," stammered Jim, moodily. "It ain't got

to do with a nest. The old bird can make another."

"I suppose your mother could find another cottage, but would it be the

same without you and the babies?"

"It's very different," grumbled Jim, but a little less defiantly now.

"Father says the mother birds often die of grief when they find their

nests gone. You'll put it back, Jim?"

"Not very likely, when I've had all this fuss to get it."

"Just put it back for ten minutes," pleaded Ned.

"And take it again after?"

"Yes, and take it again after--if you like."

"What good would that do?" inquired Jim, with a laugh.

"Just put it back for ten minutes, while I tell you a story."

"You'll promise not to talk Sunday-school stuff when I take 'em back

again, or tell the master, or serve me any sneaky trick like that?"

"I promise. Stay, I'll help you put the nest back in exactly the old

spot."

"I'll do it myself," returned Jim, ungraciously. "I fetched it myself

first, and I'll fetch it again when your tale's over. There, I've put

it."

"Look, Jim! look!" cried Ned, joyfully. "That blackbird flying straight

to the tree is sure to be the mother. Aren't you glad the nest's there

now?"

"Ten minutes ain't very long," observed Jim, as he threw himself at full

length on the turf, looking longingly up at the branch on which the nest

was built, while the white blossoms of the hawthorn fell upon his

upturned face. "I'm safe to have 'em in ten minutes to do what I like

with. Now, then, for the tale. Is there a giant in it?"

"Not this time," said Ned, gently. "It's only about myself and the

children and mother. That won't be like Jack the Giant-Killer or

Robinson Crusoe, will it? But the story isn't long, Jim. I was a very

little chap, and the twins were dots of things, and baby only a month or

so old. Father worked for the master here, and loved him as all the men

do now; but I didn't love him, because he wouldn't have us boys take the

eggs or nests. But one day, when I was going through this very wood, and

nobody was by to see me, I took a thrush's nest with five tiny throstles

in it. I hid it in the basket I was bringing to mother, and went off so

cheerfully, remembering we had an old wicker cage at home, and thinking

how I'd put the birds in it, and watch how they'd manage to fledge; and

how I'd burn the nest--it was dry and crisp, and would burn

beautifully--that I mightn't be found out. Mother was sitting by the

fire nursing baby (poor mother was sick that time, and baby hadn't ever

been well), and I went behind her to the cage, and put my birds in

without her seeing, for I knew well enough how she'd tell me I was wrong

to disobey the master, and cruel to the little creatures I'd stolen. I

didn't care to be told that, for I wasn't sorry, and I didn't want to

give mother the chance of spoiling my fun by any of her quiet speeches

about the other Master--up there beyond the blue--who cares for every

little bird in every tree. I had plenty of opportunities for slipping

away to the dim corner where the cage was, for I was let stay up waiting

for father; but at last mother sent me to bed. I slept in a little bed

in a corner of the kitchen, so it wasn't the same as going up stairs;

and I watched the hand of the clock go round, for I couldn't sleep for

thinking how queer my orphan birds looked, and how jealous some of the

lads at school would be. I saw mother get to look whiter and whiter, and

tireder and tireder; but father didn't come home. Then baby began to

moan, and mother got up and walked about with her, and I watched how

troubled she looked. Then I fell asleep. It seemed like the middle of

the night when I awoke, and I jumped up, for I seemed to know in a

second that everything wasn't like other nights. The cottage door was

wide open, and there was mother standing there, looking out into the

darkness, and listening. When I went up to her, she just put her arm

round my neck, but she didn't look at me; she only looked into the

darkness.

"'Come in, mother,' I cried; 'you oughtn't to stand here while you are

ill.'

"But she only stood there trembling, till baby began to cry and move

restless in her cradle; then mother came in, and took her up, and held

her close to her neck, sobbing as I'd never heard mother sob before in

all my life--never. I held to her, and begged her to stop, but I was

crying myself too all the time. And still father didn't come. I was a

silly lad, Jim, and a wicked one, but I wasn't a coward; and so I begged

mother to let me go up to the Hall to ask about father. For a long time

she wouldn't, but at last I got her just to whisper 'yes' in her crying,

and I was only too eager to set off. She came to the door with me, still

shivering, and holding baby wrapped in a shawl; and while she kissed me

she whispered something I couldn't hear; but I suppose it didn't matter

my hearing, for she was speaking up to Heaven. I wasn't long reaching

the Hall, for I knew every inch of the road, and could run safely enough

even in the darkness. I went up through the yard, and when I saw a light

in the saddle-room, I knew one of the grooms was sitting up to take the

master's horse, and I went in at once. It was Tom Harris, and of course

I was sorry, because he hated father, and didn't like me; but whoever it

had been, I should have gone in then to ask for father. Tom scolded me

first for startling him, then he laughed at my questions, and then he

got cool again, and stared at me.

"'You won't find your father here,' he said; 'you won't never find him

here again, Ned Sullivan, for he ain't ever coming here again. He's

turned off. The master won't have nothing more to do with him. You'd

best go and ask for him at the public, for he went that way when the

master sent him off. The public's a good place for him to forget his

troubles in.'

"I stared at the man, trying to understand what he said, and trying to

_believe_ him. 'Father never goes to the public,' I stammered. 'What do

you mean?'

"'He's never been turned off work before to-night,' laughed Tom. 'That's

what sends a man to the public. If he ain't there, something's happened

to him. Go you and see after him. Don't stare,' he went on, crossing his

arms, and leaning back in his chair by the fire. 'Can't ye hear what I

say? Your father's been turned off here, and to-morrow you're all to be

off out of your cottage.'

"I caught hold of the table, for the room was spinning round and round;

and then I remember Tom laughed, and said it again, as if I'd questioned

him.

"'Yes, I mean just what I say. Your father's been late every morning

this week, and the master won't stand it--not likely. So you're all to

turn out of your cottage to-morrow for the new shepherd. Go home and

make as much as you can of the place to-night, as it'll be gone

to-morrow.'

"At first I was afraid to stir, for I thought if I did I should fall;

but as soon as I could I crept away from the man's sight. Out in the

darkness again, all my strength came back, and I ran home faster even

than I had run to the Hall, crying mother's name all the way, without

knowing what I meant.

"The cottage door was open when I reached it. I think she'd put it open

to guide us--father and me; and I looked in, actually afraid for the

first time in my life of meeting mother. She was sitting by the fire,

her face white, and the tears falling all the time. While I stood

wondering how to tell her about father, my sobs burst out and

frightened her. But I was by her side then, and I fell on my knees, and

laid my head in her lap. It was just then, Jim, that I remembered my

little unfledged birds and their ruined home, and the mother who had

lost them, and I folded my hands and looked up into mother's face almost

as if she had been God. 'I'll never do it again--never! never! I didn't

know it was so terrible. I'll put them back.'

"Afterward, while I told her all that Tom had said, I tried not to see

her face, and tried still more, Jim, not to see that old cage in the far

corner of the kitchen, where my little prisoners were. When I'd done,

mother got up from her seat, and put on her shawl and bonnet.

"'No, no, mother,' I cried, quite quietly, though, for fear of waking

baby; 'you mustn't go out; you'll be ill again, and it's quite dark. Oh,

let me go!'

"She stooped and kissed me. 'It's no place for you, my child. Take care

of baby.' She couldn't say another word, and I could only watch her go,

as she had watched me, thinking what I'd have given to be able to go and

take care of her.

"I sat close to baby's cradle, and stared into the fire as if that wide

stare could keep the tears away; but all the while I didn't see the fire

at all, but other things--oh, Jim, so plainly!

"The white light crept through the kitchen window, then the sun rose,

and still father and mother didn't come. The sun was shining now, and

this was the very day we were to go, so I woke the twins and dressed

them, and wrapped baby ready, and put the room in order, all without a

word, for I was too miserable to cry. At last father and mother came in,

very slowly and silently, and father put his hand on my head, and mother

took baby, and then I knew we were bidding good-by to the little home

where we had been so happy, and I didn't want to cry, though my heart

was breaking, so I crept away to the woods for a few minutes. I felt

that everything would seem better there, where I should see the sunshine

on the leaves and grass and flowers, and hear the birds' songs among the

boughs, making the leaves seem full of music, as I had so often heard

them; and even higher still, among the soft white clouds, where I'd

often thought that even the angels must like to hear them, stooping to

listen when their own songs were silent for a bit. But, Jim, when I came

into the wood, there was no note of all these bright glad songs.

"The whole wood was heavy with a dismal silence; and then I knew that it

was my fault that the birds were unhappy, and would never sing again.

"What could I do? Was it all too late? Sobbing bitterly, I ran home to

fetch the little orphan birds, and give the mother back her children and

her home. Ah, Jim, what a change I found in our own dear home! The

little kitchen that had always seemed so snug and bright and cheerful

was empty and bare. Nowhere in the cottage was there a step or voice to

be heard; only I was left there, and with me, in that nest in the old

cage, five little dead birds.

"The dream had been so real, Jim, that my cry terrified a gentleman who

was riding past in the darkness, and heard it. He dismounted, and came

into the cottage kitchen, and I saw it was the master.

"'Were you asleep, Ned?' he asked, in his kind way. 'Did you cry out in

your sleep?'

"Scarcely knowing I had dreamed, I told him all about taking the nest,

and disobeying him, and about the woods being silent, and how I came

home and found our home ruined, and father and mother gone, and the

birds dead; and when he looked kindly at me, I fell down on my knees and

begged him to forgive me, and not take our home away from mother, but to

send only me away, because I'd taken the nest, and to let father and

mother and the children stay. Then he questioned me till I'd repeated

all that Tom Harris had told me when I went to ask for father; and I

said how father had never been to the public before that night, and how

mother had been to fetch him, though she was ill. Then he put out his

kind hand, and lifted me up.

"'I am glad I heard you as I passed,' he said. 'Harris has been

deceiving you, Ned. You might have guessed that, because he is so fond

of frightening you, and has a grudge against your father. But this

amounts to wickedness, and he shall be punished. I guess how it is, my

lad. Your father is in the shed in the far meadow with the sick cow. I

dare say he couldn't send a message from there, and has all the while

expected he would be able to come home in a few more minutes. You may be

sure he is as anxious to come as you are to see him, but he never

neglects a sick animal. Dry your eyes, my lad, for the cottage is your

home still, and it doesn't look at all "ruined," I think. Now build up

the fire, and wait for your mother. I'll see about your father.'

"Oh, Jim, can you fancy what it was like then? I put my head into the

cradle, and smothered baby with kisses; I made the fire up, and put on

the kettle. Then I ran a little way down the dark road, calling out to

mother, 'Make haste, mother! make haste!' At last she came, Jim--not

white and crying and alone, as she had gone, not silent and sorrowful

with father, like in my dream, but talking happily with him. And then

how I longed that I could have given back my dead birds to their

mother--given them back their home, as ours had been given to us! I

don't know what I did for a bit, but when I'd got father and mother to

have some tea, I laid my head down upon the cold nest, and while I held

so tenderly the little dead birds--killed by these hands of mine, while

the master who was kind to the birds had been so kind to me--I asked God

to forgive me, and I made a promise to Him that He has let me be able to

keep, for I ask Him again every night and every morning. Don't you think

it's true, Jim, what mother says, that the more we love the things He

loves, the more we love Him? That's all. It's quite ten minutes, isn't

it? Are you going to take your nest again?"

"You might have told a cheerfuler tale, Ned. Tell another. There's no

hurry about taking that nest again just yet."

THE FUNNY LITTLE USHER.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

The studios were open, all the artists had united,

And to see the very pretty show were lots of folks invited;

They came quite early in the day, they came till late at night,

And used up all the adjectives in showing their delight.

A water-color artist, rather grander than the rest,

Had a funny little usher in a funny costume dressed,

Who met the people at the door, and marshalled them the way

To where the easels were arranged with pictures for display.

And then he bowed a funny bow that made the people smile,

And through his funny little eyes he gazed at them the while,

As if to say, "My master is, you see, a clever man,

And on this grand reception day I do the best I can."

When the pictures were admired, and the people turned about,

This funny little usher would with grace escort them out,

And stand within the passage at a distance about right,

So as not to be familiar, but exceedingly polite.

There are many of the pictures that I can not now recall;

And the little living tableau I remember best of all

Was the funny little usher from the distant Isle of Skye,

Who did his duty well, and answered to the name of Fly.

[Illustration: THE HALBERDIER.]

AN OLD-TIME SOLDIER.

The queer-looking figure in the accompanying etching is that of a

halberdier, or one of a style of soldier that formed an important body

of the European armies of four hundred years ago. We of to-day would

laugh at soldiers in such queer costumes; but in those days the

halberdiers were considered a very fine-looking and handsomely uniformed

body of men. The halberd, or half battle-axe, was a stout shaft of wood

some six feet in length, and having a curious steel head formed for

cutting, thrusting, or tearing; that is, one side of it was shaped like

a battle-axe, and was for cutting; the end was like a spear; and on the

other side was a strong hook, which was very useful in tearing down

outworks.

The halberd was used by the Scandinavians and the semi-barbarous tribes

of Germany in the very earliest times. The Swiss introduced it into

France in the fifteenth century, and it was first used in England in the

time of Henry VIII.

In our day halberds are very seldom seen, and but few exist outside of

museums, where they are preserved as curiosities. Until late in the last

century they were used by certain court officials in England, and at the

present time they are sometimes borne on occasions of state ceremony by

the yeomen of the Queen's Guard.

[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]

TOBY TYLER;

OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.

BY JAMES OTIS.

CHAPTER XVII.

OFF, FOR HOME.

During this walk Toby learned many things that were of importance to

him, so far as his plan for running away was concerned. In the first

place, he learned from the railroad posters that were stuck up in the

hotel to which they went that he could buy a ticket for Guilford for

seven dollars, and also that by going back to the town from which they

had just come, he could go to Guilford by steamer for five dollars.

By returning to this last town--and Toby calculated that the fare on the

stage back there could not be more than a dollar--he would have ten

dollars left, and that surely ought to be sufficient to buy food enough

for two days for the most hungry boy that ever lived.

When they returned to the circus grounds, the performance was over, and

Mr. Lord in the midst of the brisk trade which he usually had after the

afternoon performance, and yet, so far from scolding Toby for going

away, he actually smiled and bowed at him as he saw him go by with Ben.

"See there, Toby," said the old driver to the boy, as he gave him a

vigorous poke in the ribs, and then went off into one of his dreadful

laughing spells--"see what it is to be a performer, an' not workin' for

such an old fossil as Job is. He'll be so sweet to you now that sugar

won't melt in his mouth, an' there's no chance of his ever attemptin' to

whip you again."

Toby made no reply, for he was too busily engaged thinking of something

which had just come into his mind to know that his friend had spoken.

But as old Ben hardly knew whether the boy had answered him or not,

owing to his being obliged to struggle with his breath lest he should

lose it in the second laughing spell that attacked him, the boy's

thoughtfulness was not particularly noticed.

Toby walked around the show grounds for a little while with his old

friend, and then the two went to supper, where Toby performed quite as

great wonders in the way of eating as he had in the afternoon by riding.

As soon as the supper was over, he quietly slipped away from old Ben,

and at once paid a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Treat, whom he found cozily

engaged with their supper behind the screen.

They welcomed Toby most cordially, and despite his assertions that he

had just finished a very hearty meal, the fat lady made him sit down to

the box which served as table, and insisted on his trying some of her

doughnuts.

Under all these pressing attentions, it was some time before Toby found

a chance to say that which he had come to say, and when he did he was

almost at a loss how to proceed; but at last he commenced by starting

abruptly on his subject with the words, "I've made up my mind to leave

to-night."

"Leave to-night?" repeated the skeleton, inquiringly, not for a moment

believing that Toby could think of running away after the brilliant

success he had just made. "What do you mean, Toby?"

"Why, you know that I've been wantin' to get away from the circus," said

Toby, a little impatient that his friend should be so wonderfully

stupid, "an' I think that I'll have as good a chance now as ever I

shall, so I'm goin' to try it."

"Bless us!" exclaimed the fat lady, in a gasping way. "You don't mean to

say that you're goin' off just when you've started in the business so

well? I thought you'd want to stay after you'd been so well received

this afternoon."

"No," said Toby, and one quick little sob popped right up from his

heart, and out before he was aware of it; "I learned to ride because I

had to, but I never give up runnin' away. I must see Uncle Dan'l, an'

tell him how sorry I am for what I did; an' if he won't have anything to

say to me, then I'll come back; but if he'll let me, I'll stay there,

an' I'll be so good that by-'n'-by he'll forget that I run off an' left

him without sayin' a word."

There was such a touch of sorrow in his tones, so much pathos in his way

of speaking, that good Mrs. Treat's heart was touched at once; and

putting her arms around the little fellow, as if to shield him from some

harm, she said, tenderly: "And so you shall go, Toby, my boy; but if you

ever want a home or anybody to love you, come right here to us, and

you'll never be sorry. So long as Sam keeps thin and I fat enough to

draw the public, you never need say that you're homeless, for nothing

would please us better than to have you come to live with us."

For reply, Toby raised his head and kissed her on the cheek, a

proceeding which caused her to squeeze him harder than ever.

During this conversation the skeleton had remained very thoughtful.

After a moment or two he got up from his seat, went outside the tent,

and presently returned with a quantity of silver ten-cent pieces in his

hand.

"Here, Toby," he said, and it was to be seen that he was really too much

affected even to attempt one of his speeches; "it's right that you

should go, for I've known what it is to feel just as you do. What Lilly

said about your having a home with us, I say, an' here's five dollars

that I want you to take to help you along."

At first Toby stoutly refused to take the money; but they both insisted

to such a degree that he was actually forced to, and then he stood up to

go.

"I'm goin' to try to slip off after Job packs up the outside booth if I

can," he said, "an' it was to say good-by that I come around here."

Again Mrs. Treat took the boy in her arms, as if it were one of her own

children who was leaving her, and as she stroked his hair back from his

forehead, she said: "Don't forget us, Toby, even if you never do see us

again; try an' remember how much we cared for you, an' how much comfort

you're taking away from us when you go; for it was a comfort to see you

around, even if you wasn't with us very much. Don't forget us, Toby, an'

if you ever get the chance, come an' see us. Good-by, Toby, good-by,"

and the kind-hearted woman kissed him again and again, and then turned

her back resolutely upon him, lest it should be bad luck to him if she

should see him after saying good-by.

The skeleton's parting was not quite so demonstrative. He clasped Toby's

hand with one set of his fleshless fingers, while with the other he

wiped one or two suspicious-looking drops of moisture from his eyes, as

he said: "I hope you'll get along all right, my boy, and I believe you

will. You will get home to Uncle Daniel, and be happier than ever, for

now you know what it is to be entirely without a home. Be a good boy,

mind your uncle, go to school, and one of these days you'll make a good

man. Good-by, my boy."

The tears were now streaming down Toby's face very rapidly; he had not

known, in his anxiety to get home, how very much he cared for this

strangely assorted couple, and now it made him feel very miserable and

wretched that he was going to leave them. He tried to say something

more, but the tears choked his utterance, and he left the tent quickly

to prevent himself from breaking down entirely.

In order that his grief might not be noticed, and the cause of it

suspected, Toby went out behind the tent, and sitting there on a stone,

he gave way to the tears which he could no longer control.

While he was thus engaged, heeding nothing which passed around him, he

was startled by a cheery voice, which cried: "Hello! down in the dumps

again? What is the matter now, my bold equestrian?"

Looking up, he saw Ben standing before him, and he wiped his eyes

hastily, for here was another from whom he must part, and to whom a

good-by must be spoken.

Looking around to make sure that no one was within hearing, he went up

very close to the old driver, and said, in almost a whisper, "I was

feelin' bad 'cause I just come from Mr. and Mrs. Treat, an' I've been

sayin' good-by to them. I'm goin' to run away to-night."

Ben looked at him for a moment, as if he doubted whether the boy knew

exactly what he was talking about, and then he said, "So you still want

to go home, do you?"

"Oh yes, Ben, _so_ much," was the reply, in a tone which expressed how

dear to him was the thought of being in his old home once more.

"All right, my boy; I won't say one word agin it, though it do seem too

bad, after you've turned out to be such a good rider," said the old man,

thoughtfully. "It's better for you, I know; for a circus hain't no place

for a boy, even if he wants to stay, an' I can't say but I'm glad you're

still determined to go."

Toby felt relieved at the tone of this leave-taking. He had feared that

old Ben, who thought a circus-rider was almost on the topmost round of

fortune's ladder, would have urged him to stay, since he had made his

début in the ring, and he was almost afraid that he might take some

steps to prevent his going.

"I wanted to say good-by now," said Toby, in a choking voice, "'cause

perhaps I sha'n't see you again."

"Good-by, my boy," said Ben, as he took the boy's hand in his. "Don't

forget this experience you've had in runnin' away, an' if ever the time

comes that you feel as if you wanted to know that you had a friend,

think of old Ben, an' remember that his heart beats just as warm for you

as if he was your father. Good-by, my boy, good-by, an' may the good God

bless you!"

"Good-by, Ben," said Toby; and then, as the old driver turned and walked

away, wiping something from his eye with the cuff of his sleeve, Toby

gave full vent to his tears, and wondered why it was that he was such a

miserable little wretch.

There was one more good-by to be said, and that Toby dreaded more than

all the others. It was to Ella. He knew that she would feel badly to

have him go, because she liked to ride the act with him that gave them

such applause, and he felt certain that she would urge him to stay.

Just then the thought of another of his friends, one who had not yet

been warned of what very important matter was to occur, came into his

mind, and he hastened toward the old monkey's cage. His pet was busily

engaged in playing with some of the younger members of his family, and

for some moments could not be induced to come to the bars of the cage.

At last, however, Toby did succeed in coaxing him forward, and then,

taking him by the paw, and drawing him as near as possible, Toby

whispered: "We're goin' to run away to-night, Mr. Stubbs, an' I want you

to be all ready to go the minute I come for you."

The old monkey winked both eyes violently, and then showed his teeth to

such an extent that Toby thought he was laughing at the prospect, and he

said, a little severely: "If you had as many friends as I have got in

this circus, you wouldn't laugh when you was goin' to leave them. Of

course I've got to go, an' I want to go; but it makes me feel bad to

leave the skeleton, an' the fat woman, an' old Ben, an' little Ella. But

I mustn't stand here. You be ready when I come for you, an' by mornin'

we'll be so far off that Mr. Lord nor Mr. Castle can't catch us."

The old monkey went toward his companions, as if he were in high glee at

the trip before him, and Toby went into the dressing tent to prepare for

the evening's performance, which was about to commence.

It appeared to the boy as if every one was unusually kind to him that

night, and feeling sad at leaving those in the circus who had befriended

him, Toby was unusually attentive to every one around him. He ran on

some trifling errand for one, helped another in his dressing, and in a

dozen kind ways seemed as if trying to atone for leaving them secretly.

When the time came for him to go into the ring, and he met Ella, bright

and happy at the thought of riding with him, and repeating her triumphs

of the afternoon, nothing save the thought of how wicked he had been to

run away from good old Uncle Daniel, and a desire to right that wrong in

some way, prevented him from giving up his plan of going back.

The little girl observed his sadness, and she whispered, "Has any one

been whipping you, Toby?"

Toby shook his head. He had thought that he would tell her what he was

about to do just before they went into the ring, but her kind words

seemed to make that impossible, and he had said nothing when the blare

of the trumpets, the noisy demonstrations of the audience, and the

announcement of the clown that the wonderful children riders were now

about to appear, ushered them into the ring.

If Toby had performed well in the afternoon, he accomplished wonders on

this evening, and they were called back into the ring, not once, but

twice; and when finally they were allowed to retire, every one behind

the curtain overwhelmed them with praise.

Ella was so profuse with her kind words, her admiration for what Toby

had done, and so delighted at the idea that they were to ride together,

that even then the boy could not tell her what he was going to do, but

went into his dressing-room, resolving that he would tell her all when

they both had finished dressing.

Toby made as small a parcel as possible of the costume which Mr. and

Mrs. Treat had given him--for he determined that he would take it with

him--and putting it under his coat, went out to wait for Ella. As she

did not come out as soon as he expected, he asked some one to tell her

that he wanted to see her, and he thought to himself that, when she did

come, she would be in a hurry, and could not stop long enough to make

any very lengthy objections to his leaving.

But she did not come at all; her mother sent out word that Toby could

not see her until after the performance was over, owing to the fact that

it was now nearly time for her to go into the ring, and she was not

dressed as yet.

Toby was terribly disappointed. He knew that it would not be safe for

him to wait until the close of the performance if he were intending to

run away that night, and he felt that he could not go until he had said

a few last words to her.

He was in a great perplexity, until the thought came to him that he

could write a good-by to her, and by this means any unpleasant

discussion would be avoided.

After some little difficulty he procured a small piece of not very clean

paper, and a very short bit of lead-pencil, and using the top of one of

the wagons, as he sat on the seat, for a desk, he indited the following

epistle:

"deaR ella I Am goin to Run away two night, & i want two say good

by to yu &, your mother. i am Small & unkle Danil says i dont mount

two much, but i am old enuf two know that you have bin good two me,

& when i Am a man i will buy you a whole cirkus, and we Will ride

together, dont forgit me & I wont yu in haste

"TOBY TYLER."

Toby had no envelope in which to seal this precious letter, but he felt

that it would not be seen by prying eyes, and would safely reach its

destination, if he intrusted it to old Ben.

It did not take him many moments to find the old driver, and he said, as

he handed him the letter, "I didn't see Ella to tell her I was goin', so

I wrote this letter, an' I want to know if you will give it to her."

"Of course I will. But see here, Toby"--and Ben caught him by the

sleeve, and led him aside where he would not be overheard--"have you got

money enough to take you home? for if you haven't, I can let you have

some," and Ben plunged his hand into his capacious pocket as if he was

about to withdraw from there the entire United States Treasury.

Toby assured him that he had sufficient for all his wants; but the old

man would not be satisfied until he had seen for himself, and then

taking Toby's hand again, he said: "Now, my boy, it won't do for you to

stay around here any longer. Buy something to eat before you start, an'

go into the woods for a day or two before you take the train or

steamboat. You're too big a prize for Job or Castle to let you go

without a word, an' they'll try their level best to find you. Be

careful, now, for if they should catch you, good-by any more chances to

get away. There"--and here Ben suddenly lifted him high from the ground,

and kissed him--"now get away as fast as you can."

Toby pressed the old man's hand affectionately, and then, without

trusting himself to speak, walked swiftly out toward the entrance.

He resolved to take Ben's advice, and go into the woods for a short

time, and therefore he must buy some provisions before he started.

As he passed the monkeys' cage he saw his pet sitting near the bars, and

he stopped long enough to whisper, "I'll be back in ten minutes, Mr.

Stubbs, an' you be all ready then."

Then he went on, and just as he got near the entrance, one of the men

told him that Mrs. Treat wished to see him.

Toby could hardly afford to spare the time just then, but he would

probably have obeyed the summons if he had known that by so doing he

would be caught, and he ran as fast as his little legs would carry him

toward the skeleton's tent.

The exhibition was open, and both the skeleton and his wife were on the

platform when Toby entered, but he crept around at the back, and up

behind Mrs. Treat's chair, telling her as he did so that he had just

received her message, and that he must hurry right back, for every

moment was important then to him.

"I put up a nice lunch for you," she said, as she kissed him, "and

you'll find it on the top of the biggest trunk. Now go; and if my wishes

are of any good to you, you will get to your uncle Daniel's house

without any trouble. Good-by again, little one."

Toby did not dare to trust himself any longer where every one was so

kind to him. He slipped down from the platform as quickly as possible,

found the bundle--and a good-sized one it was, too--without any

difficulty, and went back to the monkeys' cage.

As orders had been given by the proprietor of the circus that the boy

should do as he had a mind to with the monkey, he called Mr. Stubbs, and

as he was in the custom of taking him with him at night, no one thought

that it was anything strange that he should take him from the cage now.

Mr. Lord or Mr. Castle might possibly have thought it queer had either

of them seen the two bundles which Toby carried, but fortunately for the

boy's scheme, they both believed that he was in the dressing tent, and

consequently thought that he was perfectly safe.

Toby's hand shook so that he could hardly undo the fastening of the

cage, and when he attempted to call the monkey to him, his voice sounded

so strange and husky that it startled him.

The old monkey seemed to prefer sleeping with Toby rather than with

those of his kind in the cage, and as the boy took him with him almost

every night, he came on this particular occasion as soon as Toby called,

regardless of the strange sound of his master's voice.

With his bundles under his arm, and the monkey on his shoulder, with

both paws tightly clasped around his neck, Toby made his way out of the

tent with beating heart and bated breath.

[Illustration: THE RUNAWAYS.]

Neither Mr. Lord, Castle, nor Jacobs were in sight, and everything

seemed favorable for his flight. During the afternoon he had carefully

noted the direction of the woods, and he started swiftly toward them

now, stopping only long enough, as he was well clear of the tents, to

say, in a whisper:

"Good-by, Mr. Treat, an' Mrs. Treat, an' Ella, an' Ben. Some time, when

I'm a man, I'll come back, an' bring you lots of nice things, an' I'll

never forget you--never. When I have a chance to be good to some little

boy that felt as bad as I did, I'll do it, an' tell him that it was you

did it. Good-by."

Then turning around, he ran toward the woods as swiftly as if his escape

had been discovered, and the entire company were in pursuit.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

BLUEBIRDS.

BY GEORGE COOPER.

A mist of green on the willows;

A flash of blue 'mid the rain;

And the brisk wind pipes,

And the brooklet stripes

With silver hill and plain.

Hark! the bluebirds, the bluebirds

Have come to us again!

The snow-drop peeps to the sunlight

Where last year's leaves have lain;

And a fluted song

Tells the heart, "Be strong:

The darkest days will wane.

And the bluebirds, the bluebirds

Will always come again!"

SEA-BREEZES.

BESSIE MAYNARD TO HER DOLL.

BERLIN, _March_, 1881.

It will be long after Christmas before you get this letter, dearest

Clytie, but, for all that, I'm sure you will like to hear about my

German holidays. If my letter seems mixed up and secure, you must excuse

it, for my mind is in a perfect whirligig. One of their festivals, or

"Fest-tag," as they say here, is so different from any we have at home,

that I _must_ tell you about it, although it happened so many weeks ago.

It is "Nicholas-day," and comes on the 6th of December. My new cousins

Ilsie and Lisbet told me that St. Nicholas always comes himself, and

leaves presents at every house for the good children, and a bunch of

rods for the naughty ones. He lives ever so far away, and is a kind of

relation of Santa Claus--second cousins or step-fathers, maybe. Some

people say he was once a real man, and lived in Asiaminer, wherever that

may be; that he was a great Bishop there, and was so good to little

children that they called him "dear Father Nicholas," and when he died

they called him "Saint," and kept his birthday by giving presents to

everybody. Well, that evening we had quite a party in mamma's parlor:

all our cousins, besides Minna and Karl, Randolph and Helen, Cousin

Carrie and two or three of mamma's friends. Cousin Frank didn't come

till after St. Nicholas had gone--wasn't it too bad?

Well, we were talking and playing together, when all at once we heard a

great shouting and stamping of feet, ringing of bells and blowing of

horns; the door was thrown open, and in stalked St. Nicholas himself! He

was as tall as a real giant; his beard came down below his knees; he

wore great goggles, and carried a switch in his hand. He cried out in a

terrible voice, "Where are the bad children?"

Then papa said, "Dear St. Nicholas, we have no bad children here; they

are all as good as good can be."

At that St. Nicholas laughed, and he kept laughing louder and louder. He

hid the switch under his cloak, and said: "Somehow I can't find any

naughty children anywhere. What a beautiful world it is, to be sure--a

world full of _good_ boys and girls!"

Then he opened a bag and shook out nuts, raisins, apples, and oranges,

and while we were scrambling for them, he hurried away, before we could

say, "Thank you."

Next came Christmas, which I can't write about now, and then

Twelfth-night, when we had a splendid supper, with a great plum-cake in

the middle of the table, covered all over with queer little sugar

things, cats and dogs and rabbits, chocolate shoes and mice and goats,

and cunning little candy babies.

Do you wonder that I have had no time for writing you lately, and that

my mind should be in a whirligig, and my thoughts go higgledy-piggledy?

for besides all this, we went to Leipsic to the New-Year's fair. The

fair is held out-doors, and people come from all parts of the world,

bringing curious things to sell. They have their booths in the public

squares, and it is merry and noisy from morning till night. There are

Spaniards and French and Swiss and Italians, and just such people as

I've read you about in my _Stories of all Nations_, and they look

exactly like the pictures I've shown you so often. The fair lasts a

fortnight, and at the end of it is Carnival. Then there are bands of

music everywhere, and processions march through all the streets, and oh,

dear me, Clytie! I can't give you a nidea of the funny times we had.

The doll I have in my lap I bought at the fair, and have named her

Princess Carnival. She is a magnificent creature, and I admire and

suspect her; but as for _loving_ her--there is no doll in the world to

compare with you, my Clytie, when it comes to loving. You are not as

_handsome_ as Princess Carnival, but I love you a million times more, my

pet, than I can ever love her, beautiful as she is.

And now good-night. Be as happy as you can, and take good care of the

others, till I come back to you all.

[Illustration: THE MAGIC LANTERN.--DRAWN BY S. G. MCCUTCHEON.]

DR. JOHNSON DOING PENANCE.

The picture on the next page represents one of the most remarkable

incidents in the life of Dr. Samuel Johnson. This famous man prided

himself upon being odd and different from other men, and in doing queer

things that no one else would have thought of doing; and the picture

shows him in the act of carrying out one of the queer ideas for which he

was noted.

Dr. Johnson's father was a bookseller in a small way, and was in the

habit of setting up stalls or booths for the sale of books in the

market-places of towns in the neighborhood of Lichfield, where he lived,

on market-days. Sometimes he took his son Samuel with him as an

assistant. This son Samuel, who afterward became Dr. Johnson, said, in

speaking of the incident to which the picture refers, that as a general

thing he could not accuse himself of having been a disobedient child.

"Once, indeed," said he, "I was disobedient: I refused to attend my

father to Uttoxeter market. Pride was the source of that refusal, and

the remembrance of it was painful. A few years ago I desired to atone

for this fault. I went to Uttoxeter in very bad weather, and stood for a

considerable time, bare-headed, in the rain, on the spot where my

father's stall used to stand."

So here the wise Doctor is, standing bare-headed in the open

market-place, exposed to drenching rain, and to the jeers of the people.

And all this, when he is more than seventy years of age, for the purpose

of trying to atone for one act of disobedience committed in his boyhood!

This quaint method of doing penance for an act that most men would have

forgotten long before is but a specimen of his innumerable queer

actions. These were so novel and so original as to gain for him the name

of "Oddity," by which he was very generally known.

[Illustration: DR. JOHNSON IN UTTOXETER MARKET-PLACE.--SEE PRECEDING

PAGE.]

A BRAVE LITTLE REBEL.

BY MARY DENSEL.

If our heroine, Cynthia Smith, walked the earth to-day, she would be a

great-great-grandmother. But at the time of this story, 1780, she was

only a small girl, who lived on a plantation near the Santee River, in

South Carolina. She was twelve years old, four feet and two inches high,

and, for so young and so small a person, she was as stanch a rebel as

you could have found in all America; for the War of Independence had

been raging in the United States ever since Cynthia could remember.

When she was only five years old, her little heart had beaten hard at

the story of the famous "Boston Tea Party," at which a whole ship-load

of tea had been emptied into the harbor because stupid George III.

insisted on "a threepenny tax."

"And New York and Philadelphia would 'a done the same, but for the ships

turning tail, and going where they came from. They've burned the stuff

in Annapolis, and it's spoiling in the Charleston cellars, bless the

Lord!" said Mr. Smith, striking his heavy hand on his knee.

"Hurray!" shouted John and Jack and William and Ebenezer, Cynthia's

brothers. "Hurray!" echoed Cynthia, as if she understood all about it.

The following year, when England shut up Boston Harbor with her "Stamp

Act," never a bit of rice did Cynthia get to eat, for her father sent

his whole harvest North, as did many another Southerner.

After that, John went to Massachusetts to visit Uncle Hezekiah, and the

next June they heard that he had been shot dead at the battle of Bunker

Hill.

Cynthia wept hot tears on her coarse homespun apron; but she dried them

in a sort of strange delight when Jack, all on fire to take John's

place, insisted on joining the Virginia Riflemen, and following a

certain George Washington to the war.

"It's 'Liberty or Death' we have marked on our shirts, and it's 'Liberty

or Death' we have burned into our hearts," Jack wrote home; at which his

mother wrung her hands, and his father smiled grimly.

"Just wait, you two other boys," said the latter; "we'll have it hot and

heavy at our own doors before we're through."

That was because Will and Ebenezer wished to follow in Jack's footsteps.

Cynthia longed to be a boy, that she might indulge in a private skirmish

with the "Britishers" on her own account.

But she had little time for even patriotic dreamings and yearnings.

There was a deal of work to be done in those days.

Cynthia helped to weave cloth for the family gowns and trousers, and to

spin and knit yarn for the paternal and fraternal stockings. This kept

her very busy until 1776, when two great events took place.

One was the signing of the Declaration of Independence; the other was

the birth of a red and white calf in Mr. Smith's barn. Which was of the

most importance to Cynthia it is hard to say.

To be sure, she tingled from head to foot at her father's ringing tones,

as he read from a sheet of paper some one had given him, "All men are

born free and equal"; but she also went wild with joy when her father

said, "You may keep that bossy for your own, if you'll agree to raise

her, Cynthy."

Cynthia took the calf into her inmost heart, and she named her

"Free-'n'-equal." That was the way the words sounded to her.

If ever an animal deserved such a name, this was the beastie. She

scorned all authority, kicked up her hind-legs, and went careering round

the plantation at her own sweet will, only coming to the barn when

Cynthia's call was heard.

Free-'n'-equal was Cynthia's only playmate, for no children lived within

six miles. As the calf grew into a cow, the more intimate and loving

were the two. To Free-'n'-equal did Cynthia confide all her secrets, and

chiefly did she inform her of her sentiments in regard to the war. She

even consulted her as to the number of stitches to be put on a pair of

wristlets for Jack, who in this winter of 1777-78 had gone with General

Washington to Pennsylvania. Alas! Jack never wore those wristlets. He

was one of the many who lay down to die of cold and hunger in that awful

Valley Forge. Cynthia believed that Free-'n'-equal understood all the

sorrow of her heart when she told her the pitiful news.

Quite as much did she share her joy when Cynthia came flying to the barn

with the joyful tidings that British Burgoyne had surrendered at

Saratoga.

Again the joy vanished, and Cynthia sobbed her woe into Free-'n'-equal's

sympathizing ear when Sir Henry Clinton captured Charleston, only twenty

miles away.

But she sobbed even more a few months later.

"For General Gates has come down to South Carolina, Free-'n'-equal, and

father and Will and Ebenezer have gone to fight in his army."

Free-'n'-equal shook her head solemnly at that, and her long low "Moo-o"

said, plainly enough, "What's to become of the rest of us, my poor

little mistress?"

Cynthia brushed away her tears in a twinkling.

"We'll take care of ourselves, that's what we'll do. Mother and I'll hoe

the rice. And, Free-'n'-equal, you've got to toe the mark, and give more

milk than ever to keep us strong and well."

"Trust me for that," said Free-'n'-equal's eyes.

And she kept her promise. Rich yellow milk did she give, pailful after

pailful. Cynthia and her mother worked like men, and fed on the cream.

Those were dangerous days all along the Santee River, for Lord

Cornwallis's troops were roaming over the land, and laying waste the

country. But Cynthia was not afraid--no, not even when Lord Cornwallis

came within three miles of the plantation. She said her prayers every

day, and believed firmly in the guardian angels, and a certain rusty gun

behind the kitchen door.

"Just let those soldiers touch anything of ours, and see what they'll

get!" said she, with ponderous dignity.

Free-'n'-equal was perfectly sure Cynthia could manage the whole British

army, if need were, and munched her cud in blissful serenity.