CHAPTER XVI.

LEADING THE ARMY.

On the 13th of April, 1776, Washington was in New York, which now

promised to be the center of operations. Here he remained four or five

months, making one visit meanwhile to Philadelphia, at the request of

Congress, which wished to confer with him. He was busy increasing and

strengthening the army and erecting fortifications.

That spring and summer saw a rapid change in men's minds regarding the

war with England. Washington no longer thought it possible to obtain what

the colonies demanded and still remain subject to England. He was ready

for independence, and when Congress issued its declaration, Washington

had it read before the army with great satisfaction.

Not long after the declaration of independence, an English fleet arrived

in New York Bay, bringing a large body of troops, under the command of

Lord Howe, who, with his brother Admiral Howe, had been appointed

commissioners to treat with the Americans. In reality, they only brought

a promise of pardon to the rebels. It was very clear to Washington that

the British Government had not the slightest intention of listening to

the grievances of the colonies with a desire to redress them; but that

they meant by these proposals to distract the colonies if possible and

build up a party there that would oppose the action of Congress. There

was a little incident attending the arrival of the commissioners that

showed the feeling which prevailed.

One afternoon, word came that a boat was coming to head-quarters,

bringing a messenger from Lord Howe with a communication. Washington had

noticed that the British, whenever speaking of him or other American

officers, had refused to regard them as officers of the army; they were

simply private gentlemen who had taken up arms against the King. Now

Washington knew that while it was in itself a small matter whether he was

addressed by people about him as General Washington or Mr. Washington, it

was not at all a small matter how Lord Howe addressed him. That officer

had no business with George Washington, but he might have very important

business with General Washington. Accordingly, he called together such of

the American officers as were at head-quarters to consult them in regard

to the subject, and they agreed entirely with him. Colonel Reed was

directed to receive the messenger and manage the matter.

Accordingly, he entered a boat and was rowed out toward Staten Island,

whence Lord Howe's messenger was coming. The two boats met half-way, and

Lieutenant Brown--for that was the name of the messenger--was very

polite, and informed Colonel Reed that he bore a letter from General Howe

to Mr. Washington. Colonel Reed looked surprised. He himself was an

officer in the continental army, and he knew no such person. There-upon

Lieutenant Brown showed him the letter, which was addressed, George

Washington, Esq. Colonel Reed was polite, but it was quite impossible for

him to bear a letter to the commander of the American army addressed in

that way. The lieutenant was embarrassed; as a gentleman and an officer

he saw he was in the wrong. He tried to make matters better by saying

that it was an important letter, but was intended rather for a person who

was of great importance in American councils than for one who was

commanding an army.

Colonel Reed continued to refuse the letter, and the boats parted.

Presently, however, Lieutenant Brown came rowing back and asked by what

title Washington chose to be addressed. It was quite an unnecessary

question, Reed thought. There was not the slightest doubt as to what

General Washington's rank was. The lieutenant knew it and was really very

sorry, but he wished Colonel Reed would take the letter. Colonel Reed

replied that it was the easiest matter in the world; it only needed that

the letter should be correctly addressed. And so they parted.

Five days later, an aide-de-camp of General Howe appeared with a flag and

asked that an interview might be granted to Colonel Patterson, the

British Adjutant-General. Consent was given, and the next day Washington,

with all his officers about him, received Colonel Patterson, who was very

polite, and addressed him as "Your Excellency," which did quite well,

though it was dodging matters somewhat. He tried to explain away the

affair of the letter and said that no impertinence was intended, and he

then produced another, addressed to George Washington, Esq., etc., etc.

Evidently, Lord Howe thought he had invented a capital way out of the

difficulty. _Et cetera, et cetera!_ Why, that might cover

everything,--General-Commanding, Lord High Rebel, or anything else this

very punctilious Virginia gentleman might fancy as his title. It would

save Washington's pride and relieve Lord Howe's scruples. Washington

replied coolly, Yes, the _et cetera_ implied everything, but it also

implied anything or nothing. It was meaningless. He was not a private

person; this letter was meant for a public character, and as such he

could not receive it, unless it acknowledged him properly. So Colonel

Patterson was obliged to pocket the letter and try to cover his

mortification and to deliver the contents verbally.

Perhaps all this sounds like very small business. In reality it meant a

great deal. Were Washington and other officers rebels against the King,

or were they the officers of a government which declared itself

independent of the King? Lord Howe gave up trying to force Washington

into the trap, and wrote to his government that it would be necessary in

future to give the American commander his title; and Congress, to whom

Washington reported the matter, passed a resolution approving of his

course and directing that no letter or message be received on any

occasion whatsoever from the enemy, by the Commander-in-Chief or by other

commanders of the American army, but such as should be directed to them

in the characters they respectively sustained. Little things like this

went a great way toward making the people stand erect and look the world

in the face.

The Americans needed, indeed, all the aid and comfort they could get, for

it was plain that they were at a great disadvantage, with their

half-equipped troops stationed some on Long Island and some in New York,

between the North and East rivers, surrounded by Tories, who took courage

from the presence of a large British force in the bay. Washington used

his best endeavors to bring about a strong spirit of patriotism in the

camp which should put an end to petty sectional jealousies, and he felt

the sacredness of the cause in which they were engaged so deeply that he

could not bear to have the army act or think otherwise than as the

servants of God. He issued a general order which ran as follows:----

"That the troops may have an opportunity of attending public worship,

as well as to take some rest after the great fatigue they have gone

through, the General, in future, excuses them from fatigue duty on

Sundays, except at the ship-yards, or on special occasions, until

further orders. The General is sorry to be informed that the foolish

and wicked practice of profane cursing and swearing, a vice

heretofore little known in an American army, is growing into fashion;

he hopes the officers will, by example as well as influence, endeavor

to check it, and that both they and the men will reflect, that we can

have little hope of the blessing of Heaven on our arms, if we insult

it by our impiety and folly; added to this, it is a vice so mean and

low, without any temptation, that every man of sense and character

detests and despises it."

[Illustration: THE RETREAT FROM LONG ISLAND.--WASHINGTON DIRECTING THE

PASSAGE OF THE AMERICAN ARMY ACROSS THE EAST RIVER, AT NIGHT.]

The time was now at hand when the army would be put to a severe test, and

Washington was to show his generalship in other and more striking ways.

The battle of Long Island was fought August 27, 1776, and was a severe

blow to the American army. Washington's first business was to withdraw

such of the forces as remained on Long Island to the mainland, and unite

the two parts of his army. He had nine thousand men and their baggage and

arms to bring across a swift strait, while a victorious enemy was so near

that their movements could be plainly heard. Now his skill and energy

were seen. He sent verbal orders for all the boats of whatever size that

lay along the New York shore up the Hudson and on the East River to be

brought to the Brooklyn side. He issued orders for the troops to hold

themselves in readiness to attack the enemy at night, and he made the

troops that defended the outer line of breastworks to have all the air of

preparation as if they were about to move at once upon the enemy. All

this time it was raining and uncomfortable enough, for the soldiers were

unprotected by tents or shelter of any kind, save such rude barriers as

they could raise. They kept up a brisk firing at the outposts, and the

men who held the advanced position were on the alert, expecting every

moment orders to advance.

Then they heard dull sounds in the distance toward the water. Suddenly at

about two o'clock in the morning a cannon went off with a tremendous

explosion. Nobody knew what it was, and to this day the accident remains

a mystery. But the soldiers discovered what was going on. A retreat

instead of an advance had been ordered. The order for an advance was

intended to conceal the plan. Washington was on the shore superintending

the embarkation of the troops. Some had gone over; when the tide turned,

the wind and current were against them; there were not enough boats to

carry the rest. To add to the confusion one of the officers blundered,

and the men who had been kept in front to conceal the movement from the

British were ordered down to the Ferry. For a while it looked as if the

retreat would be discovered, but it was not, and when morning came the

entire army had been moved across to New York, and not a man in the

British army knew what had been done. It was a great feat, and

Washington, who had not closed his eyes for forty-eight hours, and

scarcely left the saddle all that time, again showed himself a masterly

general.

He had now to show the same kind of ability the rest of the autumn. It

requires one kind of generalship to lead men into battle and another to

lead them on a retreat away from the enemy. With a large fleet in the

harbor, it was clear that the British could at any time destroy New York

and any army that was there. Accordingly, Washington withdrew his army up

the island. The British followed. They could transport troops on both

sides of the island, by water, and could prevent the Americans from

crossing the Hudson River into New Jersey. They began to land troops on

the shore of East River not far from where the Thirty-fourth Street Ferry

now is. Some breast-works had been thrown up there and were held by

soldiers who had been in the battle of Long Island. They seem to have

been thoroughly demoralized by that defeat, for they fled as soon as they

saw the British advancing, and other troops which had been sent to

reenforce them were also seized with panic and fled.

Washington heard the firing in this direction and galloped over to the

scene. He met the soldiers running away and called on them to halt. But

they were overcome by fear and had lost their self-command. They paid no

heed to him, and Washington, usually cool and self-possessed, was so

enraged by their cowardly behavior that he flew into a transport of rage,

flung down his hat, exclaiming, "Are these the men with whom I am to

defend America!" and drawing his pistols and sword in turn, rushed upon

the fugitives, trying to drive them back to their duty. He had no fear of

danger himself, and he was within a short distance of the British, riding

about furiously, when one of his aids, seeing the danger, seized the

horse's bridle and called his commander to his senses.

To cover the army, Washington posted his forces across the narrow upper

part of the island, from Fort Washington on the Hudson to the Harlem

River, and here he kept the British at bay while his men recovered their

strength and were ready for further movements. Meanwhile, across the

Hudson River from Fort Washington, another fort, named from General Lee,

had been built, and Washington had posted General Greene there. It was

evident that with the British in force, with an army and navy, it would

be impossible to hold New York or the Hudson River, and it was also clear

that should Washington's army be defeated there, the British would at

once move on Philadelphia, where Congress was sitting. With New York

commanding the Hudson River and with Philadelphia in their hands, the

British would have control of the most important parts of America.

Washington saw also that there was hard work before him and that it would

be impossible to carry on the war with an army which was enlisted for a

year only, and he bent his energies toward persuading Congress to enlist

men for a longer period. He had to organize this new army and to

superintend countless details. His old habits of method and accuracy

stood him in good stead then, and he worked incessantly, getting affairs

into order, for he knew that the British would soon move. Indeed, it is

one of the strange things in history that the British, with the immense

advantage which they had, did not at once after the battle of Long Island

press forward and break down the Continental army in a quick succession

of attacks by land and water. It is quite certain that Washington, in

their place, would not have delayed action.

At the end of October, Washington occupied a position at White Plains, in

the rocky, hilly country north of New York. Step by step he had given way

before General Howe, who had been trying to get the American army where

he could surround it and destroy it. Washington, on the other hand, could

not afford to run any risks. He wished to delay the British as long as

possible, and not fight them till he had his new army well organized.

There was a battle at White Plains, and the Americans were forced back;

but Washington suddenly changed his position, moved his men quickly to a

stronger place, and began to dig intrenchments. He was too weak to fight

in the open field, but he could fight with his spade, and he meant to

give Howe all the trouble he could. He expected another attack, but in a

day or two there were signs of a movement, and he discovered that the

enemy was leaving his front.

He was not quite certain what Howe's plans might be, but he was quite

sure he would move on Philadelphia. Meanwhile he kept watch over Fort

Washington, and gave orders that it should be held only so long as it was

prudent, but that in case of extreme danger, it should be given up and

its garrison cross the river to Fort Lee. He himself with all but the New

England troops, crossed the river higher up, at King's Ferry. The New

England and New York troops he posted on both sides of the river to

defend the passes in the Highlands, for it was of great importance to

have open communication between Philadelphia and New England. A division

also was left under General Lee at White Plains, who was to be ready to

join Washington when it became necessary.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: CROSSING THE DELAWARE.--THE MARCH TO TRENTON.--WASHINGTON

DIRECTING THE ARTILLERY AT TRENTON. (SEE NEXT PAGE.)]

General Greene, who was in command at Fort Lee, on the New Jersey side of

the Hudson, hoped to keep Fort Washington, on the New York side, which

was also under his command. He hoped to keep it even after the British

had begun to lay siege to it. Washington was obliged to leave this

business to Greene's discretion, for he was occupied with moving his army

across the river, higher up, and if the fort could have held out, they

might have been able to prevent the British from crossing to New Jersey.

But Greene counted on a stouter defense than the men in the fort gave,

and when Washington at last reached Fort Lee it was only to see from the

banks of the river the surrender of Fort Washington with its military

stores and two thousand men. It was a terrible loss; and, moreover, the

capture of that fort made it impossible to hold Fort Lee, which was at

once abandoned.

Now began a wonderful retreat. The English under Lord Cornwallis, with a

well-equipped army, and flushed with recent victory, crossed over to New

Jersey and began moving forward. They were so prompt that the Americans

left their kettles on the fire in Fort Lee as they hastily left.

Washington, with a small, ragged, discouraged army fell back from the

enemy, sometimes leaving a town at one end as the British entered it at

the other; but he broke down bridges, he destroyed provisions, and so

hampered and delayed the enemy that they made less than seventy miles

over level country in nineteen days.

Meanwhile the British general was issuing proclamations calling upon the

people of New Jersey to return to their allegiance, and promising them

pardon. Many gave up and asked protection. It seemed as if the war were

coming to an end, and that all the struggle had been in vain. The

American army, moreover, had been enlisted for a short term only, and

before the end of December most of the men would have served their time.

General Lee delayed and delayed, and Washington himself was harassed and

well-nigh disheartened; but he meant to die hard. One day, when affairs

looked very dark, he turned to Colonel Reed, who was by him, and said,

drawing his hand significantly across his throat: "Reed, my neck does not

feel as though it was made for a halter. We must retire to Augusta County

in Virginia, and if over-powered, must pass the Alleghany Mountains."

But Washington was made for something more than a guerilla chieftain. He

had put the Delaware River between his army and the British, who were now

scattered over New Jersey, going into winter quarters, and intending,

when the river was frozen, to cross on the ice and move upon

Philadelphia. Suddenly, on Christmas night, Washington recrossed the

river with his little army, making a perilous passage through cakes of

floating ice that crunched against the boats, surprised a large

detachment of Hessians near Trenton, and captured a thousand prisoners.

Eight days later he fought the battle of Princeton. Within three weeks he

had completely turned the tables. He had driven the enemy from every post

it occupied in New Jersey, except Brunswick and Amboy, made Philadelphia

safe, and shown the people that the army, which was thought to be on the

verge of destruction, could be used in the hands of a great general like

a rod with which to punish the enemy.

Men were beginning to see that here was one who was a true leader of men.

On the day after the victory at Trenton, Congress, "having maturely

considered the present crisis, and having perfect reliance on the wisdom,

vigor and uprightness of General Washington," passed a resolution that

"General Washington shall be, and he is hereby, vested with full, ample,

and complete powers to raise armies, appoint officers, and exercise

control over the parts of the country occupied by the army." Washington

had been constantly checked by the necessity of referring all questions

to Congress and to his generals. Now he was to have full power, for he

had shown himself a man fit to be trusted with power.

(_To be continued._)

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.

BY EDITH M. THOMAS.

"If the weather is fair,"

Said the butterfly, jaunty and free,--

"If the weather is fair,

I'll go dance in the meadow there!"

"And I," said the prudent bee,

"Will be early at work, you will see,--

If the weather is fair!"

FISHES AND THEIR YOUNG.

BY C. F. HOLDER.

[Illustration: "HEN AND CHICKENS." (SEE PAGE 602.)]

A number of years ago, an English naturalist was sitting on the edge of a

small stream that flowed sluggishly into the sea on the coast of British

Guiana, when his attention was attracted by some curious holes that lined

the cliff just above the water. He had fully determined to investigate

these crab-caves, as he supposed them to be, when he was startled by

seeing a fish, known to the natives as the "hussar," which had been

darting up and down and apparently having a rollicking time, run suddenly

up into shoal water, and begin to struggle for the shore. At first the

naturalist thought that it was pursued by some larger fish and that its

action was due to fright; but the fish, retaining its upright position,

kept wriggling on slowly up the beach by using its pectoral fins as feet,

and in a few moments it disappeared within one of the supposed

crab-holes.

Wondering then whether the fish were hunting crabs, or seeking its nest,

the watcher soon decided the question as he saw, farther down the shore,

several other "hussars" entering their nests. Springing down, he caught a

number of the fishes in their homes.

The fishes had excavated the holes in the bank just above the surface of

the water, and in them had formed regular nests of grass or leaves, in

which the roe or eggs were deposited. The young, when hatched, at once

tumbled out into the water and were then protected by the parents.

[Illustration: THE NEST-BUILDING FISH OF THE SEA OF GALILEE TAKING ITS

YOUNG INTO ITS MOUTH FOR PROTECTION.]

Such a method of rearing their young is certainly remarkable. In forming

their nests, fishes sometimes remind us of the birds, and some of them

indeed may be said to equal their feathered cousins in their

nest-building faculty. This curious "hussar" fish may be compared with

the cliff-swallow that burrows its way into the bluffs, and builds its

nest several feet from the entrance, or to the Southern petrel, that

excavates its nest in a still more wonderful manner.

The fish known to naturalists by the long name of _Ophiocephalus_, one

species of which is found in the Sea of Galilee, is a singular creature.

At the approach of the breeding season, it seeks a favorable place to

build--generally in shallow water. There perhaps an old sunken root is

found, or a projecting ledge of rock. To that spot bits of grass, leaves,

growing sea-weed, and refuse of all kinds are brought by the parents,

which now proceed to weave this building material into an oval shape. The

threads of grass are wound in and out, entangled with one another in

various ways, and the interstices filled with mud. During the

construction, one or more orifices are left leading into the nest or

entirely through it; the grasses are wound around the old root, and

finally a compact oval nest is seen suspended and swinging in the

tide,--a veritable cradle for the baby fishes.

The eggs are deposited in the interior, and attach themselves to the

grass and the sides of the nest. In due time swarms of tiny fishes fill

this curious abode, and show a decided inclination to stray away. They

are, however, watched and guarded by the parents, which drive them back

when they wander too far from home.

This nest-building fish of the Sea of Galilee displays, however, a still

more curious method of protection,--for in time of danger, the young are

frequently taken into the capacious mouth of the male parent-fish, and

thus guarded from harm. This habit is common to quite a number of fishes.

An enormous cat-fish called the _lan-lan_, that sometimes attains a

length of thirteen feet and a weight of over two hundred pounds, has been

seen surrounded by a swarm of young, which upon the slightest alarm

rushed into its open mouth for protection; and one of the largest of the

South American fresh-water fishes, protects its young in the same way.

[Illustration: A SEA-HORSE AND ITS YOUNG.]

The method of a curious South American fish, called the _aspredo_, is no

less wonderful. The parent does not carry its eggs in its mouth, but

fastens them to its body and fins, by means of stems or stalks; so that

each egg has a sort of cradle to itself. As the fish rushes along, these

swing to and fro, presenting the appearance of a number of barbels or

bells.

A cat-fish at Panama has still another method of carrying its young. This

is no less than a pouch, reminding us of a kangaroo. But the perfection

of this paternal care--for it is the father that has the pouch--is

observed in the sea-horses and pipe-fishes. These have a perfect pouch,

into which the infant fishes are taken as soon as hatched, and in which

they are carried about until they are able to make their own way in the

world. A sea-horse in charge of its young is a very curious sight. The

parent fastens its prehensile tail about some pieces of weed, and drives

the young fry into the outer world, and soon a host of young sea-colts

are seen moving along upright in the water by the curious screw movement

of their dorsal or back fins, a body of them appearing like a tiny cloud

in the water. The little creatures are so helpless that many of

them--sometimes the entire brood--fall a prey to other fishes. They are,

however, provided with a means of protection by their resemblance to

plants. The pipe-fishes look much like the grass among which they live,

and the sea-horses are often decorated with curious barbels and fringes

that resemble the weeds under cover of which they hide themselves.

Among the fishes of the ocean that show a decided affection for their

young, should be mentioned the curious _Cyclopterus lumpus_--the

lump-fish, or "hen and chickens," so common upon the coast of Maine. The

name "lump-fish" expresses the general appearance of this fish far better

than a long description could, as the creature's body is covered with

curious lumps and excrescences that add to the peculiarity of its

appearance. The lump-fish is equally common on the English coast, and as

the time for rearing a family approaches, it constructs from the sea-weed

a rude nest for the protection of the eggs. These the watchful parents

guard, their ugly forms, probably, having a decided effect upon all

intruders, though, in truth, the lump-fishes are utterly incapable of

harming any enemy, and, with their clumsy movements, are unable to catch

other fishes in a chase. As soon as the young are hatched, they follow

one of the parent-fishes, in a drove or herd, clustering about its head,

now darting off, returning with a rush and cuddling under it, after the

manner of small chickens seeking refuge under their mother's wings; hence

the name of "hen and chickens" bestowed upon them by the English

fishermen.

Though the lump-fishes are poor swimmers, and likely, if hurled among the

breakers, to be thrown upon the shore, nature has provided them with

ample means of protection. The lower fins join in such a way as to form a

complete sucker, so that when in danger of being knocked about by the

waves, the fish has merely to settle upon a rock, fasten its sucker-like

fins to this, and ride out the gale or season of danger like a ship at

anchor on a lee shore.

A PUZZLED PAPA.

BY M. L. B. BRANCH.

We're going this year to Littleton,

My wife, our Jack, and Nan and I.

Now Nan is seven, and Jack is ten;

How many tickets shall I buy?

Jack pays half-fare, and Nan pays none,

Though with her dolls she fills a seat;

However stern conductors are,

They give her only glances sweet.

But this year, Nan her kitten takes,

A little, purring, playful thing;

While Jacky has a grave young pug,

Which everywhere he's bound to bring.

Nan has a long-legged Brahma chick,--

She loves that pet with all her heart;

And Jacky owns three pretty doves,

From which he can not bear to part.

"In cage and basket," say the two,

"Well covered up, our pets can go."

They have no doubts; but I have mine,--

And this is what I want to know:

If the cat mews, the puppy barks,

And if the doves at once all coo,

And if the Brahma chicken crows,

As the conductor passes through,

What will he say? How will he look?

What shall I do, in my despair?

Can I, for such a tribe, hand up

Our tickets two, and one half-fare?

We're going this year to Littleton,

My wife, our Jack, and Nan and I,

Dog, cat, three dolls, three doves, a chick--

How many tickets shall I buy?

THE WILD FLOWERS.

BY JESSIE PENNIMAN.

The violet blooms in a shady place

Where the sun comes peeping through;

The hare-bell grows on gray old rocks

And shows its robes of blue.

The May-flower grows on a wooded hill

At the foot of the green old pines,

Where the ferns and moss in clusters show

And the checker-berry twines.

These all grow in the fairest bowers;

There is no room for the daisy flowers.

So the daisy grows by the dusty road,

Sweet and sunny and shy,

Lifting its pretty, modest head

To nod to each passer-by.

"Why do you grow by the roadside, dear?

It is all dust and sand;

Come to the violet's shady nook,

Or join the Mayflower's band."

But the daisy said: "The violet's place

Is better for her, you see;

And the May-flower's place is better for her;

And mine is the _best_ for _me_."

THE BOYS' PARADISE.

[_A Summer Visitor's Account of Camp Chocorua._]

BY ELIZABETH BALCH.

In the Indian language the meaning of "Asquam" is "shining waters," and

surely no name could better describe the beautiful lake of sparkling

blue, which, nestling among the noble White Mountains, is dotted with

numerous islands. Upon one of these islands is Camp Chocorua, so called

from the mountain of that name,--the highest point to be seen in the

chain of hills inclosing the lake.

Some five years ago it was decided to establish on this island a summer

camp for boys, the term to begin in June, and to end about the tenth of

September. The first summer the camp opened with some half-dozen boys.

Last season, twenty-five manly little fellows tumbled in and out of the

lake, like water brownies, perfectly fearless, paddling canoes which had

been made by themselves, swimming equally well in clothes or without, and

growing active and healthy in the strong, pure mountain air.

Five men, composing "the faculty" in this summer camp, have charge of the

boys, and "freedom without license" might almost be the camp motto, so

careless, happy, and untrammeled are the lads, yet so perfect is the

discipline. One of the first principles of the camp system is, that in

every way the faculty shall live the same lives as the boys themselves,

sharing their work as well as their pleasures; the spirit existing

between the two is therefore far less that of master and pupil than that

of good comrades, who are at the same time helpful friends.

Life at Camp Chocorua is a busy one. There are no "book lessons," to be

sure; but a good many things are taught that are not always to be found

in books. To begin with, bracing mountain air and active out-of-door life

give a keen appetite, and it is no small undertaking to provide food for

twenty or thirty hungry mouths. Then, too, the tin dishes and plates in

which the food is cooked and eaten have to be cleaned and kept in order,

and "dish-washing" therefore becomes a necessity. The kitchen-beach is a

lively place at these times. In the carpenter's shop, there is work of

various kinds to be done; there, too, canoes are built, but no boy is

allowed to paddle or sail a canoe until he is an adept at swimming, and

can be trusted to take care of himself in the water. This rule is one of

the strictest in camp. The _Golden Rod_ is the camp newspaper. It is

edited and entirely conducted by the boys. In its columns appears a

notice to the effect that the "Good Will Contracting Company washes

clothes, irons clothes, cleans and tidies beaches, builds piers, stone

walls, steps, etc., carries dirt and publishes newspapers." From this

announcement idleness would seem to stand but a poor chance at Camp

Chocorua. The boys are divided into four crews, and these crews undertake

in turn the different kinds of work: one day, the cooking; the next,

dish-washing; the third, police duty, which includes the tidying of

beaches, and all work assigned to no other crew. The fourth day is "off

duty." This changes the kind of work done daily, and yet gives each boy a

chance of learning all the tasks. One of the faculty works with each crew

of boys.

[Illustration: DISH-WASHING.]

The boys sleep in wooden buildings, which are roofed over, but thoroughly

ventilated, and the lads seem cozy enough lying curled up in army

blankets or on mattresses placed on the floor. They may, if they wish,

take a dip in the lake before breakfast, and no one who has not tried it

can realize the brightening, bracing, "wakening-up" effect of that

morning dip! How it clears the brain and invigorates the body, making one

feel equal to all things, strong and ready to do! The regular morning

swim does not take place until later,--about eleven o'clock, after the

camp work is completed. All through the week the boys may wear shoes and

stockings, or they may go barefoot, just as they happen to fancy, and the

camp costume consists of a gray flannel shirt and short trousers.

On Sundays, however, they all wear, in addition, scarlet stockings, and

scarlet caps, while their gray shirts are laced with scarlet cords. A

bonny crew they look, as they push off in the "church boat" at three

o'clock, to meet, at Cox's beach, half a mile away, any visitors from the

neighboring hotel or farm-houses who may wish to join in the Sunday

services. These are conducted in a lovely spot called the "chapel," on

the farther side of the island. Rustic seats are ranged around an open

space, in the center of which, above a rock forming a natural altar,

rises a large cross made of white birch. This altar is dressed with

leaves and flowers by the boys, before the service begins; and after the

little congregation is assembled, one hears in the distance clear young

voices singing some processional hymn, and along a path through the

woods, with the sunlight dancing in and out among the branches, the boys

come nearer and nearer. Then they take their places at the place

appointed for the choir, whilst Mr. Ernest Balch takes his on the other

side of the flower-decked rock, and reads the service.

[Illustration: THE SUNDAY SERVICE AT THE "CHAPEL."]

The offertory made at these services goes to the different charities

contributed to by the camp, and more than one sick boy or girl in

different hospitals have whiled away hours of loneliness and suffering by

reading ST. NICHOLAS, which those happy, healthy boys at Camp Chocorua

have sent them as a solace in their pain. Sunday afternoon is devoted to

writing letters to home-folk, and in the evening, at prayers, Mr. Balch

has a quiet talk with the boys in the chapel.

The summer sports take place in August, and consist of fancy swimming and

diving, canoe and boat racing, base-ball and tennis. Last year the

parents and friends of the boys, to the number of one hundred, accepted

the invitation of the camp, and dined there at the conclusion of the

sports, which lasted two days. A few weeks later some little plays were

acted by the boys. These were very clever productions, and they were

excellently performed. The price of admission was modestly placed at

fifteen cents, but the visitors gave more than that, since the object of

the entertainment was to add to money already collected which was to be

devoted to endowing a bed in a children's free hospital, so soon as the

required amount could be raised. A huge bonfire was burning brightly on

the shore, and dozens of red-capped boys darting about in its ruddy

blaze, proved a picturesque contrast to the great white moon as it rose

slowly above the mountains and threw a broad band of silvery light across

the lake, while from boat to boat cheery "good-nights" rang over the

water as the guests who had enjoyed the evening's festivities were rowed

to shore.

[Illustration: THEIR FIRST APPEARANCE UPON ANY STAGE.--A CHARITY PLAY IN

THE WOODS.]

These charities at Camp Chocorua mean, in the purest sense of the words,

"helping others out of one's own store," for the money contributed by the

boys is their own, fairly earned by them to do with as they please. Once

in camp, an equal weekly allowance is given to every boy, no matter what

may be the difference in their parents' means. This allowance is small,

and if more money is desired, either for candy, or soda water, or as a

contribution to the charities, or to buy materials for a new canoe, or to

purchase a canoe already built,--for any extra luxury in fact,--the boy

with such desires is obliged to earn the money needed, and work which is

paid for at the regular rate of wages for labor will always be furnished

him whereby he can earn it. Contracts can be taken for leveling paths, or

building walls, or anything else which is needed at the camp, and the

money earned by such work is deposited in the Chocorua Bank by the boy

earning it. Against this amount on deposit, he draws his check in strict

business fashion, which check is duly honored and cashed. If at the end

of the term any surplus remains to his credit, he has entire right to

dispose of it as he may choose, but no money from home is granted a boy

exceeding the original sum stipulated as his weekly allowance. Just as

men work and make money, and learn how to use that money in the outer

world, so do these boys work, and make money and use it in this miniature

world at Camp Chocorua. By the time they are ready to enter a larger

sphere in life, they know and appreciate the worth of money honestly

earned, and understand the true art of spending it.

Lest the boys should in truth become very water-sprites, they go, toward

the end of the term, for a week's tramp over the hills. A large

canvas-topped wagon, drawn by oxen, carries blankets and provisions, and

any boys who grow tired and foot-sore can have a lift when they feel like

it. They camp out at night and have many amusing adventures by day; and

at the different farmhouses to which they come in their wanderings, fresh

milk is willingly furnished to the jolly, brown-faced, red-capped lads,

who make the hills ring cheerily with their songs and laughter. Each year

the youngest boy of the whole party is called the camp "infant," and is

accorded several extra privileges, not the least of which is the right of

tasting the ice-cream whenever it is made, without having been obliged to

assist in making it.

Were I a boy, the life at Camp Chocorua would be my idea of a thoroughly

good time, combining as it does plenty of fun, and a free, open-air life,

with the acquisition of much useful knowledge for one's self, and the

habit of exercising a thoughtful helpfulness for others.

A BOYS' CAMP.

BY ONE OF THE CAMPERS.

"Under the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat;

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live in the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,--

Come hither, come hither, come hither,

Here shall he see

No enemy."--

These lines from Shakspere's "As You Like It" came to me again and again

as Papa finished the reading of a circular which a friend had handed him.

"Camp Harvard," so the circular declared, "is located on the shore of one

of New Hampshire's most picturesque lakes, about equidistant from

Winchendon, Mass., and Rindge, N. H. The design of the camp is to furnish

boys with a rational and healthy outdoor life during the summer months,

where, under competent care and supervision, they can learn to swim, row,

fish, do some tramping and mountain-climbing, and engage in other manly

sports; form and cultivate good habits, and build up their bodily

strength. The cabins are of wood, roofed, floored, commodious, and

weatherproof. Each member has a cot. The best of wholesome food is

provided."

"I know one of the two young men who established Camp Harvard," said

Papa, as he concluded the reading of the circular. "They are students at

the Cambridge Theological Seminary. I have made some inquiries, and I

shall be glad to have you spend the summer in the woods with them. I

presume the other boys will be much younger than yourself, but you would,

doubtless, find many of them companionable; and life in the open air, for

a couple of months, would, I think, be pleasant and beneficial to you."

It was a long time before I fell asleep that night. I had always been

anxious to camp out, and here was a glorious opportunity.

Then followed busy days. The circular said: "Boys are recommended to

bring, in addition to the clothes they travel in, two gray flannel

shirts, two pairs old trousers, knickerbockers (one pair corduroy), long

rubber coat, swimming trunks, two pairs heavy blankets (dark), strong

shoes (one or two pairs with rubber soles), old overcoat, ordinary

underclothing, stout red belt, high stockings (two pairs dark red),

slippers, night-shirts or _pajamas_, brush and comb, sponge, towels,

soap-case, two tooth-brushes, tennis racquet, skull-cap, belt-knife, and

an old jacket."

Mamma saw that I was supplied with all these things, and on the morning

of July 1, I took my place on a railroad train, bound for Rindge. As we

approached Rindge, I spied a large mountain-wagon with four horses drawn

up alongside the shanty which served as a depot. I was confident that

this was for the campers, for it already contained five boys. Ten boys

left the train. The divinity student, who was one of the "masters" of the

camp, and whom I had already met in the city, welcomed me, and we all

took seats in the wagon. Up hill and down we traveled, and the horses

seemed to enjoy it as much as we did. Mountain drivers have a way of

slowing up their horses going downhill, and sending them up on a gallop.

Now the road wound along a narrow ledge beside Monomonock and thence

onward through a dense forest, where tall, straight sugar maples raised

their leafy crowns high in air; smooth beeches, with round, gray trunks,

stood like massive pillars; and great yellow birches, with shaggy,

curling bark and gnarled limbs, rose like monarchs above the lesser

trees. Finally, a sudden turn in the road brought us face to face with

the words, "CAMP HARVARD," in large red letters on a sign suspended from

a noble oak. The gate-bars were down and a ride of less than half a mile

farther brought us to a pretty grove where clustered the cabins that

composed the camp.

[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF THE MAIL. (SEE PAGE 610.)]

Who has not felt the pleasures of life in the forest? It is quite

impossible to put them into words, or to make one who has never

experienced them understand what they are.

There is a sense of freedom and freshness every hour. A round of simple,

natural toils and amusements fills up each day. The ear soon becomes

attuned to the surroundings, and it begins to hear a gentle sound, like

the dropping of ceaseless rain. It is the pattering of the minute

particles falling from spruce and pine and hemlock, to mingle with

decaying roots and underbrush and form the rich, dark forest-mold on

which every step falls so softly. Then there is a rustling of leaves, a

pattering of quick, light feet, and a red squirrel runs along a fallen

trunk, peers at one curiously, and, half in fear, half in audacity, gives

its sharp, shrill bark. A little bird which one can not see pierces the

air with a slender, long-drawn note. A woodpecker beats his sounding

tattoo on a hollow tree, and, growing bolder, comes nearer and nearer,

until perhaps he ventures to try the very trunk against which you are

leaning.

Everything about the camp was examined by us with great interest. First

the cookhouse, where a man was preparing dinner. This cabin contained a

range, two long tables, a refrigerator, and a great quantity of cooking

utensils. All the dishes, cups, saucers, and platters were of tin and

shone like mirrors. Adjoining, was the storehouse, which was the base of

table supplies. The sleeping cabin was about fifty feet in length and

oblong, with a slanting roof. The upper half of sides and rear were

"flaps," swinging on hinges. These were open during the day, but usually

closed at night. Above the flaps was an open space of fourteen inches all

around, and over this the eaves projected. Cots were ranged about the

sides of the cabin, and choice of these was decided by lot. At one end

was an open veranda, where the dining-tables stood. Large reflecting

lanterns were placed at intervals, and several small lights hung in a row

near the entrance.

There were an ample medicine chest and other useful camp features, and

over one end of the cabin was a loft for trunks. Fifty feet from the

cabin was the beach. The pretty lake showed scarcely a ripple upon its

fair surface. It was three miles long and at some points a mile wide,

with many coves and inlets. Part of it seemed like a succession of small

lakes. Along the shore, were boats in great variety, from the

flat-bottomed fishing-boats to the racing gig with its outriggers and

delicate lines. The silent hills beyond lifted themselves toward heaven

in the glory of enduring strength, while old Monadnock towered aloft as

commander over all.

[Illustration: CAMPING OUT ON MOUNT MONADNOCK. (SEE PAGE 611.)]

The tooting of a horn summoned us back to headquarters. Trunks were put

in place, blankets and the camp toggery brought forth; we exchanged our

city clothes for the latter, and life at Camp Harvard began. Consulting

the bulletin, I found myself assigned to duty as "table-boy," with one of

the fellows who came up on the train as my associate. It was new work for

me, but one of the masters took hold with us. The table was soon set and

a steaming hot dinner was brought from the cookhouse. Grace was said by

one of the masters, the company all standing with bare heads; then caps

were resumed and hungry appetites began to be appeased. Great milk-cans,

each holding ten quarts, were brought up from the icehouse. The supply of

bread, vegetables, or meat needed constant replenishing. When dinner was

over and the table had been cleared and the floor swept, my duties ceased

until supper-time. The camp work was done by detachments of boys whose

assignments varied with each day. A bulletin containing the assignments

for the following day was posted each evening, so that every boy knew in

advance what was required of him. All campers, masters included, shared

the daily labors. The plan succeeded admirably. Each boy grew to be

particular in the discharge of his duties, for neglect was seen to be a

boomerang. For instance, if the boy whose special care happened to be

drinking-water, failed to keep up a fresh supply, the other fellows who

had to suffer for his shortcomings made life a burden to him; and so the

whole camp acted as a sort of police force to keep each member up to the

mark. This arrangement transferred much responsibility from the masters

to the boys themselves, and a sense of responsibility is a good thing for

anybody.

After supper, a roaring camp-fire was built, and by this time we all were

very well acquainted, and gradually came out of our shells. The masters

were plied with questions, and yarns were spun. Perhaps the pleasantest

feature of camp life was the evening gathering around the blazing logs,

and the nine o'clock horn always seemed to toot ahead of time. The

brother of one of the masters had spent a year among the mines and

ranches of Colorado, and his graphic descriptions and thrilling tales

were admirably adapted to our willing ears. Songs we always had. They may

not have ranked high as literary productions; any lack in this respect,

however, was more than made up by their spirited rendering. Here is one,

to the tune of "It's a way we have at old Harvard":

"It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,

It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,

It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,

To pass the time away.

If I'd a son or a ward, sir,

A 'dig,' a prig, or a bard, sir,--

I'd send him to Camp Harvard, sir,

To pass the time away.

"For we'd like to have you know, sir,

That shirking is no go, sir;

First work, then play, and so, sir,

We pass the time away.

"Now if you really wish, sir,

An epicurean dish, sir,

Just wait till we bake this fish, sir,

To pass the time away."

--and so on through several stanzas.

By ten o'clock every night, we wrapped ourselves up in our blankets,

lights went out, and silence reigned. I didn't chafe much under this

rule, for the true camper is always asleep as soon as he lies down. The

next thing I heard was a buzzing sound--the alarm clock had rung, it was

half-past six, and the sunlight was streaming in upon the campers.

Several of us jumped into the lake for a bath; later in the season this

morning plunge became general, and every fellow had to report with soap

and tooth-brush. After breakfast, there came the usual camp

work,--lanterns to be filled, the sleeping cabin to be swept out, various

"police" duties to be attended to, and fuel to be provided; at eleven,

there was instruction in swimming. And so the days went by. The work was

so systematized as not to fall heavily upon any one person, unless he

shirked; and there was ample time for base-ball, cricket, tennis,

fishing, boating, and other amusements. When the days were very warm,

hammocks were very popular. The Fourth of July was celebrated with

appropriate exercises. The Stars and Stripes floated gayly from our

staff, and the cabins were decked with bunting and small flags. At night,

the farmers and woodsmen, with their sisters, cousins, aunts, and

sweethearts, began to swarm down upon us and lined the lake shore. Our

fireworks were set off from a scow anchored one hundred yards from land,

and the effect was fine.

Sunday morning breakfasts were after the most approved New England

fashion,--baked beans, brown bread, fishballs, and chocolate. Everybody

was expected to write a letter home during the forenoon. After dinner

came the choir rehearsal, followed by four o'clock service in a

picturesque little opening in the woods which nature seemed to have

designed for a chapel. There rough benches had been made under the

shadowy trees, and the sylvan chancel had been carpeted with moss. At the

back of the chancel, stood a great rude cross, outlined boldly against

the somber background of dense forest; and directly before us was a

rustic pulpit. Our Sunday service in this woodland sanctuary was attended

by large numbers of strangers, many driving a distance of twelve or

fifteen miles. The master who acted as minister wore a white surplice and

read the service of the Episcopal Church. The chants and a familiar hymn

were sung to a violin accompaniment. Then came a short address.

A collection was always taken up in behalf of the Charity Fund, which, at

the end of the season, the boys voted to divide between the Sheltering

Arms Nursery of Brooklyn, and the Boys' Home in Boston.

The mail arrived at noon and sunset each day, being brought by "the

captain," an aged member of an historic New Hampshire family. The captain

was often accompanied by his good wife. She was a motherly creature, and

both were prime favorites at camp. The captain had served his country in

the war, and had many a yarn to spin.

The camp dog was a splendid Newfoundland named Duke, and he was the

champion swimmer. Two of the campers had cameras and took photographs,

which they sold at good profit.

We were often visited by city people boarding at some one of the

farmhouses within a radius of ten or twelve miles. Some of these visitors

came often, and apparently found considerable satisfaction in observing

the details of camp life. Some of us knew a number of Boston and New York

people at one of the most popular of these boarding-houses, and one day

these friends gave us a most enjoyable entertainment, consisting of a

lawn-party, a tennis tournament, and a supper. At another time, we went

to a sheet-and-pillow-case party at the same place. Later on, some

friends at another boarding-house delighted us with a series of tableaux

and charades, followed by supper.

[Illustration: THE MORNING PLUNGE IN THE LAKE.]

Several business partnerships were formed among the boys. Contracts for

work were awarded to the firms making the lowest bids. The successful

bidders would hire other boys to help them. The specifications had to be

strictly observed. Among other things, a new wharf was built, one of the

cabins shingled, and another covered with tar-paper.

Boys could do as they pleased with money earned in this way. Idleness was

not popular.

One fine day, we took a long tramp up Mount Monadnock. An early start was

made, and by noon we had covered more than half the distance. Halt was

ordered in a shady grove, and before long our wagon arrived with

blankets, rubber coats, cooking utensils, provisions, and various tools.

We had a substantial lunch while resting on the banks of a pretty brook,

before we resumed our march.

We soon reached the base of the mountain, and then the climb began. But

it is a long lane that knows no turning, and rest came at last. We drove

stakes in a picturesque glen on a plateau just below the summit,--a

well-chosen spot, shielded from the wind. A bountiful supply of fuel and

of pine boughs for bedding was immediately secured. A fireplace was

built, and our supper soon began to stew in the great kettle which hung

from a tripod. One of our favorite dishes was flapjacks. Numerous

visitors came from the fashionable hotel down the mountain, where, the

next evening, an impromptu entertainment was given to us. We were on the

mountain three days, and they were full of incident and pleasure. At

night, we slept around the blazing logs, and two boys were assigned to

stand watch each hour, so that no one was deprived of much sleep. Every

fellow washed his own plate, cup, knife, and spoon after each meal, and

submitted them for inspection to one of the boys who acted as

assistant-master. We all were sorry to leave the old mountain. But it was

good to plant foot once more upon our native heath. And Camp Harvard was

always dearer than ever when we returned to it after such an expedition.

Until he could swim a certain distance, no camper was allowed in the

boats. All of the boys were soon quite at home in and on the water. One

of the Philadelphia boys made the best mile record. There were various

organizations in camp, such as cricket, base-ball, tennis, and rowing

clubs, and a society of naturalists. Then there were various committees.

The steward of the Charity Fund was very energetic, and before we broke

up camp, he had collected a great quantity of used clothing, which we

voted to divide between the newsboys of New York and Boston.

On August 13 and 14 came the annual athletic meeting. There were all

sorts of exercises, with first and second prizes in each, and entries

closed on the 12th. Crowds of visitors came each day. The tennis

tournament was hotly contested in both singles and doubles, but the boat

races and tug-of-war were the most exciting events. Long and short

distance walking and running; sack and obstacle races; throwing the

hammer; climbing; running, standing, and broad jumps; diving; swimming

contests,--all were included in the programme. On the night of the 14th,

we entertained a large company of visitors at supper, and a lady very

gracefully presented the prizes. Then followed fireworks and music. I had

won either first or second prizes in several events, and experienced the

proud distinction of having my name telegraphed to a Boston paper, whose

editor was rusticating near by. Some of the records were very good,

considering that the boys, with the single exception of myself, were only

from ten to fourteen years old.

There was not a single case of serious accident or illness for the camp

diary to record. We were all healthily bronzed, and were as hardy as only

life in the open air can make boys; and I am sure that camp life enabled

us all to do better work at school during the winter.

We broke camp on the morning of September 1. The night before, we had as

guests our neighbors for miles around. Our good friends the Deacon and

the Captain each made touching speeches, and the camp resounded again and

again with three times three "'rahs" for them and other summer friends,

each named in turn. The night was very cold, but every heart was warm.

Sky-rockets shot through the air, bombs, flower-pots, and other fireworks

exploded, and Lake Monomonock looked almost like a sheet of fire. Then

amid this blaze of glory our guests departed to the tune of our favorite

song. Lake Monomonock settled down to its somber stillness; old

cloud-capped Monadnock loomed above us like the great pyramid, and now

came a realizing sense of the sad parting which the morrow threatened to

bring us.

Morning came at last. The wind blew fresh and made the air as clear as

crystal. Four-horse teams were in readiness, horns were produced, and

with one long last look, off we started. Our woodland home never seemed

so fair as when we turned our faces away from it. Those fragrant

pine-trees had heard boys cheer before, but never until now with such

lusty vigor and manifest feeling had come forth that inspiring watch-cry

of:

"'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! CAMP HARVARD!"

ROBIN'S RETURN.

BY EDITH M. THOMAS.

Robin on the tilting bough,

Red-breast rover, tell me how

You the weary time have passed

Since we saw and heard you last.

"In a green and pleasant land,

By a summer sea-breeze fanned,

Orange-trees with fruit are bent;

There the weary time I've spent."

Robin rover, there, no doubt,

Your best music you poured out;

Piping to a stranger's ear,

You forgot your lovers here.

"Little lady, on my word,

You do wrong a true-heart bird!

Not one ditty would I sing,

'Mong the leaves or on the wing,

In the sun or in the rain;

Stranger's ear would list in vain.

If I ever tried a note,

Something rose within my throat.

'Twas because my heart was true

To the North and spring-time new;

My mind's eye a nest could see

In yon old, forked apple-tree!"

(NOTE.--It is said that the robin does not sing during its winter stay in

the South.)

LITTLE MISS MABEL

BY DAISY JONES.

[Illustration]

Little Miss Mabel,

Brimming with play,

Turned into Grandmamma

All in a day.

"Now, children, you see

How I look," said she,

"And Grandmamma Harris

Looked just like me.

They always do; it's the natural way.

All children take after their Grandmas, they say."

MOTHER'S IDEA.

Mr. Atherton has been the master of the Centreville Academy ever since I

can remember. A few months ago, however, he was offered a better position

in the city, and he decided to leave Centreville. We were very sorry, for

we all liked him; and now that he has left, it really seems as if a part

of the building itself had been taken away.

We were to have a public examination during the last two days of his

stay, and Florence Grantley had thought of a beautiful project. She

always has good ideas, though I must say they are generally rather

expensive. But then her father is rich, and I suppose she never has to

think twice before spending a dollar, as some of us are obliged to do.

Her plan was to buy an album, put all our pictures in it, and present it

to Mr. Atherton before the company, after he had closed the school. The

girls wished me to make the presentation address. Of course I was

enthusiastic about it, and went home thinking over what I should say and

should wear, and all that. There are fifteen girls in our class, and

Florence said she knew of a lovely album, one we wouldn't be ashamed to

give him. It would cost only eleven dollars and twenty-five cents; and

that, you see, would be only seventy-five cents apiece. I went in to

dinner full of the new project, and began to talk about it at the table.

But Father vetoed it at once. He said he didn't believe in the idea at

all. It would be too expensive for some of us, and he did not wish to

hear another word about it.

When Father takes that tone, of course there's no more to be said. I am

too old to cry before everybody, but I didn't wish any more dinner, and

as soon as possible I went up to my room and had a good cry.

Mother came upstairs as quickly as she could. I knew she would. Mother is

a born comforter. Oh, what do girls do who have no mother? She told me I

must remember how hard Father had to work for every dollar, and that

although what he said sometimes sounded harsh, it was only because his

business troubles made him worry, and it added to them to have us wish

for things he felt he couldn't afford. Dear Mother! I wonder if she ever

wishes for things she doesn't get.

Then I told Mother all about it; that it was not merely that one plan,

but that I could never join in any project that came up. All the other

girls had birthday parties and I went, but never gave one in return. "Of

course I don't expect that," said I, feeling a little

conscience-stricken, as I saw the look on Mother's face. "Birthdays are

so common in this family, of course we can't notice them; but I thought

this time we had found something Father could sympathize with. He so

often speaks of Mr. Atherton, and the respect he has for him--but of

course that's all over now. If I can't, I can't; it _does_ seem hard

though never to do as the others do."

"I know it, child," Mother said, softly touching my hair. "Many things

are hard. You are old enough now to know a little of the life of your

elders," she went on; "and you must remember that it is absolute

necessity, and not lack of sympathy, that forces Papa to say no, as he

sometimes does."

"Well, if he would only soften it a little," I couldn't help saying. "A

blunt no is a great deal harder to bear."

"I know, dear," Mother said, with a sigh; "but Father thinks he does what

is best."

"But what can I say, Mother. I must let them know I can't contribute.

This very afternoon they'll all be talking of it."

"Tell them nothing positively. Say as little as possible; and give me

time to think."

At this, my mind was relieved immediately. I was sure the trouble would

somehow end in just the right way, though I knew Mother couldn't squeeze

the money from the housekeeping allowance, even if she could think it

right to do so after what Father had said. But I had faith that Mother

would manage for me, so I went to school, feeling very confident, and

said as little as possible.

That night Mother came to my room and told me to invite all of my class

to spend Thursday evening with us. "You know Grandpa sent us a barrel of

apples," she said, "a bushel of nuts, and some corn to pop. May be I'll

make a cake or two, and the coffee will not cost much. Fortunately, we

have dishes enough. That will offset the birthday parties a little, and

make you have a good time, too. If you know any really nice boys, invite

them, and may be Papa'll get out his violin, and you can have a little

dance."

You see, Mother was a girl herself once. She doesn't forget her feelings,

and she talks over such things with me just as though she were another

girl. Of course I was only too delighted to obey, but still, I must

confess, although it was very nice, it didn't help me out of the real

difficulty a bit. It gave the girls something fresh to talk about,

however; and as it would be three weeks before Mr. Atherton would leave,

the subject of his present dropped out of sight for a few days.

But that matter of the boys troubled me a great deal. We girls are all

about fourteen and fifteen, and really, while we are almost young ladies,

boys at that age are very boyish. They don't know what to do with their

hands, nor how to ask one to dance, nor to do anything nicely. I mean the

generality of boys; of course my brothers do, but then they have had

Mamma to train them, and sisters to practice with ever since they were

little, which, of course, makes a difference. If it were not that I hated

to give up the dancing, and if it wasn't such a bother to dance with a

girl with a handkerchief tied on her arm--because she keeps forgetting

she is a boy, and taking the wrong hand and everything is put out--I

should have given up the idea of asking any boys.

Again I flew to my never-failing refuge in time of trouble, and Mother

drew out her needle slowly from the stocking she was darning, and began

to consider the matter.

"You see, Mother, it isn't a grand affair, but I want it to be as

pleasant a time of its kind as possible, and a lot of awkward boys would

just spoil it."

"Now, don't decry the boys, my dear; they are a very good institution in

their place."

"Yes, indeed, but their place is sliding downhill, or skating, not in a

girls' party trying to be agreeable; and they have sense enough to know

it. You know yourself how impossible it is to get Joe to go anywhere with

me, and he is a model of politeness, compared with most of his

associates."

"Well, it wouldn't be quite fair to punish the boys, and girls, too, in

trying to amuse them," Mother replied. "There are boys enough who would

be interested in this little gathering of yours. There are those three

lads at the minister's, who are fitting themselves for college. They are

not more than sixteen years old, and ought not to be above a little

informal party. Besides, Mrs. Grey told me she wished they knew some

people who would make their stay pleasanter for them. Then there is young

Mr. Adams, at Dr. Preston's, I know he would come, and his mother wrote

me, asking me to be good to him."

"Oh, what a dear mother you are, _that_ puts the success of the thing

beyond doubt!"

"There are four good names, then, to start with," said Mother; "and

those, with John and Sam, Father's young friends, will be a good

beginning. As for the rest, let the girls themselves invite them; there's

nothing like making people responsible for the success of a thing."

Well, the next day being Wednesday I took the class into my confidence,

and between us all we made out a list of gentlemanly and agreeable

boyfriends; but the four that Mother took it upon herself to invite were

the best of all.

Well, every one came; not one of the thirty was missing. Through all

Father's troubles, we had kept our house, because Mother's father gave it

to her when she married. It was a large old-fashioned house with a wide

hall that went right through it; two sets could dance there and one in

each parlor. When I was tired, Mother took my place at the piano; and

with Father at the violin we had as good music as one could wish for

dancing. All the girls wore their best dresses but without finery, and

everything went off beautifully. At eleven we had our simple

refreshments. Mother had cut up a sheet of mottoes and scattered them

among the popped corn, and they made ever so much fun. When that was over

and we were standing about before beginning anything else, Father

suddenly spoke up, saying that there was a little matter to which he

would like to call attention; he supposed that the masculine portion of

his audience would hardly be thrilled, but the girls, he knew, would be

deeply interested. Then he went on to say that there had been some talk

among the young ladies of getting up a surprise present for their

teacher, and that an album had been spoken of; but he said he had a

scheme that seemed to him much better. Then he brought out a sheet of

Bristol board, beautifully ornamented with scroll work, and handsomely

engrossed upon it was a set of resolutions saying how sorry we were that

Mr. Atherton was going to leave, how much we had profited by his stay

with us, and expressing our best wishes for his future. I don't, of

course, give all this in Father's words, but after he had read the

testimonial, he made a capital, witty speech. Then he called on us all to

sign the testimonial if we approved it. He told us, too, that he could

have the sheet nicely framed for three dollars, which would involve a

cost of only twenty cents to each subscriber; and he would venture to say

that Mr. Atherton would be even better pleased with the testimonial

proposed than with something more expensive.

Of course it "took" immediately; all the girls were delighted and signed

it there and then, in their very best handwriting, and most of them paid

their twenty cents at once. We empowered Father to have it framed, and

they voted that I should make the presentation. But the fact that Father

had entered into it so well and done so much just for my pleasure touched

me more than all. I knew that he had given a great deal of attention to

ornamental penmanship, but I had no idea he could make so handsome a

scroll as that testimonial. I always knew, of course, that Father loved

his children. If any of us are sick, he is as tender as a woman; and he

daily makes all manner of sacrifices for us; but here he showed that he

had a great deal of sympathy with all our hopes and plans.

Of course, with the cake and coffee and everything, the entertainment

cost more than my contribution and picture would have done, but it seems

that Mother had been planning for some time to do something for me which

should help me pay my party obligations, and that was not the only time

when she proved that she has "the happy faculty of common sense," as

Father says.

I do believe my little party was more talked about than those of many of

the other girls, though they cost many times as much money as did mine.

Well, examination day came, and when I presented the testimonial to Mr.

Atherton, though I said only a word or two, he could hardly speak at all,

and he told Father afterward that we couldn't have pleased him better. It

seems that he had heard some whispers about a present, and had a fear

that it was going to be something expensive, and felt troubled about it;

for, as he told Father, he couldn't refuse a thing before it was offered

him, and he didn't know what to do; but the testimonial he could accept

with real pleasure and satisfaction.

You can hardly imagine what a different position I have occupied in

school since that affair. I was never really unpopular, but I was seldom

appealed to. Now, however, I am consulted about everything, and my

opinion has a great deal of weight with the girls.--But I know where the

honor really belongs, and I always say it is because Father so well

carried out Mother's idea.

THE SATCHEL.

BY TUDOR JENKS.

[Illustration]

I was just graduated from college, when I received a letter from my uncle

Ralph, which surprised me very much, as I had never known him except by

name. I had always been told by my mother that he was very eccentric, and

certainly the letter was queer; for it read:

"Nephew Dick (if that's your name):

"I want an assistant in my laboratory. I will pay you well. Answer at

once.

"UNCLE RALPH."

I was puzzled what to say in reply. I had no profession in view, and

didn't like to throw away what might be a good chance. I talked it over

with my mother, and she said she thought it would be worth trying and

could certainly do no harm. So, not to be outdone in brevity, I answered:

"Dear Uncle Ralph:

"If terms suit, I'll try.

"Your nephew DICK."

I think he was pleased with the answer, for he received me very

cordially, though he didn't say much. My salary was quickly and

satisfactorily settled, and I took a room near my uncle's house and began

my work.

At first I had so much to learn that I couldn't have earned my salt; but

before very long I began to see my way clearly, and I really think I made

myself useful--still I could not be sure.

Strangely enough, I never could tell what my uncle was trying to

accomplish. I made many mixtures of chemicals, prepared all sorts of

apparatus, but was never allowed to see what my uncle was about. Whenever

I had prepared any materials, he would carry them off into a little

private room of which he always kept the key upon his watch-chain. No one

was allowed to enter this room, and I soon learned that it was wisest to

say nothing concerning it. Not being inquisitive, I did not pry into the

mystery, but did whatever I was told to do, without asking any questions.

As time went on, I could see that my uncle was becoming very nervous and

irritable over his work. Always a silent man, he now seldom spoke a word.

One day he sent me to buy him some chemicals, giving me a list which he

had written out for me. Upon examining the list I found that the articles

would make a large package, so I picked up my little traveling-bag and

started out.

Some of the substances required were rare, and I was obliged to ask at a

number of places before I succeeded in finding them; and it was dusk when

I reached the house.

I heard my uncle calling me as I came in, and found him very impatient.

"Did you get them all?" he asked, as soon as he saw me.

"Yes; after some trouble," I replied.

"Where are they?" he inquired.

"Here," I said, and I handed him the bag.

He took it without a word, and immediately retired into his private room.

During his absence, I busied myself in the laboratory in putting

everything in order. I worked away for a long while--how long I can not

exactly tell--when suddenly I heard an explosion in my uncle's little

room, followed by a cry.

I rushed to the door and knocked.

"What is it?" he growled.

"What is the matter?" I cried.

"Nothing! Don't be foolish!" said my uncle. "Nothing can hurt me!"

I went back to the laboratory, and, having nothing further to do, sat

down to wait for his coming.

Again came the explosion, followed by the same cry.

I started up and, before I thought, I cried aloud, "You're not hurt, are

you?"

The door opened suddenly, and my uncle came out, looking very much

excited.

"Dick!" said he, "go home. Here is your bag. I shan't need your help

to-night."

I took what I thought was my bag, and went home to my room.

When I lighted my student-lamp I saw that, instead of my traveling-bag,

my uncle had given me an old, dusty, wrinkled and battered leather

satchel, which looked as though it might be a century old.

I laughed, and tried to open it. It was locked. After puzzling over the

lock until I was tired, I opened my closet door and flung the satchel

upon the highest shelf.

"To-morrow," said I, "I'll exchange it for my own bag."

I am afraid Uncle Ralph's treatment was beginning to affect my temper. I

didn't like the way he had treated me that night. Then he hadn't paid me

my salary for a long time, and my bills were coming in faster than I

could pay them.

It is very discouraging to do other men's work, especially when you are

not allowed to see the results of your labor; and I had worked some

months without a single hint of what I was about. I began to believe I

had made a mistake. What good would it do me to work away in the dark,

learning little or nothing, and without hope of doing better? My uncle

would tell me nothing, and was provoked by being even questioned.

I became very much discouraged over my prospects, and wondered whether I

ought not to confess I had made a mistake, and to begin the study of some

regular profession.

How long I sat thinking, I can not tell; but I was aroused by the faint

flicker of my fire as it went out, leaving me in perfect darkness.

As I groped about my room, looking for matches, I heard a rustling which

seemed to come from the other side of the room. Then came tiny knockings,

irregularly, and muffled shouting, as though far away.

By listening more intently I heard the sounds plainly enough to

distinguish the squeaking of mice and--could I be mistaken?--a scream;

very faint, it is true, but still a scream of fright.

"Ah!" said I to myself, "there must be mice in the closet! But what can

the scream be?"

I went to the closet, and, opening the door, was amazed to see that the

upper part was faintly lighted, as though by a big fire-fly. Puzzled at

this, I brought a chair, and, climbing upon it, saw--a grand battle. Upon

one end of the shelf was a flying host of mice. How they scurried away!

Some jumped to the floor; some seemed to merely vanish, and they were

gone!

While smiling at their panic, what was my surprise to hear from the other

end of the shelf some one addressing me in a piping, little voice.

"Eh?" I exclaimed; "did any one speak?"

"I had the honor!" the voice replied.

Turning, I saw upon the shelf a diminutive figure carrying a little

lantern in one hand, and something like a needle in the other.

Before I could recover from my astonishment, and not before I had been

asked sarcastically whether I should know him the next time we met, the

little man went on:

"This is a pretty way to treat me,--isn't it?"

"What in the world--what can this mean?" I blundered out.

"Well! I like that," replied the pigmy in a scornful tone; "asking what

this can mean, after having kept me shut up in that old leather satchel

for over two thousand years!--Why, I should have been starved before

long; my provisions were almost gone, I can tell you! Perhaps you think

I'm not hungry now? Oh, no! of course not!--and you want to know what

this means?"

[Illustration: "THE LITTLE MAN HELD HIS LANTERN NEAR MY FACE AND SAID: 'I

THINK I MUST HAVE MADE A MISTAKE.'"]

Here he burst out laughing so loudly that I plainly heard it.

"I should be glad to do anything in my power to aid you," I began,

wishing to do my best to pacify the little fellow; "but as for having

kept you shut up for twenty centuries, why, my dear fellow, that's simply

absurd, for I am only twenty-three years old now!"

"Oh, see here," he answered scornfully, "that's a little more than I can

stand! You've played the innocent game long enough; you can't fool me

that way again. Why, I suppose you will deny that your name is

Trancastro, next?" and he hopped up and down in a rage.

"Tran----which? Tran----what?" I began.

"That's right, that's right!" cried the little imp in a perfect fury. "Go

on--deny everything!"

"See here!" I cried, now out of patience with his whims, "I don't know

anything about you or your Tran-what-you-may-call-him, and if you hadn't

kicked up such a racket in my closet I never would have come near you!--I

wish I hadn't, and then the mice would have finished you--and a good

riddance!"

As I paused for breath the little man held his lantern as near my face as

possible, and after a long, earnest look, said with great gravity and

deliberation:

"I think I must have made a mistake!"

Then, turning suddenly, he gave a great skip and shouted out, "And

then--I am free!"

"Certainly you are, so far as I am concerned," I replied carelessly; "but

I can't imagine what all this fuss is about. So long as you are pleased,

I suppose I must be satisfied."

Meanwhile he had continued to jump and whirl about, until he dropped his

lantern and it went out, leaving us in the dark. Then he calmed down

enough to say, "What can _you_ know about it? You--only twenty-three

years old!" He chuckled as though this were a great joke at my expense,

and went on, "If you will offer me a chair and something to eat, I'll

tell you the whole story."

So I stepped down from the chair, lighted my student-lamp, and offered my

little guest my hand. Into it he climbed, and I deposited him upon the

table under the light, where I could see him plainly.

He was about six inches in height and dressed in what seemed to be

mouse-skin. He wore a little belt and a helmet the size of a thimble. His

face was unwrinkled, but intelligent enough for any age.

Seeing he was unwilling to be stared at, I broke the silence by saying,

"I am sorry I can not offer you a chair--but mine are too large, I am

afraid." I feared he might be hurt by the hint.

"Not at all!" he replied politely, now that he had convinced himself I

was not that awful Tran-somebody, "see here!"

He beckoned to my favorite easy-chair. At once it rose gently into the

air, and, dwindling down to a size suitable for the little wretch,

dropped softly down upon the table beside him.

Ignoring my exclamations, he seated himself comfortably within it, and,

looking up at me, said, as though nothing had happened, "I said I would

tell you all about it, didn't I?"

"Yes," I answered, leaning eagerly forward.

"Well, I'll not!" said he bluntly.

"You'll not?--and why not?" I asked.

"Oh," said he, calmly crossing his little legs, "you couldn't understand

it."

"Perhaps I could," I replied, smiling indulgently. "Just try me."

"Do you know what _dnax_ is?" he asked, apparently hoping that I might.

"No, I can't say I do--exactly," I confessed unwillingly.

"Then of course you couldn't understand it--for that's the very beginning

of it!--But no matter. Let's change the subject. Is there anything I can

do for you in return for your hospitality to a hungry guest?"

"I beg your pardon--I quite forgot," and I rang the bell.

When the servant came, I ordered supper for two. This strange order

caused the servant to gape in silent astonishment. I repeated the order,

however, and she hurried away without asking any questions. Returning,

she placed the supper upon the table, without seeing the frantic retreat

of the little man as she approached the table with the heavy tray.

"What an awkward blockhead!" exclaimed the angry little fellow. I made no

answer, being puzzled over the proper way to ask my small friend to eat

with a knife and fork larger than himself.

[Illustration: "'PERHAPS,' SAID THE LITTLE MAN, 'HAVING LIVED FORTY

CENTURIES, I MAY BE OLD ENOUGH TO ADVISE A YOUNG MAN OF TWENTY-THREE.'"]

But, as I hesitated, the mysterious beckoning process again took place,

and one-half the contents of the tray diminished to a size convenient for

his use. He ate almost greedily, like a starving man. I watched him in

silent wonder until he seemed to be satisfied.

Then, pushing back his chair, he said gratefully: "A very nice supper! I

should like to return your kindness in some way. You little know what a

service you have done me in releasing me from that cruel Trancast----"

Here he broke off suddenly and remained in a brown study. He seemed so

melancholy that I interrupted his thoughts by asking:

"And what could you do for me?" He brightened up again as I spoke, and

answered:

"Who can tell? What are your troubles?"

"Well," said I thoughtfully, "I haven't many. But I should like the

advice of some one older and wiser than I am."

"I shall not say how _wise_ I may be," said the little man soberly; "but

perhaps, having lived forty centuries, I may be old enough to advise a

young man of twenty-three."

I looked up, expecting to see him smiling, but he was as sober as a

judge. So I told him all about my uncle and my work, and concluded by

asking him what he thought I ought to do. He seemed intensely interested,

and remained silent some moments after I had finished. I waited more

anxiously for his opinion than I should have liked to admit.

At length he said solemnly, "Bring your uncle to me!"

"Bring----" I repeated, in amazement, "bring my----"

"Bring your uncle to me!" he repeated firmly, and so solemnly that I

never thought of resisting.

"Oh, very well," I said hastily; "but how in the world am I to do it?"

"Easily enough!" he explained; "write him a note!"

"But what shall I say?" I asked helplessly.

"You said he was interested in chemistry?" asked the strange little

fellow.

"I believe he cares for nothing else," I replied.

"Very well. Now write this: 'I have made a discovery to-night such as you

never dreamed of. Come at once!' That will bring him," said my guest.

Why I was so easily bullied by the manikin I can not tell; but I wrote

the note and sent it at once.

"Now," resumed my little guest, "what else can I do for you?"

"Nothing," I replied, laughing; "unless you will pay my bills for me!"

"With pleasure," he answered gravely; "let me see them."

I brought the bills, and he went over them very carefully.

"Hm--hm--very good!" he said, when he had finished his examination. "You

have not been very extravagant. I'll reduce them for you!"

He began beckoning, as he had beckoned to the chair and the tea-tray, and

I smiled, expecting to see the papers grow smaller and smaller. But when

he stopped I could see no change, although he seated himself as though

well satisfied. As he said nothing, I finally ventured to say:

"Well!"

"Well," he replied; "look at your bills!"

I picked them up and was astonished to see that the amounts had dwindled

from dollars to cents, until each bill was for only a hundredth part of

what it had been.

"But that is nonsense!" I said, looking up angrily. "I'm not a baby! What

good will that do?"

"You're only twenty-three," he said, doubtfully; and smiling as a knock

was heard at the door, he made me a sign to open it.

I did so, and there stood my tailor, Mr. Mewlett. I frowned, for I owed

him more than a hundred dollars. But he smiled politely, saying, "Could

you oblige me with that dollar or two you owe me? I need a little change

to-night."

I stared at him in wonder; but, thinking it wise to ask no questions, I

took his bill from the pile on the table and handed it to him.

He read it aloud: "One dollar and fourteen cents."

I counted out the money. He receipted the bill and left me, seeming

perfectly contented.

I dropped into a chair, too much puzzled to say a word.

Just then the door banged open wide, and in came my uncle, puffing and

blowing with the exertion of climbing the stairs.

"Well, on what fool's errand have you brought me here----" he began; but

suddenly I heard a shriek from the pigmy on the table. As I turned, he

began beckoning--beckoning--beckoning, as if he were frantic.

I turned to look at my uncle.

He was gone.

Then I turned again to the little man on the table--What a sight met my

eyes!

There stood upon the table the miniature image of my uncle, staring with

wide-open eyes at the little figure of my guest.

For a moment they glared at each other--and then, before I could

interfere, they were fighting for their lives.

It was over in a second.

My uncle was too old and feeble to be a match for the wiry little warrior

in leather.

As they separated, my uncle seemed to be wounded, for he staggered an

instant, and then fell backward, staining the cloth like an overturned

bottle of red ink.

"You scoundrel!" I cried, starting forward in anger; "what have you

done?"

For a moment the little fellow had no breath to answer. He panted

helplessly, and at length gasped out:

"It is--but--justice! It is Trancastro!"

[Illustration: "BEFORE I COULD INTERFERE THEY WERE FIGHTING

FOR THEIR LIVES."]

"Trancastro!" I exclaimed--"that was my uncle! Explain!--I can not

understand!"

"Do you know what _dnax_ is?" he asked, as he wiped his sword on a

napkin.

"No!" I shouted.

"Then you _couldn't_ understand," he said, mournfully shaking his head.

Enraged by his answer, I rushed for the table; but, before I could reach

them, my uncle struggled to his feet and resumed the conflict, using his

umbrella most valiantly. I paused a moment, hoping he might yet

conquer--but the fight was too unequal. By a skillful twist of his

opponent's wrist my uncle's umbrella was sent flying out of his hand.

Being disarmed, he sank upon one knee and begged for mercy.

"Trancastro!" cried the victor, "you deserve no better fate than the

cruel death you meant for me!"

"Oh, have mercy!" cried my uncle.

I could not stand this. The honor of the family forbade me to remain

neutral. I rushed to the table, crying, "Here! here!--this has gone quite

far enough!"

Again the beckoning! I became in a moment a third pigmy upon my own

table!

"Now," exclaimed the triumphant warrior, "we are upon equal terms! Come

on!"

I had no weapon. I dared not interfere. While I stood hesitating, the

little tyrant made a slipknot from one of my curtain-cords, threw the

noose over my uncle's neck, and rose into the air, dragging his victim

after him. I heard a breaking of glass, and, regaining my natural size in

a moment, rushed to the window only to see them flying away!

All that remained to convince me that I could not be mistaken was the

stain upon the cloth, the little arm-chair, and the miniature supper. I

searched the room, but found nothing.

Until now I have never told the story--for who would have believed it?

But any one who believes my story, and would like to see what remains of

Trancastro and his victim, has only to open the battered little satchel,

and there can still be seen the little chair, the little knife and fork,

and all the relics left by my guest. No unbeliever shall ever see them.

[Illustration]

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

BY HENRY ECKFORD.

FOURTH PAPER.

You would hardly believe it possible that there are so many alphabets in

the world which seem to have nothing to do with one another--neither

coming one from another by borrowing, nor descending, apparently, from

the same alphabet thousands of years ago. The numbers of existing nations

and of men to-day are as nothing compared with those that have perished.

So the number of existing alphabets and syllabaries are but as a handful

compared to those that have passed away and left no trace whatever.

Writings on paper and bark can remain only as long as the paper and bark

hold together; even in Egypt, where, owing to the dryness of the climate,

paper lasts longer than elsewhere, it can last only a few thousand years.

Nations that once for long periods possessed writings are now completely

unknown, and with them their alphabets also have perished, because no

record of their existence was left on rock, brick, or pottery. What

looks, therefore, like an abundance of material by which to read the life

of alphabets is really very little compared to what we ought to have.

You remember how nations like the Phoenicians, when adopting a new series

of letters, name these letters according to their own fancy, just as we

sometimes teach children their alphabet by saying, "A was an Archer" (or

we may prefer to have A stand for an Apple, or some other word beginning

with A); and "B was a Butcher," or "a Bear," or some other word beginning

with B. There is no doubt that both the Romans and the Greeks had lists

of words useful to remind children of their letters. Now, our alphabet

came directly to us from the Irish missionaries and professors of

religion and wisdom, who taught Christianity to the heathen Angles,

Saxons, Jutes, Goths, Germans, Danes, and Swedes, several centuries after

the death of our Lord. They did not learn from the Phoenicians, although

they have traditions that seem to point to settlers in Ireland bearing a

similar name. Instead of using the Latin names for the letters taken from

the Christian Romans, they gave them names of their own. Their wise and

pious men had been members of, or were the pupils of, a class of learned

heathens called the Druids. In ancient Ireland, a _drui_ was prophet,

priest, doctor, and magician, and the name seems to be connected with our

word tree. It was against the rule of the Druids to write things down.

They were in the habit of retiring to the deepest woods for meditation

and study, sometimes attended by pupils. That is probably the reason why

the Irish, among whom the Druids retained their power the

longest,--because Ireland was the hardest to reach of all the great

islands thereabouts, and the last to feel the changes taking place

elsewhere in Europe,--chose this pretty system of naming the letters of

the Latin alphabet when it became common. Instead of calling A, _alpha_,

as the Latins usually did, they said A, _ailm_, the word which stood in

their language for palm-tree and came, in sound, nearest to _alpha_, and

began with an _A_. Instead of _beta_ they said _beith_, the word

for birch-tree, almost the same in sound as the Phoenician, but quite

different in meaning. And so with the other letters: _Coll_, hazel;

_duir_, oak; _eadha_, aspen; _fearan_, alder; _gort_, ivy; _huath_,

whitethorn; _iogha_, yew; _luis_, mountain-ash; _muin_, vine; _nuin_,

ash; _oir_, broom; _peith_, dwarf-elder; _suil_, willow; _teine_, furze;

_ur_, heath. They called this alphabet _bethluisnion_, choosing out the

letters B, L, and N, instead of the letters A and B, to form a name.

Another term, more nearly like the word alphabet, was _aibcitie_, or

A-B-C order, the syllable _tie_ meaning order, or sequence. Living in

wooden houses, in lands mostly covered with trees, the people of Ireland

were specially fond of plants, and so named their letters from plants

alone. Such a method may possibly point to an early syllabic system among

these races, founded on pictures of trees and plants, on leaves, on

hunting-tools, and things connected with woodcraft; but at present we can

only make this guess. It is very unlikely that so early and rude a

writing would be placed on stone or metal, and so come down to us. The

Egyptians used trees or plants but seldom, either in their symbolic or

alphabetic hieroglyphics. Our S alone, of the letters, comes from a

little picture of growing plants, which is supposed to represent a garden

overflowed by the Nile. Egypt was peculiarly wanting in forests.

Population was dense and animals abounded. On the other hand, a

partiality for trees is found in all the Celtic tribes. The intense love

of nature shown in the modern literature of Germany, France, and Italy,

of Great Britain and the United States, may be traced to the Highland

Scotch, and from this may be derived the still more modern passion for

pictures of landscape.

OLD IRISH ALPHABET.

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_Capitals._ _Small letters._ | _Name._ | _English._

-----------------------------+---------+-----------

{A} {a} | Ailm. | a

| |

{B} {b} | Beith. | b

| |

{C} {c} | Coll. | c

| |

{D} {d} | Duir. | d

| |

{E} {e} | Eadha. | e

| |

{F} {f} | Fearan. | f

| |

{G} {g} | Gort. | g

| |

{H} {h} | Huath. | h

| |

{I} {i} | Iogha. | i

| |

{L} {l} | Luis. | l

| |

{M} {m} | Muin. | m

| |

{N} {n} | Nuin. | n

| |

{O} {o} | Oir. | o

| |

{P} {p} | Peith. | p

| |

{R} {r} | Ruis. | r

| |

{S} {s} | Suil. | s

| |

{T} {t} | Teine. | t

| |

{U} {u} | Ur. | u

The clans of Scotland, blood relations and descendants of the Irish,

chose for emblems, or "badges," either a plant or its flower. Thus, the

MacKays chose the bulrush. The general badge for Irishmen, as you know,

is a little plant like the sorrel, called the shamrock; while that for

Scotland is, appropriately enough, the hardy, prickly, but not

unbeautiful thistle. The English, too, show traces of the same idea;

their race-badge is the rose, a foreign plant, perhaps because they were

more thoroughly subjugated by the Normans than were the Scotch and Irish;

perhaps because their land is like a rose-garden for cultivation. Now,

some Irishmen have claimed that the Phoenicians made settlements in

Ireland many centuries before Christ. If they ever taught their alphabet

to the tribes of that island, it has been crowded out by others, or has

fallen into disuse. Some kind of writing had existed before the

Christians introduced the _bethluisnion_; there is hardly a doubt that

altered Greek letters, known as Runes, were used in Ireland; but with the

exception of the mysterious Oghans, which will be noticed further on,

none are to be found; for, just as nations have been struggling with

nations from the earliest period to which we can look back, and forms of

government with other forms, and languages with languages, so systems of

writing have been struggling with systems of writing. Sooner or later the

best, that is to say, the most convenient, alphabet wins the day. Within

a few centuries, the rounded and perfected form of the Christian alphabet

has taken the place of the old Irish alphabet, which was itself an

earlier form of the very same Christian letters.

You have traced your letters back through the Irish missionaries to the

Christians of Rome; but how did they come to Rome? You must know that

among the great and renowned cities founded by the Phoenicians in Greece

was Chalkis, a town in the island of Euboea. This island is close to the

mainland of Greece, and its inhabitants are called Boeotians. Now the

Athenians, who considered themselves very smart people, used to make all

manner of fun about the stupidity of the Boeotians. But just why the

Boeotians were thought very stupid folk, unless through jealousy or

rivalry, I do not see, for one of the greatest poets of the world, called

Pindar, was a Boeotian, and many famous generals, artists, architects,

painters, and writers came from the ranks of this so-called stupid folk.

And for all the fun they liked to make of these island people, the rest

of Greece, including Athens, very likely had to come to the Boeotians for

the alphabet. But you are not to suppose that the Phoenicians came to

Euboea in the flourishing days of Athens, when the marvelous sculptors

lived. It was long before. And the Latins of Italy, in their turn, took

their letters from the Greek-Phoenicians of Chalkis long, long before

Rome became a famous town. And it was because of great wars and the

attacks of Asiatic nations that the people who had the best alphabet came

to Europe at all.