positively. "I'll have Rita come and live with me. Red Wolf shall not
make her burn the talking leaves. Maybe she can make them talk to me. My
eyes are better than hers. She's nothing but a pale-face, if she did get
brought into my father's lodge."
A proud-spirited maiden was Ni-ha-be, and one who wanted a little more
of "her own way" than she could have under the iron rule of her great
father and the watchful eyes of Mother Dolores.
"I'll go to the bushes and see Rita. Our supper won't be ready yet for a
good while."
It would be at least an hour, but Ni-ha-be had never seen a clock in her
life, and knew nothing at all about "hours." There is no word for such a
thing in the Apache language.
She was as light of foot as an antelope, and her moccasins hardly made a
sound upon the grass as she parted the bushes and looked in upon Rita's
hiding-place.
"Weeping? The talking leaves have been scolding her. I will burn them.
They shall not say things to make her cry."
In a moment more her arms were around the neck of her adopted sister. It
was plain enough that the two girls loved each other dearly.
"Rita, what is the matter? Have they said strong words to you?"
"No, Ni-ha-be; good words, all of them. Only I can not understand them
all."
"Tell me some. See if I can understand them. I am the daughter of a
great chief."
Ni-ha-be did not know how very little help the wealth of a girl's father
can give her in a quarrel with her school-books. But just such ideas as
hers have filled the silly heads of countless young white people of both
sexes.
"I can tell you some of it."
"Tell me what made you cry."
"I can't find my father. He is not here. Not in any of them."
"You don't need him now. He was only a pale-face. Many Bears is a great
chief. He is your father now."
Something seemed to tell Rita that she would not be wise to arouse her
friend's national jealousy. It was better to turn to some of the
pictures, and try to explain them. Very funny explanations she gave,
too, but she at least knew more than Ni-ha-be, and the latter listened
seriously enough.
"Rita, was there ever such a mule as that?--one that could carry a pack
under his skin?"
It was Rita's turn now to be proud, for that was one of the pictures she
had been able to understand. She had even read enough to be able to tell
Ni-ha-be a good deal about a camel.
It was deeply interesting, but the Apache maiden suddenly turned from
the page to exclaim,
"Rita, Red Wolf says the talking leaves must tell you about the
blue-coat soldiers or he will burn them up."
"I'm going to keep them."
"I won't let him touch them."
"But, Ni-ha-be, they do tell about the soldiers. Look here."
She picked up another of the magazines, and turned over a few leaves.
"There they are. All mounted and ready to march."
Sure enough, there was a fine wood-cut of a party of cavalry moving out
of camp with wagons.
Over went the page, and there was another picture.
Ten times as many cavalry on the march, followed by an artillery force
with cannon.
"Oh, Rita! Father must see that."
"Of course he must; but that is not all."
Another leaf was turned, and there was a view of a number of Indian
chiefs in council at a fort, with a strong force of both cavalry and
infantry drawn up around them.
Rita had not read the printed matter on any of those pages, and did not
know that it was only an illustrated description of campaigning and
treaty-making on the Western plains. She was quite ready to agree with
Ni-ha-be that Many Bears ought to hear at once what the talking leaves
had to say about so very important a matter.
It was a good time to see him now, for he was no longer very hungry, and
word had come in from the hunters that they were having good success. A
fine prospect of a second supper, better than the first, was just the
thing to make the mighty chief good-tempered, and he was chatting cozily
with some of his "old braves" when Rita and Ni-ha-be drew near.
They beckoned to Red Wolf first.
"The talking leaves have told Rita all you wanted them to. She must
speak to father."
Red Wolf's curiosity was strong enough to make him arrange for that at
once, and even Many Bears himself let his face relax into a grim smile
as the two girls came timidly nearer the circle of warriors.
After all, they were the pets and favorites of the chief; they were
young and pretty, and so long as they did not presume to know more than
warriors and counsellors they might be listened to. Besides, there were
the talking leaves, and Rita's white blood, bad as it was for her, might
be of some use in such a matter.
"Ugh!"
[Illustration: "MANY BEARS LOOKED AT THE PICTURE."]
Many Bears looked at the picture of the cavalry squad with a sudden
start. "No lie this time. Camp right here. Just so many blue-coats. Just
so many wagons. Good. Now where go?"
Rita turned the leaf, and her Indian father was yet more deeply
interested.
"Ugh! More blue-coats. Great many. No use follow. Get all killed. Big
guns. Indians no like 'em. Ugh!"
If the cavalry expedition was on its way to join a larger force, it
would indeed be of no use to follow it, and Many Bears was a cautious
leader as well as a brave one.
Rita's news was not yet all given, however, and when the eyes of the
chief fell upon the picture of the "treaty-making" he sprang to his
feet.
"Ugh! Big talk come. Big presents. Other Apaches all know--all be
there--all get blanket, gun, tobacco, new axe. Nobody send us word,
because we off on hunt beyond the mountains. Now we know, we march right
along. Rest horse, kill game, then ride. Not lose our share of
presents."
Rita could not have told him his mistake, and even if she had known it,
she would have been puzzled to explain away the message of the talking
leaves.
Did not every brave in the band know that that first picture told the
truth about the cavalry? Why, then, should they doubt the correctness of
the rest of it?
No; a treaty there was to be, and presents were to come from the red
man's "great father at Washington," and that band of Apaches must manage
to be on hand and secure all that belonged to it, and as much more as
possible.
Red Wolf had nothing more to say about burning up leaves which had
talked so well, and his manner toward Rita was almost respectful as he
led her and Ni-ha-be away from the group of great men that was now
gathering around the chief. Red Wolf was too young a brave to have any
business to remain while gray heads were in council. A chief would
almost as soon take advice from a squaw as from a "boy."
Mother Dolores had heard nothing of all this, but her eyes had not
missed the slightest thing. She had even permitted a large slice of deer
meat to burn to a crisp in her eager curiosity.
"What did they say to the chief?" was her first question to Rita.
But Ni-ha-be answered her with: "Ask the warriors. If we talk too much,
we shall get into trouble."
"You must tell me."
"Not until after supper. Rita, don't let's tell her a word unless she
cooks for us and gives us all we want. She made us get our own supper
last night."
"You came late. I did not tell your father. I gave you enough. I am very
good to you."
"No," said Rita; "sometimes you are cross, and we don't get enough to
eat. Now you shall cook us some corn-bread and some fresh meat. I am
tired of dried buffalo: it is tough."
The curiosity of Dolores was getting hotter and hotter, and she thought
again of the wonderful leaf which had spoken to her. She wanted to ask
Rita questions about that too, and she had learned by experience that
there was more to be obtained from her willful young friends by coaxing
than in any other way.
"I will get your supper now, while the chiefs are talking. It shall be a
good supper--good enough for Many Bears. Then you shall tell me all I
ask."
"Of course I will," said Rita.
A fine fat deer had been deposited near that camp fire by one of the
first hunters that had returned, and Mother Dolores was free to cut and
carve from it, but her first attempt at a supper for the girls did not
succeed very well. It was not on account of any fault of hers, however,
or because the venison steak she cut and spread upon the coals, while
her corn-bread was frying, did not broil beautifully.
No; the temporary disappointment of Ni-ha-be and Rita was not the fault
of Mother Dolores. Their mighty father was sitting where the odor of
that cookery blew down upon him, and it made him hungry again before the
steak was done. He called Red Wolf to help him, for the other braves
were departing to their own camp fires, and in a minute or so more there
was little left of the supper intended for the two young squaws. Dolores
patiently cut and began to broil another slice, but that was Red Wolf's
first supper, and it was the third slice which found its way into the
lodge, after all.
The strange part of it was that not even Ni-ha-be dreamed of
complaining. It was according to custom.
There was plenty of time to eat supper after it came, for Dolores was
compelled to look out for her own. She would not have allowed any other
squaw to cook for her, any more than she herself would have condescended
to fry a cake for any one below the rank of her own husband and his
family.
Mere common braves and their squaws could take care of themselves, and
it was of small consequence to Dolores whether they had anything to eat
or not. There is more "aristocracy" among the wild red men than anywhere
else, and they have plenty of white imitators who should know better.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: HAPPY AS A KING--"PAPERS ALL SOLD."]
SHADOW PANTOMIMES.
What are the boys and girls going to do Thanksgiving night when dinner
is over, the nuts and raisins all gone, the last sugar-plum eaten, and
it isn't yet time to go to bed? Suppose they try Shadow Pantomimes.
Draw a white screen across the parlor, hanging down to the floor, darken
the part of the room where the audience are, and place one strong light
at the extreme end, behind the stage, so that the shadows of the actors
will be thrown on the screen when they pass or stand behind it. The
subjects have to be guessed by the audience. A Shadow Pantomime has the
advantage that all sorts of contrivances can be used, and the appearance
of the players disguised, so that the lookers-on will soon want to see
what is at the other side of the screen, where the sight of card-board
cats and donkeys and paper noses and chins would be a sad disillusion.
The player should in general keep near the screen, but never touch or
shake it; and as there is no scenery except such shadows as bushes or
fences, no scene is announced, but all has to be guessed from the action
of the figures. The subjects should, of course, be easy to guess, as the
audience enjoys better what is recognized quickly. We suggest to
ingenious shadow-makers as possible subjects: _Cinderella_--the child
and the godmother, the dance, the fitting of the shoe. _The Lion and the
Unicorn_--the lion's mane and tail and the unicorn's horn being the
chief distinctions, and the crown being represented on a pole in the
middle while they fight; afterward the representation of the last lines
are easy: "Some gave them white bread, and some gave them brown; some
gave them plum-cake, and drummed them out of town." _Punch and Judy_,
with Judy's large cap and Punch's hump, pointed cap, and long nose and
chin, and of course a Toby, well cut out of mill-board or card-board.
_The House that Jack built_, with a constant show of the objects in
succession, some of them only cut models, held at a distance from the
screen so as to enlarge the shadows: this would be necessary, for
instance, in showing the house with its bright windows, and it is well
for such subjects to draw a curtain across the lower part of the stage,
and place a screen at each side, so as to leave only a small square of
light for exhibiting the shadows, while the hands are hidden behind the
screens. _Sing a Song of Sixpence_, the pie being the shadow of a packed
clothes-basket, the king and queen wearing crowns, and the blackbird of
the last verses being swung on the end of a thread so as to hit off a
paper nose.
Most of the nursery rhymes admit of being shown in shadows, and also
such ballads as the "Mistletoe Bough." There may be, for a change at the
end, a few shadow charades, such as Snow-ball, Cox-comb, Asterisk
(ass-tea-risk), Ring-let, Cat-as-(ass)-trophy, etc., done quickly and
guessed easily.
[Illustration]
KING HAZELNUT
King Hazelnut, of Weisnichtwo,
A jolly King was he,
And all his subjects, high and low,
Were happy as could be.
They feasted every day on pie
And pudding and plum-cake,
And never broke the law--for why?--
There was no law to break.
Oh, jolly was King Hazelnut,
Especially at noon;
Then many a caper he would cut,
And hum a merry tune.
And from his golden throne he'd hop,
And fling his sceptre down,
And on the table, like a top,
Would spin his golden crown.
Then he would slap his sides and sing
Unto his serving-man,
"That rolly-poly pudding bring
As lively as you can."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
A HAPPY THANKSGIVING and a splendid time to all our boys and girls!
* * * * *
GLENCOE, LOUISIANA.
Viola E. would perhaps find the names most familiar to your young
Creole subscribers in Louisiana as unaccustomed as are those of
which she writes to the ears of children outside of Virginia. In
this house the young girl to whom YOUNG PEOPLE is addressed was
christened Elmire, but is known only by her _petit nom_ of
"Fillette." Her mother's name is Gracieuse--is it not musical? An
impish little ebon-hued maid in the yard is Mariquite. Another,
with gleaming ivories, is Yélie. A cousin who comes often, and is
nearly old enough to cast his vote, is yet "Bébé," despite his
sponsors having called him Édouard. And "Guisson," his brother, who
would guess his name to be Émile?
A little knowledge of creole interiors would correct the ideas so
prevalent as to creole indolence. Away down here, on a sluggish
little bayou that makes its way through the plantation to the
not-far-distant Gulf, these young girls, though not perhaps
speaking so good English as their Virginia sisters of Anglo-Saxon
extraction, having learned it rather from the lips of negro
servants than from their parents, are, at any rate, their peers in
womanly accomplishments, if practical knowledge of the details of a
_ménage_ constitutes such--the ability to wash, starch, iron,
straighten a room, make a gumbo, mix a cake and bake it, etc. The
very neatly made calico dresses they wear are their own handiwork.
After five hours spent in the school-room with their
_institutrice_, and the required time given to the practice of
their piano, one of them is amusing herself by making a quantity of
under-clothing for a beloved little _filleule_. A _basse-cour_ of
about six hundred turkeys, ducks, and chickens is cared for almost
wholly by the two girls and their mother. Domestic virtues these,
worthy even of Yankee girls, are they not? Just as much, though, as
Yankee girls or as Virginia girls do these young Louisianians claim
their heritage as Americans and their place among your "Young
People."
L'INSTITUTRICE.
We have read this letter with great pleasure, and now we would like to
hear from somebody about our Western girls; and the New England girls
too will find a corner waiting if they choose to write.
* * * * *
HARPER, IOWA.
I can now read all the long stories in YOUNG PEOPLE. I liked "Tim
and Tip" very much, and think the bear hunt was quite funny. I had
a pair of white doves given me as a present. One of them, in trying
to fly through the screen door, broke its neck, and the other flew
away with some wild ones. So I lost my pets, and was very sorry. I
am sorry for Jimmy Brown. He makes me think of myself sometimes. My
sister teaches piano music. My two brothers play in the Cornet
Band, and I am learning music; so we have plenty of music. We all
go to school.
HARPER R.
* * * * *
MANHATTAN, KANSAS.
I have three brothers and two sisters. This summer we all went to
New Mexico. We stopped at Las Vegas, and saw the Hot Springs, and
the water in the springs was so hot that we could not hold our
hands in it. And we stopped over Sunday at Santa Fe, and saw the
Corpus Christi procession. We saw a horned toad that ran as fast as
a horse. We brought back two donkeys, and mine threw me off, and
broke my two front teeth. Uncle Henry gave us some saddles. Our
baby is only two months old, and has red hair. I liked "Toby Tyler"
best of any. I am nine years old. My name is
MAGGIE P.
* * * * *
ROSA MAYFIELD'S LOSS.
Let me introduce my readers to a bright, sunny-haired girl who on a
pleasant morning in July is playing in a large garden. She first
sits down in a pretty little arbor, and sews for a short time; then
she puts her work away, and goes to plant some seed which old
James, the gardener, has given her. Suddenly she hears some one
calling to her from the house.
"Rosa! Rosa! come here a minute, my child."
"Yes, mamma," said Rosa; "I will come as soon as I have put away my
tools."
When she reached the sitting-room, her mamma was not there, but on
running to the bedroom, she found her, all dressed to go out, and
putting on her gloves. As soon as she saw Rosa, she said: "Would
you like to go to the cattle show with me, dear, and then go to
your cousins, in the country for tea? The carriage will be round
presently."
"Oh yes, indeed I should, mamma," said the little girl, as she
skipped away to nurse to be dressed.
"Oh, you darling mamma," said Rosa, as she settled herself in the
carriage beside her mother. "I always enjoy going to tea with May
and Clara Haliburton so much! and I have never been to a cattle
show;" and here she clapped her hands and laughed so loud that her
mother had to tell her to be quiet, as the passers-by would think
she must be a very badly behaved little girl.
At last, they reached the cattle show. Then they got out of the
carriage, and went inside. There they saw dogs, cats, rabbits, and
all sorts of animals. Rosa was greatly delighted with a beautiful
white rabbit with pink eyes.
After they had seen enough, they drove to the rectory, where the
Haliburtons lived. After Rosa had said good-afternoon to her aunt,
May and Clara took her to see the chickens and rabbits, the donkey,
and all their other pets. Never had she spent such a delightful
afternoon, and was very sorry when the tea bell rang, and they had
to go in. But what a tea they had! Muffins, cakes, and preserves of
all sorts, and such delicious fresh bread and butter, and new milk
from her uncle's farm. At a quarter to nine the carriage came to
take them home, and they had to say good-by.
Rosa was so tired that she fell asleep in her mamma's arms, and
never woke till the next morning, when she found herself in her own
little bed.
In Mrs. Mayfield's room some parcels are waiting, addressed to Miss
R. Mayfield, one large, and the others small; and as it is Rosa's
birthday, she is to open them herself. All the small ones are
opened. In one she finds a gold brooch from her mamma; in another
is a prayer-book from her father; in the others are presents from
all her little friends. At last she unties the string and draws off
the paper of the large parcel, and gives one scream of delight as
she sees in a beautiful lined basket the little rabbit she saw at
the cattle show. The lady to whom it belonged, being a friend of
Mrs. Mayfield, had heard Rosa saying she would like to have it, and
had sent it to her. Rosa ran off with her new pet to feed it, and
after showing it to everybody she took it into the garden and put
it into a cage close by her arbor, in a sunny corner, where she
could always see it. She kept it carefully for three months; but on
going to feed it one morning, with her hands full of lettuce leaves
and clover, she found her pet was gone. A cruel cat had come every
day and watched her feeding her rabbit, and at last, seeing her
just pull the door to, and not lock it, had seized the opportunity,
and had carried off her pet.
Poor little Rosa cried herself to sleep that night, and for many
nights after, and never loved any of the pets her mamma gave her as
she had loved her little white rabbit.
GUSSIE TOBIAS (aged 10 years),
Liverpool, England.
* * * * *
OKAHUMPKA, FLORIDA.
I am a little girl ten years old, and live away down in South
Florida, where the sun is always bright and the trees always green.
In our quiet little home there are only mamma, Addie, and I. Our
dear father is dead. Sister Addie is six years old. We have no
school, church, nor Sunday-school. Mamma gives us our lessons daily
at home, and a kind English gentleman gives me music lessons. We do
not know who sends us the YOUNG PEOPLE, but hope our kind unknown
friend will see this letter, and learn how much we enjoy the gift
and appreciate the kindness. I am suffering from sore eyes, and not
allowed to read or write, so mamma is writing for me; but when I
get well I will write myself, and tell about our pets and other
things.
ROSA M. J.
* * * * *
SCANDIA, KANSAS.
I have been taking your paper almost a year, and like it very much.
It was papa's Christmas present to me, so I thought I would write
you a letter. I have a pet hen. I call her Brownie. She is getting
old now. She answers me in hen language when I take her up and talk
to her. I have a canary-bird. I call him Dickey. He is just
learning to sing.
LAURA H.
* * * * *
HARLEM, NEW YORK.
I have had my cat Till seven years. We think he is a very wise cat,
for he sits upon his hind-legs and begs. When I go down stairs in
the morning, if I say, "Good-morning, Till," he will shake hands
with me. He is a very dainty cat. He will not eat roast beef unless
it is very rare, and he does not care at all for the heads of
chickens and turkeys; but he loves cheese and crackers, and will
eat all the cake I will give him. I am eleven years old.
MABEL M. S.
* * * * *
MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN.
I have a great many dolls, and a large doll house in the
conservatory, which I enjoy very much, so I thought you would be
pleased to have a letter from me. Mrs. Love Lee and her ten
children live in the large doll house, which is a little taller
than I am. I am six. The babies Faith, Hope, and Love are triplets.
I wish we had three live babies. Cozy has two kittens. Cozy is my
cat. Arthur and Arabella are twins, about in the middle. Blanche is
the young lady, and Fifine the big school-girl. Rosebud is only six
inches tall, and her eyes open and shut, and she moves her head and
arms and legs. Daffodil is just the same, only smaller, and Joe is
the little boy. Ida takes care of the children in the nursery.
Dinah is the cook. She is colored very much. Chechon sets the
table, and keeps the dining-room in order. Chechon is a Chinese.
The twins have a very nice cabinet of shells and stones. I gave
them some out of mine. Each of the children have something to do to
help their mamma, just, as I do.
I go to Kindergarten, and once a week I speak a little piece out of
_Baby-Land_, or _St. Nicholas_, or HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, or _The
Nursery_. I can say all of "The Cat, the Parrot, and the Monkey."
It is just at the end of my bound HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. It is
called "Filbert." That is the best story I know. I like "The Story
of a Parrot," too, but it would have been better if some one had
carried him home at last. Papa says he don't see why I like that
story so well, but he reads it to me 'most every Sunday. He likes
"Toby Tyler" a great deal better, or even "Tim and Tip." They are
pretty good too. I don't like story boys as well as I do story
animals. I like live animals too. Dogs and cats are never afraid of
me, but will come right to me in the street or anywhere. I found a
little mud-turtle at Minnehaha Falls, and brought it to papa and
mamma by its tail, and it played with me a little while, and then I
carried it back to its cave at the side of the path down the gully.
This fall I caught a live star-fish, when the tide was coming in,
down on the beach at Portland, Maine, and we brought it home to put
in my cabinet when it gets dry enough. It is sticky yet. It is out
in the wood-shed drying. When we were going there I caught a mouse.
It ran into its hole in the corner of the dépôt, all but its tail.
I suppose I took hold too tightly, or else too high up, for he
turned around and bit my thumb. I wasn't going to hurt him, but
just to play with him a little while. I wish animals could talk.
That was at the Montreal dépôt.
You asked about dolls. I have a doll, about a foot high, wheeling a
little cart in front of her. When I draw the cart by a string, the
doll goes trot, trot, trot on behind, and every one I meet turns
around, and says, "Did you ever see anything so funny?" Uncle Ebb
found it at Manistee, Michigan, and sent it to me by express.