"That'll be all right," his aunt said, simply, "an' I'm glad

[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

* * * * *

VOL. III.--NO. 108. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR

CENTS.

Tuesday, November 22, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50

per Year, in Advance.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE WAY THE LITTLE FOLKS KEEP THANKSGIVING.]

ELSIE'S THANKSGIVING.

BY MRS. MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Dolly, it's almost Thanksgiving. Do you know what I mean, my dear?

No? Well, I couldn't expect it: you haven't been with us a year.

And you came with my auntie from Paris, far over the wide blue sea,

And you'll keep your first Thanksgiving, my beautiful Dolly, with me.

I'll tell you about it, my darling, for grandma's explained it all,

So that _I_ understand why Thanksgiving always comes late in the fall,

When the nuts and the apples are gathered, and the work in the fields

is done,

And the fields, all reaped and silent, are asleep in the autumn sun.

It is then that we praise our Father, who sends the rain and the dew,

Whose wonderful loving-kindness is every morning new;

Unless we'd be heathen, Dolly, or worse, we must sing and pray,

And think about good things, Dolly, when we keep Thanksgiving-day.

But I like it very much better when from church we all go home,

And the married brothers and sisters, and the troops of cousins come,

And we're ever so long at the table, and dance and shout and play,

In the merry evening, Dolly, that ends Thanksgiving-day.

Now let me whisper a secret: I've had a trouble to bear;

It has made me feel quite old, dear, and perfectly crushed with care;

'Twas about my prettiest kitten, the white one with spots of black--

I loved her devotedly, Dolly: I've been _awfully angry with Jack_;

So mad that I couldn't forgive him; and I wouldn't kiss him good-night,

For he lost my Kitty on purpose, shut up in a bag so tight;

He carried her miles and miles, dear, and dropped her down in the dark;

I would not wonder a bit, dear, if he took her to Central Park.

And then he came home to supper, as proud as a boy could be.

I wonder, Dolly, this minute how he dared to be looking at me,

When I called my Kitty and called her, and of course she didn't come,

And Jack pored over his Latin as if he were deaf and dumb.

When I found out what he had done, dear, it was just like lead in my

heart,

Though mamma is as kind as an angel, I knew she would take his part.

Suppose Kitty _did_ chase the chickens?--they might have kept out of

her way.

I've been so sorrowful, Dolly, I've dreaded Thanksgiving-day.

For I'll never pretend to be good, dear, when I feel all wrong in my

mind;

And as for giving up Kitty, I'm not in the least resigned.

And I've known with deep grief, Dolly--known it a long time back--

That I couldn't keep Thanksgiving while I hated my brother Jack.

For you can not love God and praise Him when you're cherishing anger

this way.

I've tried hard to conquer it, Dolly--I gave Jack two pears to-day;

I've mended his mittens for him.--Why, who is this creeping in?

Why, it's surely my own white kitten, so tired and grimed and thin!

And now we _will_ keep Thanksgiving, Dolly and Kitty and I;

I'll go to church in the morning. I'm so glad, I'm afraid I'll cry.

Oh, Kitty! my lost, lost treasure, you have found your own way back,

And now I'll forget my troubles, and be friends again with Jack.

PERILS AND PRIVATIONS.

BY JAMES PAYN.

I.--THE WRECK OF THE "GROSVENOR."

On the 4th of August, "being Sunday, 1782," the _Grosvenor_, East

Indiaman, homeward-bound, was scudding, under little canvas, before a

northwest gale. She had left Madagascar to the northeast some days ago,

and was supposed by her Captain (Captain Coxon) to be at least a hundred

leagues from the nearest land. Before daylight John Hynes, a seaman,

with one Lewis and others, were aloft striking the foretop-gallant-mast,

when Hynes asked Lewis if he did not think certain breakers ahead

indicated land. The latter answering in the affirmative, they hastened

to inform the third mate, Mr. Beal, who had the watch. Mr. Beal "only

laughed at them," but in a few minutes the _Grosvenor_'s keel struck,

and "as she beat very hard, every soul on board instantly ran on deck."

[Illustration: WRECK OF THE "GROSVENOR."]

These souls, predoomed to destruction, were very many--nearly two

hundred, including, alas! both women and children and sick. If the

position of those who are well and strong in such circumstances is

pitiable, what must be that of the weak? The Captain endeavored in vain

to mitigate the universal panic; for though no water could be detected

in the vessel by the pumps, it was well understood there was a hole in

her; and since the wind was off the land, which could now be discerned a

hundred yards away, it was feared she would be driven to sea, and

founder. The gunner was ordered to fire signals of distress; but on

going to the powder-room he found it full of water. The mainmast was cut

away, then the foremast, but without easing the doomed ship, against

which the waves beat with impatient fury, as though greedy for their

prey.

To those who have only seen the summer sea at play upon our shores, it

is difficult to picture the force with which in storm every wave strikes

a vessel in this position. She shudders at every blow, and groans and

shrieks like any living creature. To the ignorant and timid, who feel

the hull quivering under them, it seems as if she were going to pieces

at every stroke. "At all hazards," they say to themselves, "let us get

out of this to land;" but when they look upon the boiling waves, that

seethe as in some bottomless caldron between themselves and the

wished-for shore, even the frail planks on which they stand seem by

comparison security. Even when a boat has perhaps with infinite

difficulty been lowered, and they see it thrown hither and thither like

a ball beneath them, and only kept from instant destruction against the

ship's side by boat-hooks, they shrink from such a means of escape, and

leave it to bolder spirits. In the case of the _Grosvenor_, the yawl and

jolly-boat, which had been hoisted out, were dashed to pieces as soon as

they touched the water. An Italian and two seamen, however, swam to land

with the deep-sea line, by help of which a stronger rope was conveyed

ashore, and then a hawser.

By this time a great crowd of natives had collected on the beach, who

helped to fasten the hawser to the rocks, and the other end of the rope

being made fast to the capstan on deck, it was hauled tight.

Communication was thus established between the ship and the land; a

perilous mode of safety, however, that could only be used by the most

agile seamen, of whom no less than fifteen out of twenty attempting to

pursue it dropped into the sea, and were drowned before the eyes of

their companions.

The people on the wreck now busied themselves in constructing a raft,

the only means of escape that was apparently left them, and it was

launched overboard, and guided to the ship's stern, so that the women

and children might be dropped into it from the quarter gallery. But

hardly had it reached the waves when it was torn asunder, "the great

ropes that bound it together parting like pack-thread," and the men in

charge of it perished. Picture to yourself, reader, how each of these

successive events must have affected the survivors, who beheld them all,

and felt them to be so many preludes to their own destruction. In

despair they all huddled together on the poop awaiting death, while with

a crash that made itself heard above the tempest, the great ship clove

asunder.

And here, as we shall find often happens in these narratives of

disaster, what would seem to have been their certain doom proved for a

time their preservation; for the wind suddenly veered round, and blowing

directly to the land, carried the starboard quarter on which they stood

into shallow water, and the whole company reached the shore.

By this time the night was falling; but the natives, who had retired

with the setting sun, had left the embers of a fire, by which means

three others were lighted, and some hogs and poultry being driven

ashore, the poor creatures made a good repast--which was their last one.

They soon learned from their companions on shore that it was from no

motives of humanity that the inhabitants had offered them assistance,

nor indeed, beyond fastening the hawser, had they given any help, but

occupied themselves in seizing whatever came to land, especially

anything in the shape of iron.

Among most savage nations iron holds the place which gold fills among

those more civilized, and a few horse-shoes or rusty nails are valued

more highly by them than pearls or diamonds. To any one who has seen the

weapons or instruments in use among the South-sea Islanders, and the

curious devices by which horn and bone and wood are made to supply the

place of the coveted metal, this will not appear strange; and as the

desire for gold too often hardens the heart among our own people, so

that for iron makes that of the savage as the nether millstone, or as

iron itself.

With the next morning a host of natives thronged the beach, to the great

terror of the castaways, who had no weapons of any kind. The former took

not the slightest notice of the new arrivals, but, knowing that they

could turn their attention to them at any time, busied themselves

exclusively with plunder. Next to positive ill-treatment, the poor

_Grosvenor_ people felt that nothing could augur worse for them than

this total indifference to their wretched condition.

A cask of beef, a barrel of flour, and a puncheon of rum they managed to

secure for themselves, and with a couple of sails they contrived two

tents for the ladies and children. This was all the provision they had,

though they were a hundred and thirty-five in number, and even the

puncheon of rum the Captain gave orders to be staved, "lest the natives

should become dangerous by getting intoxicated."

Then he called the people together, and in a pathetic speech informed

them that to the best of his belief they were on the coast of Caffraria,

and that it might be possible in sixteen or seventeen days to reach on

foot some of the Dutch settlements. As the ship was wrecked, he informed

them that his authority was at an end, but if it was their wish he would

resume it, as without discipline the difficulties of travel would be

greatly increased. Then they all answered that "he should still be their

Captain, by all means."

One man named O'Brien had a swelled knee, and elected to remain with the

natives, whom he thought he might conciliate by making them little

trinkets out of the lead and pewter cast ashore, and having recovered

from his ailment, and learned their language, might better be able to

get away. Him therefore they left (little knowing the tender mercies of

those to whom he so pitifully intrusted himself), "but Mr. Logie, the

chief mate, being ill, was carried by two men in a hammock slung upon a

pole."

The whole company then began to move westward, followed by many of the

natives, "who took whatever they chose from them, and occasionally threw

stones." Presently they met thirty Caffres whose hair, instead of being

crisp and curly like the rest, was made up in the shape of a sugar-loaf,

and whose faces were painted red. Among them was a Dutchman called

Trout, who spoke English. They offered him an immense sum if he would

conduct them to the Cape, but he replied that it was impossible. He had

murdered several of his own countrymen, and therefore could not venture

among them again; besides, having a wife and children among the Caffres,

to whom he had fled for refuge, he was averse to leave them, even if the

tribe would have let him go, which he was well assured they would not.

As to the journey, he informed them (as it turned out only too truly)

that it would be attended with unspeakable difficulties, arising from

the cruel nations through which they would have to pass, desert lands,

and wild beasts.

Greatly depressed, the party moved on, every day harassed by the

natives, who when the sun went down invariably retired. The poor unarmed

Englishmen could do little against men armed with lances and protected

by targets made of elephant's hide, and in the end they had always to

sue for peace, cutting the buttons from their coats, and offering such

trinkets as they possessed, to buy off their assailants. One day they

plundered the gentlemen of their watches, and the ladies of some

diamonds they had concealed in their hair; on another they took from

them what was far more valuable, their one tinder-box, flint, and steel.

After this loss every one travelled with a fire-brand in his hand to

guard against the wild beasts at night. Fresh-water they generally found

by digging in the sand, but their provisions were now nearly all

expended, and dissension for the first time appeared among the unhappy

band. "The fatigue of travelling with the women and children being very

great, the sailors began to murmur."

We should pause before condemning these men, though they may deserve

condemnation, to consider what some of us at least might have done in

their case. It was morally certain that to advance as they were at

present doing, by slow degrees, was to perish. Some hoped, no doubt,

that by making quicker progress they might get help, and return for the

rest, as indeed some did. Moreover, the same chivalry is hardly to be

expected (though in these narratives it will be seen that it was often

found) among uneducated persons as in those of gentler mould; it may

even be added--to be quite fair--that when it is exhibited they do not

get the same credit for it. For an officer to run away in battle is

actually more difficult, because it is more disgraceful, than for a

common soldier. In this case almost all the officers, including the

Captain, remained with the ladies and children, and "many of the

sailors, induced by the great promises made by Colonel James and others,

were prevailed to stay with them, to carry what little provision was

left, and the blankets with which they covered themselves in the night."

A Captain Talbot, three of the ship's mates, one or two gentlemen and

their servants, with the remainder of the seamen, among whom was John

Hynes, "being in all forty-three," made up the forward party.

A young boy, Master Law, a passenger, between seven and eight years old,

crying after one of these, a passenger, and having no surviving

relatives of his own, was taken with them, it being agreed that they

should carry him by turns whenever he should be unable to walk. It is

not to be supposed that this separation of the two parties took place in

anger or bad feeling on either side. Indeed, the next day, when those

who had left the Captain's company, having had to wait all night beside

a river for the ebb tide, were overtaken by the rest, the meeting

between them was most affecting, and once more they all travelled on as

before. Nay, all the shell-fish, oysters, mussels, and limpets they

could find on the sea-shore, although their other provisions were now

quite expended, were that day, we are told, reserved solely for the

women and children. Arriving at a Caffre village, where the Dutchman

Trout lived, they were wickedly ill-treated by the inhabitants; and by

his advice, since in smaller numbers they would be less likely to arouse

the jealousy of the natives, they once more separated, "never to meet

again". From this moment, unless from hearsay, we have only the record

of what may be called the sailors' party, narrated by John Hynes.

They kept along the coast-line as well as they could, but the frequent

rivers, too deep and swift to be crossed by those who could not swim

well, often compelled them to journey inland. Here we see how, not only

in time of shipwreck, but afterward, the art of swimming, so easily

acquired in youth, is so valuable. If it had not been for these

diversions from their course more lives would certainly have been saved,

as they had to take to the woods, where sorrel "and such wild berries as

they observed the birds to peck at," and which they therefore knew were

not poisonous, were their only food, and where wild beasts devoured them

at night. When the rivers grew somewhat narrower, they lashed together

all the dry wood they could collect with woodbines and their

handkerchiefs, and on the raft thus formed they set the little boy and

those who could not swim, while the others pushed it over. In this way

they sometimes crossed rivers two miles broad.

The country now grew mountainous, and much more difficult to traverse.

They saw no paths but such as were made by lions and tigers, against

which they had to make up huge fires at night; yet even these were

preferable to such fellow-creatures as were to be found in that

inhospitable land. Every morning, while their strength lasted, one of

their number climbed a tree to examine the direction of the coast-line,

to which they kept as close as was possible. They presently became too

weak to gather fuel for more than one fire, into which they put the few

oysters and mussels they could collect, as they had no other means

(having been long ago plundered of their knives) to open them. Their

watches, as I have said, were gone, and the sun was their only

time-piece. At first with a nail fashioned into a knife they cut notches

in a stick for week-days, and one across for Sundays; but they lost the

stick in crossing a river, after which "days, weeks, and months" went by

without record. One day they found a dead whale upon the shore, a sight

which filled them with ecstasy. As they had no means of cutting it up,

they made a fire upon it, after which they cut out the parts thus

grilled with oyster shells.

The sight of a fine level country now led them to hope that they had got

beyond Caffraria, and reached the Dutch settlements. This caused them to

strike inland, but they had soon to return to the coast again for food.

The strength of the whole party now began to fail. Captain Talbot sat

down several times to rest himself, and the rest did the same; "but the

Captain repeating this too often through weariness," they presently went

on and left him. His faithful servant, however, observing his master in

that condition, went back, and was observed to sit down by him. "Neither

of the two was ever more seen or heard of."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

[Illustration: NICOLO, THE LITTLE ITALIAN BOY.]

"GRANDPA, YOU DO LOOK SWEET."

BY M. E.

Just think of it, dear Grandpapa,

This day belongs to me;

My birthday 'tis--I'm four years old--

Last time I was but three.

And six small girls and five small boys

Are coming here to tea,

And you must be as beautiful

As ever you can be.

Teresa Grover's grandpapa

Has got no hair at all;

His head shines--though he's very nice--

Just like an iv'ry ball.

And I guess she'll be awful s'prised,

And all those other girls,

And small boys too, when they see you

With lots of pretty curls.

For to my party you must come,

And help us play and laugh;

I wouldn't have a birthday, dear,

Unless I gave you half.

And you shall have the very best

Of everything to eat.

And now your hair is done, and, oh,

Grandpa, you _do_ look sweet!

[Illustration]

THE LAME TURKEY.

A Story of Thanksgiving-Time.

BY RUTH HALL.

"Childern, childern, come here quick. That 'ere lame turkey's out

ag'in."

So called Mrs. Amasa Andrews, in the kitchen doorway, and two shrill

trebles answered her from the pumpkin patch.

"Oh, Aunt Polly, where's it gone to? Out in the orchard, or across the

fields?"

"Under the hill, down by Uncle Jake's old place," waving away the

panting figures who rushed into view from behind the corn-house. "You'd

better hurry up, or he'll get clean away this time."

George and Patty needed no second warning. In the missing turkey were

bound up delightful visions of "white meat," "wish-bones," and

"stuffing," on which they had been dwelling for two months past, and

which they had no idea of losing at this late day, only one little week

before Thanksgiving. So they tore like small whirlwinds across the

kitchen yard, squeezed under the fence, and slid down the steep hill,

never stopping to take breath until they had lost sight of home, and had

"Uncle Jake's old place" in view.

"Oh, George!" gasped little Patty then, "what if we didn't find

it?--what ever would we do?"

"Wouldn't have no Thanksgivin'," replied George, stolidly.

"Oh, but I just couldn't bear that. I couldn't, truly. It is such a

awful long time since we had a taste o' turkey, George."

"Not since last Christmas, before we ever thought o' comin' here to

live," her brother mused, as he trimmed a switch with dexterous fingers.

"Pa 'n' ma was alive then, 'n' little sister, 'n'-- There's that gobbler

now!"

They were close to the house, which had long been vacant, but now showed

signs of life in open door and windows, and a faint curl of pale blue

smoke from the tumble-down chimney. In the tiny door-yard stood the

runaway, calmly picking at a few potato-skins in a rusty old tin pan.

The children crept softly up behind a brush heap, intending to rush from

thence and surprise him, and were about to carry their scheme into

effect, when George laid a detaining hand upon his sister's arm.

"Hush!" he whispered. "What's that comin'?"

"Oh, Sally," called a thin voice from the door of the little house,

"come and see what's here. A turkey, Sally--a real turkey, sure's you

live!"

"But it ain't for us," said another voice. Evidently Sally had come. "It

belongs to some 'un, 'Melia, 'n' they'll come after it. That means a

Thanksgivin' dinner for somebody"--with a heavy sigh.

"Oh dear!" went on the younger voice, "don't you wish 'twas ours, Sally?

I never tasted turkey 'n all my life, an' I _do_ hate corn meal so!"

"Turkey's for them that has fathers to buy 'em," replied Sally, with a

sob in her voice; and then some one called shrilly from an inner room:

"Come, girls, Miss Watson's washin's ready;" and the little forms, at

which our Patty and George had been furtively "peeking," disappeared.

It was the work of a few moments to catch the lame turkey, and to start

him homeward at the point of George's switch; but someway neither child

looked happy over the achievement.

"George," finally began Patty's pleading little voice.

"Well, what d'ye want?" in his gruffest manner.

"They hain't got no father, Georgie."

"No more ha' we, nor mother neither. We're orphans."

"Oh, George! when we've got such a good Aunt Polly, 'n' such a Uncle

Amasa. An' _corn meal_, George."

Now Patty's brother "hated corn meal so" too, as his crafty sister knew.

There was a little pause.

"Well, what shell we do?" he inquired, finally. "Tell Aunt Polly, 'n'

get her to send 'em something down?"

"We couldn't do that," small Patty answered, decidedly. "They can't

afford to do much extra, I'm afraid, Georgie. You know we're quite

expensive, our keepin'; I heard old Miss Crandall tell Mike so."

"Miss Crandall's a gossip, Uncle Amasa says."

"But I know we _are_," poor Patty went on. "Aunt Polly ain't had no fall

bunnit, you know, an' she does her own washin' since we come. I'm afraid

we cost 'em quite a deal."

"Well, what _shell_ we do?" George cried, desperately, and giving the

lame turkey a savage cut over his saucy tail.

"I don't know what you'll do," was Polly's calm response, "but I shell

give that 'Melia every smitch o' my turkey next Thursday. So there!"

There was another pause, and then George remarked, with a great showing

of coolness: "Well, all right. An' I'll take Sally my turkey an' _all_

my pumpkin pie!"

"Oh, you dear George!" began his sister, and then broke down and cried.

"What air you childern whisperin' about?" queried Aunt Polly, coming

upon the two, sitting side by side on the wood-pile, later in the day.

Patty hesitated. Good and kind as Aunt Polly always was, her sharp eyes

and sharper voice were awe-inspiring to her small niece. But George,

whose bravery was the glory of his sister, looked up at the tall woman

with his fearless gray eyes, and told the story of that morning's

adventures and their resolution, adding:

"An' we were just a-wonderin', Aunt Polly, how we'd get the things down

there, an' if you'd let Mike go with us, maybe, 'cause you know you say

you don't like us to go where you don't know the folks."

"That'll be all right," his aunt said, simply, "an' I'm glad you thought

of it, childern. 'It's more blessed to give,' you know. George, I wisht

you'd get me some chips."

So she turned the subject then; but that evening, as Mr. and Mrs.

Andrews sat together over the kitchen fire, with their charges asleep up

stairs, Aunt Polly retold George's story, keenly watching her husband's

face as she did so, although her eyes were apparently fixed upon her

knitting.

Uncle Amasa took his pipe out of his mouth and drew a long breath.

"Bless them childern," he said, heartily. "I vum, now, Polly, that makes

me feel putty small--don't it you? To think o' their thinkin' of it, an'

they a-lookin' forward to Thanksgivin'-day so long!"

"Well, what kin we do, Amasa?" was his wife's quiet question.

"Massy! I don't know. But we'll send that widder her dinner anyway, an'

we won't rob them little childern o' theirn neither."

"But, Amasa"--Aunt Polly laid down her knitting--"don't you see that

won't be the _childern's_ givin'? I don't want to take away their

dinners, dear knows; but 'twouldn't be right, after all, you know, for

them to be gen'rous and keep their turkey too."

Uncle Amasa mused a moment. "That's so!" he said, ruefully, at last. "I

tell ye, Polly, woman, we'll give 'em the hull turkey, an' we'll throw

in the pies. I guess we won't starve on bacon an' cabbage, an' on

Chris'mas I'll manage so's they can hev a turkey, 'n' we too. I love my

dinner's much 's the next 'un, but I swan to massy them babies o' ourn

make me feel putty small--putty small!"

And gathering up his boots and pipe, Uncle Amasa strode off to bed.

And so it came to pass that on Thanksgiving-eve George and Patty,

accompanied by Uncle Amasa, not Mike, again followed the lame turkey

under the hill to Uncle Jake's old place. But this time the recreant

fowl was borne on their uncle's shoulders, in the huge market-basket, in

company with potatoes and onions and golden pies and rosy cranberries;

in short, with the party's Thanksgiving dinner.

Uncle Amasa first placed the basket on the cracked door-step, and then

he and George concealed themselves in the darkness behind the brush

heap, while Patty, the lightest and fleetest of the three, knocked at

the door, and then ran swiftly to the common hiding-place.

A faint streak of light came from the doorway as Sally appeared holding

a tallow candle aloft. A moment's silence while she stared at the

basket, and kneeling by it explored the contents; then--

"Oh, mother! 'Melia!" she screamed, "it's a turkey, and it's pies,

an'--oh, come quick an' see!"

There was the hurry of other footsteps, and a cry from 'Melia: "Just to

look at the onions! Oh, I _do_ love them!" and then some one upset and

extinguished the candle, and under cover of the darkness Uncle Amasa

drew the eager children away.

As they went up the hill together George remarked, "I'm glad she likes

onions; so do I."

But Uncle Amasa drew his rough hand across his eyes, murmuring, in a

choked sort of voice: "Well I swan, if between them two sets o'

childern, them that gives 'n' them that takes, I don't feel putty small!

Yes, I do that, put-ty small!"

BITS OF ADVICE.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

A TALK ABOUT SURPRISE PARTIES.

"What's this?" said I. "Let me put on my glasses, please," as a bevy of

nieces and nephews clustered around me, holding out square-shaped notes,

which bore a resemblance on the outside to invitations. Invitations they

were, to a surprise party at the residence of Miss Nellie E----, to be

held on an appointed evening. Four or five signatures in rather scrawly

hands were appended to them, and at the bottom of each billet I read a

mysterious word, as, for instance, on Cora's, the word Lemons; on

Kitty's, Sugar; on Rebecca's, Cake; and on Edwin's, Money. These were

the articles which, it was explained, the guests were to bring with them

to furnish the entertainment. Miss Nellie knew nothing about the honor

in store for her, although an elder sister, who had been consulted, "did

not object," said Alfred, "to our coming."

"But," added honest little Mary, "she did not seem very glad to have

us."

"Children," said I, "there are several objections to surprise parties.

People who wish to give parties usually prefer to name the time and

select their guests themselves. It may be very inconvenient to a little

girl's mother to have her house seized by a merry set of young folks,

who enter it for the purpose of having a good time. The parents who are

to provide lemon, sugar, and cake, or to supply the young gentlemen with

pocket-money, may not wish to have their money or their goods used in

that way. And, as a rule, gay evening parties, surprise or otherwise,

interfere seriously with school duties, and therefore are not precisely

the right things for boys and girls.

"Still, if you must surprise any one, Aunt Marjorie would advise you to

politely decline these invitations, and look about for the poorest and

neediest person you can find. Take the sugar, the lemons, the bread, the

ham, and the little packets of pocket-money, put them safely in a

basket, and set them down at the door of the crippled girl, or the

lonely boy whose mother and father are dead. You will enjoy such a

surprise party for months after it is over."

THE FALL OF A MOUNTAIN.

BY DAVID KER.

Some seventy years ago an old man sat at the door of his cottage in the

Swiss village of Goldau enjoying the warmth of the summer sunshine, and

the view of the fresh green valley dappled here and there with dark

clumps of trees. All around the great purple mountains stood up against

the sky, as if keeping guard over the pretty little village in their

midst, with its tiny log-huts clustered beneath the shadow of the neat

white church, like chickens nestling under the wing of the mother hen.

A big, florid, jolly-looking man came striding up the path, and held out

his hand to the old peasant, with a hearty "Good-day, Neighbor Kraus."

"Good-day, Neighbor Schwartz. Fine weather to-day."

"Beautiful. We'll have a famous harvest this year, please God."

"I hope so, neighbor. Won't you sit down a minute? It's warm walking."

"Thanks; I will. Holloa! what's the matter over yonder?"

Right opposite them, five thousand feet overhead, towered the dark mass

of the Rossberg, the highest of the surrounding mountains. Just as

Schwartz spoke, its huge outline seemed to be agitated by a slight

tremulous motion, like the nodding of a plume of feathers.

"Well, my friend, what are you staring at? Did you never see the trees

shaking in the wind before?"

"Of course; but it seemed to me somehow as if it wasn't only the trees

that shook, but the whole mountain."

"You're easily scared," chuckled the old man. "I suppose you're thinking

of the old saying that the Rossberg is to fall some day. Bah! they've

been saying so ever since I was a child, and it hasn't fallen yet."

Schwartz laughed, and the two friends went on talking. But suddenly the

visitor started up with a look of unmistakable terror; and no wonder.

His spiked staff, which he had stuck carelessly into the ground beside

him when he sat down, was _moving to and fro of itself_!

"Good gracious! do you see that, Father Kraus? And look at those birds

yonder, flying screaming away from the trees on the Rossberg! Something

is wrong, say what you will."

At that moment Hans Godrel, the miller, came flying past, shouting: "Run

for your lives! The stream's dried up, and that always comes before an

earthquake or an avalanche. Run!"

"Pooh! I'll have time to fill my pipe again," said old Kraus, coolly

producing his tobacco pouch.

But Schwartz was too thoroughly frightened to wait another moment. Down

the hill he flew like a madman, and had barely got clear of the village

when the earth shook under his feet so violently as to throw him down.

He sprang up again just in time to see poor old Kraus's cottage vanish

in a whirl of dust like a bursting bubble.

The next moment there came a terrific crash, followed by another so much

louder that it seemed to shake the very sky. In a moment all was dark as

night, and amid the gloom could be heard a medley of fearful sounds--the

rending of strong timbers, the hollow rumble of falling rocks and

gravel, the crash of wrecked buildings, the shrieks of the doomed

inmates, and the roar of angry waves from the lake below, as if all its

waters were breaking loose at once.

The last house of the village, on the side farthest from the Rossberg,

was that of Antoine Sepel, the wood-cutter, who at the first alarm

snatched up two of his children, and made for the opposite hill-side,

calling to his wife to follow with the other two. But the youngest,

Marianne, a little girl of six, had just run back into the house, and

before her mother could reach her, the first crash came. The terrified

woman seized the other girl, and fled without looking behind her.

But the old servant, Françoise, could think of her little favorite even

under the shadow of coming destruction. She darted into the house, and

had just caught the child in her arms, when the tremendous din of the

final crash told her that it was too late. In an instant the house was

lifted bodily from its place, and spun round like a top. The child was

torn from her clasp, and she felt herself thrown violently forward, the

strong timbers falling to pieces around her like a pack of cards. Still,

however, the brave woman struggled to free herself; but the weight that

kept her down defied her utmost strength. For her own safety she cared

little, although a violent pain in her head and a numbness along her

left arm told her that she was severely hurt. But where was the child?

"Marianne!" cried she, in desperation.

"Here I am," answered a tiny voice, seemingly not far from her. "I'm not

hurt a bit, only there's something holding me down; and I can see light

overhead quite plain. Won't they come and take us out soon?"

"No, there's no hope of that," said the old woman, feebly; "this is the

day of doom for us all. Say your prayers, darling, and commend yourself

to God."

And upward through the universal ruin, amid shattered rocks and uprooted

mountains, stole the child's clear sweet voice, praying the prayer that

she had learned at her mother's knee. It rose from that grim chaos of

destruction like Jonah's prayer from the depths of the sea, and like it

was heard and answered.

How long the two prisoners remained pent up in that living grave they

could never have told; but all at once Marianne thought she heard a

voice calling her name, and held her breath to listen. Yes, she was not

mistaken; there _was_ a voice calling to her, and it was the voice of

her father!

Sepel, having seen his wife and the other three children placed in

safety far up the opposite hill-side, had hurried back to seek the

missing girl. But it was in vain that he looked for any trace of the

village or even of the valley itself. The green, sunny uplands, where

the laborers had been working and the children frolicking but a few

hours before, were now one hideous disorder of fallen rocks, bare

gravel, and black cindery dust, amid which he wandered at random,

calling despairingly upon his lost darling.

But the answer came at last: a clear, musical call, which rose from a

shapeless heap of ruin that even he had failed to recognize as his

pretty little cottage. Hurrying to the spot, he began to tear away the

rubbish with the strength of a giant, and speedily drew forth the child

_unhurt_, the falling timbers, as if by miracle, having formed a kind of

arch over her, completely protecting her from injury.

Brave old Françoise had been less fortunate. Her left arm was so badly

hurt that she never recovered the use of it, and to the end of her life

she was always timid and nervous from the effects of that terrible

night. But, compared with the rest of the ill-fated villagers, she might

well esteem herself fortunate. Four-fifths of them were killed on the

spot, many more crippled for life, and those who escaped found

themselves reduced to absolute beggary. Of Goldau itself nothing

remained but the bell of its steeple, which was found more than a mile

away. The lower end of Lake Lowertz, farther down the valley, was

completely choked up by the falling rocks; and the water thus dislodged

rushed in a mighty wave seventy feet high over the island in the centre,

sweeping away every living thing upon it. The once happy and beautiful

valley is still a frightful desert, and here and there among the

surrounding hills you may find some white-haired grandfather who himself

witnessed the calamity and will tell you, in his quaint mountain speech,

how the Rossberg fell upon Goldau.

[Illustration: AN UNEXPECTED THANKSGIVING DINNER.]

PEOPLE WE HEAR ABOUT.

I.--ARTHUR SULLIVAN.

There is hardly a boy or girl in this country who does not know some of

the tunes in _Pinafore_ by heart--few, indeed, among our readers who

have not heard the opera--and all will be interested in hearing

something about the composer of that delightful music.

Arthur Sullivan is a bright-eyed, dark-haired man thirty-seven years of

age. When quite a little fellow he was a choir-boy in the chapel of St.

James's Palace in London, and at thirteen years he had made such

progress in musical studies that he composed an anthem that was sung in

the chapel before the Queen. On this occasion, he relates, with a merry

twinkle in his eyes, the Bishop of London patted him on the head, and

gave him ten shillings. At the age of fourteen, Arthur Sullivan won the

Mendelssohn Scholarship in the Royal Academy of Music, being the

youngest of those who tried for it, and was sent to Leipsic, in Germany,

to study under the most famous musicians of the time.

Strange though it may seem, the name of the composer of _Pinafore_ first

became known by a sacred oratorio, called the _Prodigal Son_. Since that

time Mr. Sullivan has written other oratorios, as well as a great many

songs that are sung everywhere; and there is hardly a hymn-book that

does not contain several hymns by this same great musician. The composer

of _Pinafore_ has followed up his success in that opera with two others

(also commencing with a P), the _Pirates of Penzance_ and _Patience_,

and it is said that he is already at work upon yet another one.

It may be said that comic operas are very light work for a great

musician to devote himself to; but those which Arthur Sullivan has

composed are the best of their kind, and the man who makes people

glad-hearted does as much good as he who makes them wise.

[Illustration: THE PLEASURES OF NUTTING-TIME.]

MICE AS PETS.

There is one kind of pets, and a very amusing kind they are too, which

every boy can have simply by setting a trap, and no one will object to

the snaring of them, or speak of the cruelty of depriving them of their

liberty. These pets are little bright-eyed, long-tailed mice, which can

be induced to display quite as much affection as any other pet, and

which are wonderfully interesting whether at play or at work.

Mice are not difficult to tame; they show great fondness for the one

who feeds them, and if their cage be properly cared for, are as cleanly

pets as one could wish to have.

To deprive mice of their liberty hardly seems cruel, since they are so

mischievous and destructive, and the boy who makes pets of them,

provided he catches them at home, takes away just so many provoking bits

of mischief from his mother's pantry, which is much better than to snare

birds or squirrels.

Mice will live and breed in a cage, and be quite as happy as when

enjoying their liberty, for they are accustomed to make a home of such

tiny places that they do not suffer in confinement, as pets do who find

their greatest pleasure in roaming.

It is possible to buy white mice at any bird-fancier's, but there are

reasons why it is better to have at least half your pets of the ordinary

house mice rather than to have them all white. One is that your mother

will look with more favor upon your mouse pet if it is one the less from

the number that annoy her.

There is hardly any necessity of telling a boy how to set a mouse-trap,

and in almost every house his labor will be very quickly rewarded with

as many as he can care for.

But once the industrious little fellows are caught and caged, do not

make the cruel mistake of thinking because they are only mice they do

not need any care. As long as they were in the walls, or under the

floors, they could take care of themselves, for they knew to the

fraction of an inch on which particular portion of the shelf the cheese

was placed, and exactly how to get at the bread. But when they have been

deprived of their liberty, it becomes the duty of their captor to see

that they want for nothing. What is true of any pet is equally true of

mice; they are entitled to all the care and attention they need as soon

as they are deprived of the power to care for themselves.

If one wants to have very tame mice, so tame that they can be taught to

come out of their cage at the word of command, and return to it when the

play is over, he should catch young ones, and put them in a cage with

wire front and solid back and sides.

Almost any kind of a hard-wood box, not less than twelve inches long and

wide, and eight inches high, can be made into a good cage by running

wires about the size of an ordinary knitting-needle up and down the

front, about a quarter of an inch apart. Then cut a small sliding door

at one side, and have the back made to slide up and down for purposes of

cleanliness. If at one end a small run-around, made of stout wire set

very closely together, be placed, the pets will have such a home as they

will be perfectly contented and happy in.

At one corner of the cage should be some rags for a nest, and unless

there are little ones in it, this nest must be removed at least once

each week. The entire cage should be washed quite as often, and every

care must be taken to keep it sweet and clean. Dry sand or sawdust is a

good thing to scatter over the floor of the house, as it can then be

cleaned readily by simply scraping the old sand out and pouring in

fresh.

Mice when at liberty are great builders, and have many curious ways of

providing snug quarters for their young. In one instance a number of

empty bottles had been stowed away upon a shelf, and among them was

found one which was tenanted by a mouse. The little creature had

considered that the bottle would afford a suitable home for her young,

and had therefore conveyed into it a quantity of bedding which she made

into a nest. The bottle was filled with the nest, and the eccentric

architect had taken the precaution to leave a round hole corresponding

to the neck of the bottle. In this remarkable domicile the young were

placed; and it is a fact worthy of notice that no attempt had been made

to shut out the light. Nothing would have been easier than to have

formed the cavity at the under side, so that the soft materials of the

nest would exclude the light; but the mouse had simply formed a

comfortable hollow for her young, and therein she had placed them.

The rapidity with which a mouse can make a nest is somewhat surprising.

Some few years ago, in a farmer's house, a loaf of newly baked bread was

placed upon a shelf, according to custom. Next day a hole was observed

in the loaf; and when it was cut open a mouse and her nest were

discovered within, the latter being made of paper. On examination, the

material of the habitation was found to have been obtained from a

copy-book, which had been torn into shreds and arranged in the form of a

nest. Within this curious home were nine new-born mice. Thus in the

space of thirty-six hours at most the loaf must have cooled, the

interior been excavated, the book found and cut into suitable pieces,

the nest made, and the young brought into the world.

If you have started your mouse menagerie with young mice, they should be

given a soft warm nest, and fed on bread and milk until they are grown,

when almost anything may be given them. Water should always be provided

for them, and the dish in which it is kept must be shallow, or they may

drown themselves.

If you whistle or make some peculiar noise when you feed them, they will

soon learn to associate the sound with the pleasure of eating, and come

out of their nest at the summons. To make them eat from the hand,

exclude cheese from their bill of fare several days, and then hold a bit

that is toasted where they can get it. The temptation will be so strong

that at the second trial they will take it from their master, and after

that they will eat from his hand very readily.

Young mice are great acrobats, and the antics of the little climbers and

leapers are very amusing when they have space sufficient in which to

display their skill.

Several instances are recorded of mice that made musical sounds

something like a soft low warble, and it has been thought by some that

this musical power might be cultivated so that they really could become

singing mice! But this is open to very many doubts, their vocal organs

being so entirely different from birds.

The most reasonable supposition is that the mice that are reported as

having sung were affected with some disease in the lungs or

air-passages, which caused the piping noise called music.

THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER VIII.

[1] Begun in No. 101, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

A refusal to go out with the hunters was a strange thing to come from Red

Wolf. No other young brave in that band of Apaches had a better

reputation for killing deer and buffaloes. It was a common saying among

the older squaws that when he came to have a lodge of his own "there

would always be plenty of meat in it." He was not, therefore, "a lazy

Indian," and it was something he had on his mind that kept him in the

camp that day. It had also made him beckon to Ni-ha-be, and look very

hard after Rita when she hurried away toward the bushes with her three

magazines of "talking leaves." Red Wolf was curious. He hardly liked to

say as much to a squaw, even such a young squaw as Ni-ha-be, and his own

sister, but he had some questions to ask her nevertheless.

He might have asked some of them of his father, but the great war chief

of that band of Apaches was now busily watching Dolores and her

saucepan, and everybody knew better than to speak to him just before

supper. Ni-ha-be saw at a glance what was the matter with her haughty

brother, and she was glad enough to tell him all there was to know of

how and where the talking leaves had been found.

"Did they speak to you?"

"No; but I saw pictures."

"Pictures of what?"

"Mountains, big lodges, trees, braves, pale-face squaws, pappooses,

white men's bears, and pictures that lied. Not like anything."

"Ugh! Bad medicine. Talk too much. So blue-coat soldier throw them

away."

"They talk to Rita."

"What say to her?"

"I don't know. She'll tell me. She'll tell you if you ask her."

"Ugh! No. Red Wolf is a warrior. Not want any squaw talk about pictures.

You ask Rita some things?"

"What things?"

"Make the talking leaves tell where all blue-coat soldiers go. All that

camped here. Know then whether we follow 'em."

"Maybe they won't tell."

"Burn some. The rest talk then. White man's leaves not want to tell

about white man. Rita must make them talk. Old braves in camp say they

know. Many times the talking leaves tell the pale-faces all about

Indians. I Tell where go. Tell what do. Tell how to find and kill. Bad

medicine."

The "old braves" of many an Indian band have puzzled their heads over

the white man's way of learning things and sending messages to a

distance, and Red Wolf's ideas had nothing unusual in them. If the

talking leaves could say anything at all, they could be made to tell a

chief and his warriors the precise things they wanted to know.

Ni-ha-be's talk with her brother lasted until he pointed to the camp

fire, where Many Bears was resting after his first attack upon the

results of Mother Dolores's cookery.

"Great chief eat. Good time talk to him. Go now."

There was no intentional lack of politeness in the sharp, overbearing

tone of Red Wolf. It was only the ordinary manner of a warrior speaking

to a squaw. It would therefore have been very absurd for Ni-ha-be to get

out of temper about it; but her manner and the toss of her head as she

turned away were decidedly wanting in the submissive meekness to be

expected of her age and sex.