daily duties, and had not returned. She mounted another pair of stairs.
A partly open door had a small card tacked on it, upon which was the
name "Jessup." She knocked. No answer. Again she tried. This time a
far-away "Who is it?" was whispered.
"Can I come in?" asked Winnie, pushing the door gently before her.
"If you're not afraid," was the reply. It fairly stung Winnie.
"What should I be afraid of?"
"Why, of me," said Joan of Arc, in muffled accents. "Hush! don't wake
mother; she's just tired out, and here am I sick in bed. Perhaps you had
better not come in."
"I will, though," said Winnie; "that is, if it is right. I don't want to
catch anything, and take it home to the children."
"I don't think it is catching. My head ached awfully, and the doctor was
thinking it might turn out to be something contagious; but that fear is
over. Oh, Winnie, is it not dreadful to be sick?"
Poor Joan of Arc was lying in a small, dark room, and in a large chair
beside her was a pale-faced woman asleep. On an easel was an unfinished
crayon head; here and there were sketches, scraps of pictures, as if
done to test a color or a method. The afternoon sun was pouring a dusty
flood of light on the faded carpet.
Winnie turned as if to go--were not Bob and Mary Graham waiting for her?
she could fairly hear the splash of the water against the side of the
boat. Joan of Arc turned a pale, longing face toward her.
"Oh, don't go, Winnie!"
"Do you want me?"
"Oh, so much! Mother is really ill herself. She has nursed me night and
day, and tried to finish that crayon too--it is an order; but she is
worn out--poor mother!"
Winnie moved about uneasily, thinking of lilacs and roses and syringas
and the boat, but after a while she tore a slip from a copy-book and
wrote a little note to her grandmother, telling the good old lady where
she was. Then she turned to poor pale little Joan, bathed her, smoothed
her pillows, and gave her the medicine which was to be taken.
Slowly the hours went by; no going to Staten Island this time. The clock
ticked away, the jangling bells and whistles quieted down, doors opened
and shut, people had their dinners and teas. The street grew quiet, and
little pale-faced Joan slept softly and restfully, with one hand in
Winnie's. Ten, eleven, twelve o'clock struck. Winnie must have dozed,
but now she was wakened by little Joan's arousing.
"Oh, Winnie, I am _so_ thirsty!"
"Yes, dear; here is some water."
"But I _would_ so like to have some milk."
"Where is it, Jennie?"
"Down-stairs we have a closet under the stoop, and there's an ice-box
there. A lump of ice in the milk would be so delicious!"
"So it would. Shall I get it?"
"Yes, only-- Oh dear! Winnie, you don't like going down in the dark."
No, indeed, she didn't; but what was to be done?--waken poor Mrs.
Jessup, and undo all the good that had been done? On the other hand rose
visions of horror--bats, rats, meeting midnight prowlers, all sorts of
indescribable fears without really any cause, the echoes of a frightened
childhood, when some foolish nurse had used the rod of fear to control a
sensitive nervous little one who could easily have been led by love.
"Where is the key, Jennie, and the pitcher?"
"The key is just here in this little drawer, and you will find a pitcher
down there. But don't go if you are afraid, Winnie. I will try to wait
till morning."
"Now or never," thought Winnie, and she plunged out into the darkness.
The effort gave her courage. Down, down, down she went. The candle
flared and flickered; she was sure it would go out, but she had put a
match or two in her pocket. She reached the door, unlocked it, poured
the milk, and cracked the ice, when with a chill of horror a hoarse
laugh broke the midnight stillness.
It seemed close beside her, above her, around her. For an instant she
stood as if paralyzed; then she would have sped like the wind, but a
voice said, "Can't you let me in?"
Winnie looked up; there was a little grating over the heavy outer door.
A face, young, handsome, but shadowed with the marks of ill-doing, was
watching her curiously. Winnie shook her head.
"Who are you, anyhow, and what are you doing in my mother's closet?"
Winnie's voice shook. "I am a friend of Jennie's. She is sick. I am
taking care of her. Do you live here?"
"Sometimes. It's a pretty time of night for a fellow to be out, isn't
it? Well, if Jen's sick, I'll stay away. Here, give her this;" and
between the narrow grating was slipped a bill.
Winnie picked it up. The face disappeared: ah! what a sorry tale it had
told! She forgot her fears, but her heart ached for the toiling mother
and sick little sister when son and brother was of this sort. Upstairs
she went, seeing nothing alarming now in the darkness; all her visionary
fears had fled. But little Joan saw her white face and wide-open eyes.
Drinking the milk eagerly, she sank back on the pillow with a sigh of
satisfaction. Winnie said nothing, and Joan slept like a baby.
When morning came, Mrs. Jessup arose rested, refreshed, and so grateful
to Winnie that she felt repaid for the little sacrifice she had made;
and then she told Mrs. Jessup of the night's occurrence, and gave her
the money.
"My poor boy!" was all the mother said, as tears rolled down her
face--"my poor boy!" but it told of sorrow, disappointment, and grief
which even Winnie could hardly understand.
When Joan kissed Winnie good-by that morning, she whispered, "I know who
you are like, and whom you would rather be than all the queens in the
world."
"Who, Jennie?"
"Florence Nightingale."
"Yes, you have guessed rightly," answered Winnie, who not for one moment
regretted her postponed jaunt, her sleepless night, nor anything she had
done.
Once having conquered, she had now no more trouble with fears in the
dark.
And the jaunt came in due time, and little Joan's room was made sweet
and bright with roses and syringas that Florence Nightingale brought
from her excursion.
But she never forgot that night.
THE OLD, OLD STORY.
BY JIMMY BROWN.
We've had a most awful time in our house. There have been ever so many
robberies in town, and everybody has been almost afraid to go to bed.
The robbers broke into old Dr. Smith's house one night. Dr. Smith is one
of those doctors that don't give any medicine except cold water, and he
heard the robbers, and came down-stairs in his nigown, with a big
umbrella in his hand, and said, "If you don't leave this minute, I'll
shoot you." And the robbers they said, "Oho! that umbrella isn't
loaded;" and they took him and tied his hands and feet, and put a
mustard plaster over his mouth, so that he couldn't yell, and then they
filled the wash-tub with water, and made him sit down in it, and told
him that now he'd know how it was himself, and went away and left him,
and he nearly froze to death before morning.
Father wasn't a bit afraid of the robbers, but he said he'd fix
something so that he would wake up if they got in the house. So he put a
coal-scuttle full of coal about half-way up the stairs, and tied a
string across the upper hall just at the head of the stairs. He said
that if a robber tried to come upstairs, he would upset the
coal-scuttle, and make a tremendous noise, and that if he did happen not
to upset it, he would certainly fall over the string at the top of the
stairs. He told us that if we heard the coal-scuttle go off in the
night, Sue and mother and I were to open the windows and scream, while
he got up and shot the robber.
The first might, after father had fixed everything nicely for the
robbers, he went to bed, and then mother told him that she had forgotten
to lock the back door. So father he said, "Why can't women sometimes
remember something," and he got up and started to go down-stairs in the
dark. He forgot all about the string, and fell over it with an awful
crash, and then began to fall down-stairs. When he got half-way down, he
met the coal-scuttle, and that went down the rest of the way with him,
and you never in your life heard anything like the noise the two of them
made. We opened our windows, and cried murder and fire and thieves, and
some men that were going by rushed in and picked father up, and would
have taken him off to jail, he was that dreadfully black, if I hadn't
told them who he was.
But this was not the awful time that I mentioned when I began to write,
and if I don't begin to tell you about it, I sha'n't have any room left
on my paper. Mother gave a dinner party last Thursday. There were ten
ladies and twelve gentlemen, and one of them was that dreadful Mr.
Martin with the cork leg, and other improvements, as Mr. Travers calls
them. Mother told me not to let her see me in the dining-room, or she'd
let me know; and I meant to mind, only I forgot, and went into the
dining-room, just to look at the table, a few minutes before dinner.
I was looking at the raw oysters, when Jane--that's the girl that waits
on the table--said, "Run, Master Jimmy; here's your mother coming." Now
I hadn't time enough to run, so I just dived under the table, and
thought I'd stay there for a minute or two, until mother went out of the
room again.
It wasn't only mother that came in, but the whole company, and they sat
down to dinner without giving me any chance to get out. I tell you, it
was a dreadful situation. I had only room enough to sit still, and
nearly every time I moved I hit somebody's foot. Once I tried to turn
around, and while I was doing it I hit my head against the table so hard
that I thought I had upset something, and was sure that people would
know I was there. But fortunately everybody thought that somebody else
had joggled, so I escaped for that time.
It was awfully tiresome waiting for those people to get through dinner.
It seemed as if they could never eat enough, and when they were not
eating, they were all talking at once. It taught me a lesson against
gluttony, and nobody will ever find me sitting for hours and hours at
the dinner table. Finally I made up my mind that I must have some
amusement, and as Mr. Martin's cork leg was close by me, I thought I
would have some fun with that.
There was a big darning-needle in my pocket, that I kept there in case I
should want to use it for anything. I happened to think that Mr. Martin
couldn't feel anything that was done to his cork leg, and that it would
be great fun to drive the darning-needle into it, and leave the end
sticking out, so that people who didn't know that his leg was cork would
see it, and think that he was suffering dreadfully, only he didn't know
it. So I got out the needle, and jammed it into his leg with both hands,
so that it would go in good and deep.
[Illustration: "WASN'T THERE A CIRCUS IN THAT DINING-ROOM!"]
Mr. Martin gave a yell that made my hair run cold, and sprang up, and
nearly upset the table, and fell over his chair backward, and wasn't
there a circus in that dining-room! I had made a mistake about the leg,
and run the needle into his real one.
I was dragged out from under the table, and-- But I needn't say what
happened to me after that. It was "the old, old story," as Sue says when
she sings a foolish song about getting up at five o'clock in the
morning--as if she'd ever been awake at that time in her whole life!
[Illustration: "CHERRIES ARE RIPE."]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
Three cheers for the Fourth of July! What American boy does not love it?
Where is the little girl who is not glad when it arrives? We hope you
will all have a splendid time on the happy holiday, meet with no
accidents, and when night comes, go to bed, to enjoy pleasant dreams.
Vacation has come to many of you by this time. You have said good-by to
school and teachers, and have laid aside lessons and slates for a while.
Be out-doors all you can in these bright summer days, and lay in a good
stock of health for future use when the play spell is over.
We think you will all be pleased with the feast Our Post-office Box
gives you in this Fourth-of-July number.
* * * * *
ORWORTH, KANSAS.
Have you ever seen a Kansas dug-out? If you have not, I will write
you a description of one. In the first place, a hole is dug in the
ground four or five feet deep, and walled up with limestone or
sandstone about six feet high, and covered with a dirt roof. They
make these dirt roofs by putting a log lengthwise of the building,
and laying poles crosswise; then they cover the poles with
sunflowers, and place hay next, and on top of that usually a foot
or more of dirt. They usually have earth floors, and sometimes
there isn't a solitary window. I have seen dug-outs built of sod.
Wouldn't you like to live in such a house, where it is a common
thing for mice to tumble into the water bucket? The Wiggle I send
is a picture of the dug-out we used to live in when we first came
here. Will you please give it to the Wiggle master?
We had a beautiful sunset not very long ago. It was grand. It had
been raining, and it slacked up as the sun was going down. Off in
the north-west there were some very black clouds; one of them
looked like a whale's back, another like a volcano in action. In a
few minutes they changed shape, and the best idea I can give of
them is a lot of giants contending together. The clouds seemed to
come clear to the ground. Papa said he never saw anything like it
before. The most beautiful of all was the rainbow. There was at
first a perfect arch, with rays of glory coming from the centre. In
a few minutes there was a reflected rainbow. All the time that the
rainbows lasted there was a very peculiar light, which I can't
describe.
Papa and I are alone here, and I have to do the cooking. We will
begin to harvest next week. I am to have fifty cents per day for
cooking. I hope my letter is not too long to be published.
THEODORE G. B.
* * * * *
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA.
I am a little boy nine years old. Papa takes HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
for my sister and me, and we like it very much. I have had the
pneumonia, and have been kept in the house two weeks, but that is
not so bad as it is for the little boy I read about in Our
Post-office Box who had to stay in the house two months, and can
not walk yet. I feel so sorry for him! I have a pet cat, and I love
it very dearly.
RULIFF Y. L. H.
By this time, Ruliff, I hope you are well, and able to fire off
torpedoes as gayly as did the boys in Miss Porter's story.
* * * * *
LONDON, ONTARIO, CANADA.
I wrote a letter some time ago, and have been watching for it ever
since, and I was much disappointed, and think perhaps you did not
get it, and I thought I would try again. I have three little
sisters, and they all enjoy HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and I think
"Toby Tyler" was the best story in it, and we have great laughs
over Jimmy Brown. We have five hens, and they all lay eggs; we get
four or five every day. Papa and I are gardening to-day, and we
have a lovely garden, and it is pretty hard work attending to it,
and we have hard times looking after our chickens; they dig holes
in the ground with their feet, and we are trying to shut them up
for the summer.
FREDDIE W. F.
* * * * *
NEW YORK CITY.
I am a little girl nine years old. I have no pets except four
dolls. One has not any head. Their names are Maud, Mabel, Emily,
and Sadie. I wish somebody would write more fairy stories. I am
very fond of them. I used to live in Brooklyn, and like it much
better than here. I am glad Mr. Otis has written more about Toby
Tyler, because I like him very much. My brother and I had scarlet
fever this winter, but we are all well now. I like HARPER'S YOUNG
PEOPLE very much. I have had it since it began. We have a parrot
here who cries like a baby and then imitates a nurse singing to it.
We go to the country every summer.
BESSIE H.
What a charming parrot! Who taught him to cry and sing so cleverly? Dear
Bessie, can not you put a new head on the poor dolly who has not any? I
feel quite sad on her account.
* * * * *
CAUGHT.
Now, Bumble-bee, you just keep still; you needn't jump and buzz.
I've had such a time to catch you as never, never wuz.
I've chased you round the garden; a-cause I didn't look,
I almost fell right over into that drefful brook.
And I'm going to put you in it, though I s'pose you think you're hid.
For last week you stung my pussy; you know very well you did.
Yes, and you made us 'fraid that she was going to have a fit,
She jumped up so, and tried to catch the place where you had bit.
Yes, I shall surely drown you. But p'r'aps you've got a home,
And your little ones will wonder why you don't ever come;
And I think p'r'aps you're sorry you went and acted so:
If you'll only wait till I run away, _I b'lieve I'll let you go_.
* * * * *
PARKERSBURG, WEST VIRGINIA.
I have been taking YOUNG PEOPLE ever since it was published, and I
like it very much. This is the first letter I have ever written to
Our Post-office Box. We have a nice little pet canary-bird and a
little monkey. We have had the monkey four years, but we can not
tame him. Last winter it was so cold that once he was almost
frozen. At first we thought he was dead, and mamma was about to
throw him away, when she saw him move. Then she took him by the
stove to warm him, and he got well again.
VICTORIA R.
* * * * *
HOW THEY KEPT THE FOURTH.
BY MARY J. PORTER.
"Halloa! Walter, wake-up!" cried Georgie. "Don't you know it's the
Fourth of July, and we must get up and celebrate it? All the rest of the
folks are going to the Town-Hall to hear a speech and get their dinner,
and we'll have a good time by ourselves. Do you know what the Fourth of
July is for?"
"No," answered Walter, in a very sleepy way.
"Well, I do; mamma told me last night. It's the anniversary of the time
when the United States made up their mind to take care of themselves.
That was more than a hundred years ago; that's ever so long, mamma says.
Now to-day, Walter, you and I will be like the United States, and take
care of ourselves; that's what independence means, and this is
Independence-day. Say, Walter, don't let anybody know that I told you,
but I heard papa telling mamma that he's going to s'prise us each with
lots of fire-works. Now I guess you'll wake up."
"Guess I will, too," said Walter, springing to his feet.
It did not take the boys long to dress. Sure enough they were surprised
and delighted when to each was given a toy gun and a package of
torpedoes, and then they were left to amuse themselves.
"Tell you what I'll do," said Georgie. "I'll make an oration, and you
must be the audience, and when I get through, you must clap very hard,
and make me do it all over again."
"All right," said Walter. "Jump up there on papa's desk, so I can hear
you better."
Georgie mounted the desk, and began "Ladies and gentlemen,--I s'pose you
know this is the Fourth of July." Then he couldn't think of anything
else to say, so he jumped down. In doing so his foot hit the inkstand,
and a black, black stream of ink followed him to the floor.
"Oh, dear! that's too bad!" he exclaimed. "Won't papa be sorry? Wish I
hadn't made a speech. Hurry up, Walter; get something to wipe it off
with."
Walter tried hard; but he could not wipe away all the ink. Several big
spots remained.
"Never mind," he said; "we'd better go out-doors and forget about it.
Let's play soldier. You and I'll be the Americans, and Brush can be the
British."
Brush was the Newfoundland dog.
This plan suited Georgie, and he and Walter looked about for a red coat
to put on Brush. They soon found Cousin Sarah's embroidered jacket,
which they thought would do nicely. Then they went into the yard and
coaxed Brush to be dressed up. He looked very funny when he stood on his
hind-legs with the jacket buttoned around him.
"Now we must stand before him and present arms," said Georgie.
"Yes, and then I'll turn around quick, and fire a torpedo. Won't that
frighten the old fellow?"
So, after presenting arms, Walter turned his back to the enemy, and
threw a torpedo into the grass. Brush jumped after it, and in doing so
he knocked both of the Americans to the ground. Walter was a little
hurt, and he began to whimper, but Georgie helped him up, saying, "Don't
you know that soldiers never cry?"
When the rest of the family came home, and found the ink spots in the
parlor, and Cousin Sarah's jacket spoiled, they thought it was a poor
plan to leave little boys to take care of themselves, even on the Fourth
of July.
* * * * *
GENOA, SOUTHERN ITALY.
A. E. T.
As our great national holiday approaches, perhaps the readers of YOUNG
PEOPLE would like to hear something about Genoa, where the great
Christoforo Colombo, as the Genoese call him, was born. Genoa is
situated at the foot of the Appenine range. The town, which is a very
ancient and picturesque one, commences at the river-front, and extends
some distance up these mountains. A friend of mine writes that there you
can not go up town in the sense that we do here, for so steep is the
incline that all carriages have to be furnished with brakes, lest, after
having once gone up town, one should not be able to get down town again.
The drive overlooking the river is delightful. This place is a great
stopping-point for ships plying the Mediterranean.
The seasons there are far in advance of ours, and at this present time
the climate is intensely hot. Genoa has many beautiful buildings. The
people are so proud of their favorite that they name their hotels after
him, and also very many minor places of trade. Thus the name of Colombo
meets the traveller nearly everywhere. These devoted countrymen have
also erected a handsome monument to perpetuate his memory. Ancient as is
the city, yet they regard this noble hero with the freshness of
yesterday. Well may they be proud of a man capable of such grand
achievements, the conception of which was regal in its grandeur.
You all know that to him we owe the blessing of our beautiful America.
What wonder that we sing so sweetly and so often, "Hail, Columbia!"
Let us always revere his name as devoutly as his countrymen, who hug the
memory of this noble hero as close as Patti did her doll, when at the
age of ten she could not sing without it; it was an inspiration to the
little songstress.
Let then this great man, Genoa's hero, command our love and gratitude,
while it inspires to noble deeds.
* * * * *
WASHINGTON HEIGHTS, NEW YORK.
I have taken your paper for some time, and I look forward from week
to week with so much pleasure, thinking of reading the pretty
stories; and I am very much interested in the puzzles; I find the
answers out myself. I am eleven years old, and have a little sister
Mollie, who is a very quaint child. We love to read about all the
little girls' pets, especially the cats and kittens, for we have
two; the mother we call Dud, and her kitten Gipsy we nickname Gip.
They are very knowing and cunning. Dud follows us when we go out,
and sometimes, when she has gone very far, waits an hour in one
place until we come back, delighted when she sees us, and runs
along perfectly contented. Our birds, Pete and John, both died, one
of old age, and the other of fits. We are to have a little dog
soon. A gentleman has made us a present of him--an English fox
terrier. We have never been to school, but are taught at home, and
I have read quite a number of letters from little girls in YOUNG
PEOPLE that have lessons at home also. We get along, because we
study, and enjoy our books. I read music quite well, so can Moll;
we practice an hour a day. We have each a baby doll that we are
very fond of; Violet Depeyster is the name of mine, and Daisy
Livingston Moll's, named after some aunties. They are very pretty
and good; they have very many pretty things we make them, for we
can both sew. I write to an uncle in Europe, and a little cousin in
the country, and rather like letter-writing, and hope this is not
too long.
LULU K.
Your puzzle will appear before long. It is very nicely done.
* * * * *
CRETE, NEBRASKA.
I want to tell you what I did two years ago, when I was six years
old. My papa and uncle bought a drove of cattle in Colorado when
they were in the western part of the State. Papa took me out there,
and I rode one of the ponies, and helped to drive the cattle about
two weeks. I could ride just as fast as the pony could go, and
often beat the men in a race.
I have a little saddle. We had a tent, and camped out; it was rare
fun, except when it rained. My sister Myrtle and I have a pair of
pet doves, a Maltese cat, and two dogs. I like all the stories and
letters very much.
GEORGE A. J.
* * * * *
KAU, HAWAII, SANDWICH ISLANDS.