CHAPTER IX.

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Lynn Bornath and the Online

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[Illustration: MANDY AND BUB BY THE NETS. [See page 450.]]

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. V.

MAY, 1878.

No. 7.

[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]

HOW MANDY WENT ROWING WITH THE "CAP'N."

BY MARY HALLOCK FOOTE.

It was the month of May--the season of fresh shad and apple-blossoms on

the Hudson River. "Bub" and "Mandy" Lewis knew more about the shad than

they did about the apple-blossoms, for their father was a fisherman,

and they lived in a little house built on a steep bank between the road

above and the river below. Sometimes, on cool, damp spring evenings,

the scent of the orchards came down to them from the hills above, but

the smell of shad was much stronger and nearer.

Just in front of the house was an old wharf, where fishing-boats were

moored, and nets spread for drying or mending. One morning, Bub and

Mandy were sitting on the log which guards the edge of the wharf,

watching their father and brother Jeff getting ready to spread the nets

for next night's "haul." Jeff was busy with the buoy lines and sinkers,

while the father bailed out the boat with an old tin pan. The children

were rather subdued--Bub wondering how long it would be before he could

"handle a boat" like Jeff and go out with his father? Mandy was

expecting every moment to hear her mother's voice calling from the

house. It was Monday morning, and Mandy knew her mother would soon be

starting for the Hillard's, where she "helped" on Mondays and

Saturdays.

These were the longest days of the week to Mandy, for then she had baby

to tend all by herself and he was "such a bother!"

Yes, there it was: "Mandy!--Mandy!--Mandy _Lewis_! don't you hear?"

Mandy kept her eyes gloomily fixed on the curve of her father's back,

as it bent and rose in the boat below, in time with the scra-a-a-pe,

swish, of the bailer.

"What's the use makin' b'l'eve you don't hear?" said Bub. "You know

you've got to go!"

"I just wish mother'd make _you_ tend baby once, and see how you'd like

it!"--and Mandy rose with an impatient jerk of her bonnet-strings and

slowly climbed the steep path to the house. Her mother, standing in the

door-way with baby on one arm, shaded her eyes from the sun as she

watched the cloudy face under the pink bonnet. It was always cloudy on

Mondays and Saturdays.

"Seems as if you didn't love your little brother, Mandy--such work as

you make of tendin' him! Just look how glad he is to see you," as baby

leaned forward and began pulling at the pink bonnet. "He's just had his

bread and milk, and if you set right there in the door, where he can

watch the chickens, I shouldn't wonder if he'd be real good for ever so

long. Father and Jeff wont be home to dinner, but there's plenty of

bread and butter and cold beans in the closet for you and Bub. You can

set the beans in the oven to warm, if you like--only be sure you put

'em on an old plate; and you can divide what's left of the ginger-bread

between you."

"Oh, mother! can't we eat it now?" said Bub, who had watched his father

and Jeff off in the boat, and, now returning to the house, didn't

quite know what to do next.

"Why, it aint an hour sence breakfast! But you can do as you like;

only, if Mandy eats hers, baby'll want it, sure. Better wait till he's

asleep."

"All right; Mandy can wait," said Bub, cheerfully, as his mother set

the plate of cake on the table before leaving the house.

"Oh, Bub, I'm awful hungry, too!" said Mandy. "You cut the cake in

halves,--mind you cut fair,--and hold my piece for me where baby can't

see it. Sit right here behind me."

So Mandy on the door-step, and Bub on the floor, with his back against

the door, which he gently tilted as he munched his cake, were very

silent and comfortable for a minute or two.

The hens crawed and cackled, with cozy, gossipy noises, in the sun

before the door; the baby blinked and cooed contentedly.

"Ready for another bite?" said Bub, holding out Mandy's cake close to

her left ear.

"In a min-ute," said Mandy, with her mouth full. "Bub Lewis, aint you

ashamed of yourself? You've been eatin' off my piece! I saw you just

now!"

"Aint, either! You can see great things with the back of your head!

Here's your piece 'n' here's mine. Yours is ever so much bigger!"

"Well, you've been gobbling yours's fast's you could, and I only had

two little bites off mine."

"_Little_ bites! I sh'd think so! Don't know what you call big ones,

then! So chuck full you couldn't speak half a minute ago. Here, hold

your own cake, and let baby grab it!"

"Well, I'd rather give it _all_ to him, than have you eat it up on the

sly!"

Bub walked down toward the water without deigning a reply, but thought

of several things on his way which would have been more withering than

silence.

Mandy did not enjoy the rest of her cake very much,--eating it

furtively, so baby should not want it, and dropping crumbs on his

little white head, which he kept twisting around, to see what she was

doing. She began to think that perhaps she had been rather hasty in

accusing Bub; but surely that was the right-hand piece, instead of the

left, he was biting from? Well, anyway, it didn't much matter now the

cake was all eaten. The old rooster had wandered round the corner of

the house, where he was presently heard calling to his favorite hen.

She ran, and all the others followed. Baby grew restless, and made

little impatient noises, and the sun was getting very hot and bright on

the door-step. What _was_ Bub doing down there among the nets on the

drying-ground? He had been very still, with his head bent down and his

hands moving about for ever so long.

Mandy felt that, after their late unpleasantness, it would be more

dignified to take no notice of Bub for a while; but curiosity, and

baby's restlessness, finally prevailed over pride, and rolling up her

troublesome little burden in an old red shawl, she trotted with him

down to the river.

"Bub," she said, after standing by him some time in silence, watching

him driving a row of small sticks into the ground, "_was_ it my piece

you was bitin' off?"

"I told you 't wasn't. If you don't b'l'eve me, what's the use o' my

sayin' so again?"

"Well, I'm sorry, Bub. I just caught a sight of you as I turned my

head, an' I thought--"

"Oh, well, never mind what you thought; we've heard enough 'bout that

cake! Shove your foot one side a little? I want to drive another spile

there. Them's the hitchin' spiles on the inside."

"What you buildin'?" asked Mandy.

"Can't you see for yourself? What's built on spiles, I'd like to know!

Meetinghouses, may be you think. This is Lewis's dock; all the day

boats and barges stop here!"

"Where's the water?" asked Mandy.

"Oh, you wait till high tide, 'bout four o'clock this afternoon, 'n'

you'll see water enough!"

Just then, a boy in a blue blouse, with a basket of fish over his

shoulder, came whistling along.

"Perry! Perry Kent! Where you goin'?" Bub called.

"Down to little cove, to clean fish."

"Oh, can't I go along and help? I can scale a herrin' first-rate;

father said so."

"Aint herrin'; they're shad; got to be cleaned very partic'lar, too.

But come along, if you want to."

"Bub," said Mandy, in an eager whisper, "oh, Bub, wait for me! Baby's

fast asleep. I'll lay him right down here, in his shawl; the nets'll

keep the sun off, 'n' he'll be real cozy 'n' nice till we get back."

"Why don't you take him up to the house?" said Perry, looking with some

interest at Mandy's bundle. "'Taint a very good place for him here.

You'll find us at the cove, all right."

"He'll wake up sure, if I try to carry him up the hill. See how nice he

lays; and I'll hang the end of the shawl over this net-pole. I can see

it plain enough from the cove. If he wakes up, he'll be tumblin' round

and pull it off, so I'll know when to come back for him."

"Well, it takes a girl for contrivance," Perry said; and it was

something in his manner rather than the words which made Mandy, as she

followed the two boys, vaguely feel she was disapproved of.

The cove was a half-circle of pebble beach, washed by the ripples of a

slowly rising tide, with a wall of gray slate rock at the back.

Hemlock-trees leaned from the steep wooded cliff above, the shadows of

their boughs moving with the wind across the sunny face of the rock.

It was very warm and still and bright. Mandy climbed to a perch high up

in the twisted roots of an old hemlock, who, having ventured too far

over the edge of the cliff, was clinging there, desperately driving his

tough toes into the crevices of the rock, and wildly waving his boughs

upward and backward as if imploring help from his comrades, safe in the

dark wood above.

The river spread broad and bright below her. Mandy listened, in happy

silence, to all the mysterious rustlings and twitterings and cracklings

in the wood above, and the sounds, far and near, from the river below.

Now and then she looked to see if the shawl still fluttered from the

net-pole. She was glad she came, and it seemed but a very little while

before the fish were all cleaned, and the boys, sitting on a rock,

skipping pebbles, and watching for Perry Kent's father, who was coming

in his boat to take the fish up to the hotel.

Perry's father was always called Cap'n Kent. He kept a kind of floating

restaurant. One end of his boat was boarded over into a closet, with

shelves filled with a supply of fresh fruit and berries in the season,

cider, cakes, pies, root-beer, lemons, crackers, etc. His customers

were chiefly the "hands" on board sloops becalmed opposite the landing,

or passing barges and canal-boats, slowly trailed in the wake of a

panting propeller, or escorted by dingy little "tugs," struggling along

like lively black beetles.

The "Cap'n" was a very tall man, and his arms were so long that, as he

rowed, he sat quite upright, only stretching his arms back and forth,

scarcely bending his body at all. This gave great dignity to his

appearance in a boat. His feet were very long too, and when he walked

he lifted the whole foot at once, and put it down flat. Of course he

could not walk very fast; but so important a person as the "Cap'n"

could never be in a hurry.

As he held his boat against a rock while Perry lifted in the basket of

fish, he saw the wistful faces of the children standing on the beach.

Now, the "Cap'n" considered himself a very good-natured man, and

good-natured men are always fond of children. So he called out in a

loud voice:

"Whose little folks are you?"

"Bub and Mandy Lewis," Mandy answered quickly.

Bub nudged her with his elbow.

"He spoke to _me_, Mandy!"

"Want to take a little row up to the hotel? Let's see--your folks live

by the old fishin' dock, don't they? Wal, I can leave ye there comin'

back. You can tell your Pa that Cap'n Kent took ye out rowin'."

"I'd like to go, if you please," said Bub, who was ready with an answer

this time; "but Mandy, she's got to tend to the baby."

"The baby! What baby?" said the "Cap'n," while Mandy whispered,

crossly, "Bub, I think you're real mean!"

"Oh, sir, baby's fast asleep up on the dryin'-ground, where the nets

are! I could go as far as that, if you'd let me get out there,--if it

wouldn't be too much trouble, sir."

"Course it would!" said Bub, emphatically.

But the "Cap'n," who was not so good-natured that he liked to have

small boys answer for him, gravely considered the matter while he

settled his oars in the rowlocks.

"Wal, it's some trouble, perhaps; but I don't mind puttin' myself out

once in a while for a nice little gal. Step lively now, young man! Come

along, sissy!"

Mandy sat radiant in the little bow-seat, as the boat pushed off. A

great Albany "tow" was passing,--a whole fleet of barges and

canal-boats lashed together,--with calves and sheep bellowing and

bleating, cables creaking, clothes flapping on the lines; a big

steamboat, with a freight-barge under each wing, plowing the water on

ahead, and sending the waves chasing each other in shore.

The little boat danced gayly on the "rollers." A fresh wind blew toward

them, and brought with it a shout of "Boat ahoy! Hello, Cap'n! Got any

good stuff aboard?"

"Got some good _cider_," the "Cap'n" called in reply, with strong

emphasis on the last word.

"Come alongside, then!"

The "Cap'n" condescended to lean a little on his oars in pursuit of a

bargain, and sent the little boat spinning over the water toward one of

the barges in the rear part of the "tow."

Some men in a row were lounging over the rail; one of them threw a

rope, which hissed and splashed close to the boat. Perry caught it, and

they were soon under the lee of the floating village.

While the store was unlocked, and its wares handed out, Mandy noticed,

on the deck above, a woman washing a little boy three or four years

old. He stood in an old wooden pail, with a rope tied to the

handle,--his little white body, all naked and slippery, shining in the

sun. One could hardly help noticing him, he screamed so lustily as the

water was dashed over his head and shoulders.

Mandy saw how his face showed red and flushed with crying, under the

dripping yellow locks.

She thought uneasily of the baby, lying all alone on the old dock;

wondered if the sun had got round so as to shine in his face, and how

long the "Cap'n" would stand there, talking with those men. She was

happy again when the boat dropped behind and the "Cap'n" turned toward

the shore.

"Perry," he said, "just look at my watch--there in my weskit-pocket on

the starn-seat. What time's it got to be?"

"Twenty minutes to one," said Perry.

"What time'd I say we'd have them shad up there? One o'clock? Wal, one

o'clock it'll be, then. Only we can't leave this little gal ashore till

we come back."

"Oh, please----" Mandy began, in great dismay as she saw they were

passing the fishing-dock. "The baby! He's there all alone, and--oh,

Bub, the shawl's gone! I _must_ go ashore, Cap'n Kent--please!"

"Never mind, sissy; baby's all right. Bless my soul! who'd want to

carry off a baby? There aint no wild beasts roamin' round, and most of

us's got babies enough o' our own to hum, without borryin of the

neighbors. You'll find him there all safe enough when we get back. Them

shad, ye see, was promised at one o'clock up to the hotel. Cap'n Kent,

ye know, he never breaks his word."

"But you said----?" Mandy began, in a distressed voice, when Bub

interrupted her.

"You'd better keep quiet, Mandy. You would come, 'n' now I hope you'll

get enough of it!"

That was a very long twenty minutes to Mandy, while they drew slowly

nearer and nearer to the steamboat-landing, and the little white and

brown houses of the fishermen, scattered along shore, one by one were

left behind.

"Now, Perry," the "Cap'n" said, as he unshipped his oars, while the

children clambered out of the boat, "just look at that ere watch again.

See if the Cap'n aint as good as his word. Five minutes to one, eh?

Didn't I tell ye? Hello, sissy! Where's that gal goin' to now? What's

your hurry? I'll take ye back in half an hour."

But Mandy was off, running like a young fox along the edge of the

wharf.

"Cap'n," said Bub, "we're much obliged to you, sir, and I guess I'll go

on too. Mandy's awful scared about the baby, and--"

"Lord, what a fuss 'bout a baby!" the "Cap'n" broke in with his loud

voice, "Babies aint so easy got rid of. Wal, may be you'll go rowin'

with the Cap'n again, some day. Tell yer Ma I've got some first-class

lemons, if she wants to make pies for Sunday. Can't get no such lemons

at the store."

But the "Cap'n's" last words were wasted, for Bub was already speeding

off after Mandy.

When he reached the fishing-dock, there she sat, a dismal little heap,

on the ground between the net-poles. She had lost her bonnet; she had

fallen down and rubbed dust in her hair. Now she sat rocking herself to

and fro, and sobbing.

"Oh, Bub! The baby!" was all she could say.

"Look here, Mandy! Stop cryin' a minute, will you?" said Bub. "It's

after one o'clock; may be mother had only half a day at Hillard's, and

come home 'n' found the baby down here; she could see the shawl from

the house."

Mandy jumped up, "Let's go see. Quick!" she cried. But the string of

one shoe was broken, and the shoe slipped at every step. She stooped to

fasten it. "Don't wait, Bub. Go on, please!" Then she felt so tired and

breathless with running and crying, that she dropped down on the ground

again to wait for Bub's return.

She heard his feet running down the hill, and wondered if they brought

good news.

No; the house was empty. No baby or mother there!

"I must go to Hillard's," said Bub. "You'd better stay, Mandy; you look

'most beat out."

His voice was very gentle, and Mandy could not bear it.

"Oh, Bub! don't be good to me. I'm a horrid wicked girl! What will

mother say? How _can_ I tell her?" Then she broke into sobs again.

It was dreadful, sitting there alone, after Bub's footsteps died away

in the distance, thinking and wondering hopelessly about the baby.

Mandy remembered how his little head, heavy with sleep, had drooped

lower and lower, and tired her arms. How gladly would she feel that

ache if she could only hold the warm little body in her arms again!

How still it was! She could hear the children at McNeal's, down the

road, laughing and calling after their father as he went away to his

work. There was fresh trouble in the thought of _her_ father coming

home at night. Would it not be better that she should go away and hide

herself, where no reproachful eyes could reach her? Would they miss

her, and feel sorry for poor little Mandy? Would her mother go about

looking pale and quiet, thinking of her gently?

Hark! What noise was that under the drooping curtain of nets? Now she

does not hear it; but presently it comes again--a soft, happy little

baby voice, cooing and talking to itself.

With joyful haste, Mandy lifted the heavy festoon of nets, and crawled

under. There, in the warm, sunny gloom, lying all rosy and tumbled,

with his clothes around his neck, and the old red shawl hopelessly

tangled round the bare and active legs, lay baby, cramming his fists in

his mouth or tossing them about, while he talked stories to the gleams

of sunlight that flickered down through the meshes of the nets.

How he had managed to roll so far, Mandy did not stop to wonder about.

She scooped him up into her arms, the bare legs kicking and struggling,

and crawled with him into the open air.

There she sat, hugging him close, with her cheek resting on his head,

when the tired, anxious mother, hurrying on ahead of Bub, came running

down the hill.

Many times after that, the baby was a "bother" to Mandy, but she was

never heard to call him so.

THE SILLY GOOSE.

_(An Old Story Re-told.)_

BY E.A. SMULLER.

[Illustration]

There's a queer old story which you shall hear.

It happened, once on a time, my dear,

That a goose went swimming on a pond,

A pleasure of which all geese are fond.

She sailed about, and to and fro,

The waves bent under her breast of snow,

And her red feet paddled about below,

But she wasn't a happy goose--oh no!

It troubled her more than she could tell,

That in the town where she chanced to dwell,

The saying of "stupid as a goose,"

Was one that was very much in use.

For sneers and snubbing are hard to bear,

Be he man or beast I do not care,

Or pinioned fowl of the earth or air,

We're all of the same opinion there.

Now, as she pondered the matter o'er,

A fox came walking along the shore;

With a pleasant smile he bowed his head,

"Good-evening, Mrs. Goose!" he said.

"Good-evening, Mr. Fox!" quoth she,

Looking across at him tremblingly,

And, fearing he had not had his tea,

Pushed a trifle farther out to sea.

She had little harm to fear from him;

For, with all his tricks, he could not swim,

And, indeed, his voice was sweet and kind.

"Dear Mrs. Goose, you've a troubled mind;

I only wish I could help you through,

There's nothing I would not gladly do

For such a beautiful bird as you."

Which sounded nice, and was really true.

"Well, then, Mr. Fox," the goose replied,

"It hurts my feelings, and wounds my pride,

That in these days my sisters and I,

Who saved old Rome by our warning cry,

Should be called the _silly geese_. Ah, me!

If I could learn something fine, you see,

Like writing, or reading the A, B, C,

What a happy, happy goose I'd be!"

"Now, would you, indeed!" Renard replied

As the floating fowl he slyly eyed;

"I hardly know what 'tis best to say,

Let's think about it a moment, pray,

I may help you yet, my dear, who knows?"

So he struck a meditative pose,

And thoughtfully laid his small, red toes,

Up by the side of his pointed nose.

"Ah, yes!" he cried, "I have it at last:

Your troubles, dear Mrs. Goose, are past;

There is a school-master, wise and good,

I know where he lives in yonder wood,

To-morrow evening, you shall see

In yon broad meadow his school will be,

He'll bring you a book with the A, B, C,

And he'll give his little lesson free."

But now just listen, and you shall hear

About that fox; he went off, my dear,

And he bought a coat, and a beaver hat,

And a pair of specs, and a black cravat.

Next evening he came dressed up to charm,

With the little "Reader" under his arm,

Where the goose stood waiting without alarm,

For, indeed, she hadn't a thought of harm.

Had she looked at all, you would have thought

She need not have been so quickly caught,

For the long red bushy fox's tail,

Swept over the meadow like a trail.

But 'twas rather dark, for night was near,

And another thing, I greatly fear.

She felt too anxious to see quite clear;

She was simply _a goose of one idea_.

The school-master opens wide his book,

The goose makes a long, long neck, to look,

He opens his mouth, as if to cough,

When, snippety-snap! her head flies off.

Now, cackle loudly her sisters fond,

Who are watching proudly from the pond,

While off to the town that lies beyond,

The whole of the frightened flock abscond.

That day, the geese made a solemn vow,

Which their faithful children keep till now,

That, never shall goose or gosling look

At any school-master or his book.

So, if ever you should chance to hear

Them talking of school, don't think it queer

If they say some hard things, or appear

To show a certain degree of fear;

It is always so with geese, my dear.

[Illustration: "LADY-BIRD, FLY AWAY HOME!"]

PARISIAN CHILDREN.

BY HENRY BACON.

[Illustration]

Parisians adore the sunshine. On a sunny day the many squares and parks

are peopled by children dressed in gay costumes, always attended by

parents or nurses. The old gingerbread venders at the gates find a

ready sale for chunks of coarse bread (to be thrown to the sparrows and

swans), hoops, jump-ropes, and wooden shovels,--for the little ones are

allowed to dig in the public walks as if they were on private grounds

and heirs of the soil. Here the babies build their miniature forts,

while the sergents-de-ville (or policemen), who are old soldiers, look

kindly on, taking special care not to trample the fortifications as

they pass to and fro upon their rounds.

Here future captains and admirals sail their miniature fleet, and are

as helplessly horror-stricken when the graceful swans sally out and

attack their little vessels, as when from Fortress Monroe the

spectators watched the "Merrimac" steam down upon the shipping in the

roads.

[Illustration: EXTREMES MEET.]

Here the veterans, returned again to childhood, bask in the sun, and,

watching the fort-building, forget their terrible campaigns amidst

snows and burning sands, delighting to turn an end of the jumping rope

or to trot a long-robed heiress on, perhaps, the only knee they have

left.

[Illustration: THE STAFF OF LIFE.]

Parisians are very fond of uniforms, and so begin to employ them in the

dress of citizens as soon as they make their entry into the world, even

before they are registered at the mayor's office; for the caps and

cradles of a boy (or _citoyen_) are decorated with blue ribbons, and

the girl (or _citoyenne_) with pink.

Every boys' or girls' school of any pretension has a distinctive mark

in the dress, and so has each employment or trade,--the butcher's boy,

always bareheaded, with a large basket and white apron; the grocer's

apprentice, with calico over-sleeves and blue apron; and the

pastry-cook's boy, dressed in white with white linen cap, who despises

and ridicules the well-blacked chimney-sweep, keeping the while at a

respectful distance. And we must not forget the beggars, with their

carefully studied costumes of rags, or the little Italians, born in

Paris, but wearing their so-called native costume, which has been cut

and made within the city walls.

The little ones of the outskirts of the city are generally independent

and self-reliant youngsters, and sometimes, before they are quite

steady on their feet, we meet them already doing the family errands,

trudging along, hugging a loaf of bread taller than themselves. But the

rosy plumpness of the fields is wanting; for children are like

chameleons, and partake of the color of the locality they inhabit, so

these poor little ones are toned down by the smoke and dust of the

workshops. Their play-ground is under the dusty, dingy trees of the

wide avenues; but they have the same games of romps their peasant

mothers brought from their country homes, and above the noise of the

passing vehicles we often hear their voices as they dance round in a

circle, and sing verses of some old provincial song.

[Illustration: THE VETERAN AND HIS CHARGE.]

The delightful hours spent in boyhood, going to and from school, are

unknown in the gay French capital to children of well-to-do parents.

Instead of starting early and lingering on the way, they watch from the

window until a black one-horse omnibus arrives, when a sub-master takes

charge of the pupil, and the omnibus goes from house to house,

collecting all the scholars, who are brought home in the same manner,

the sub-master sitting next the door, giving no chance to slip out to

ride on top, or to beg the driver to trust a fellow with the reins; and

as it is the custom to obey all in authority, the master is respected.

Girls are either sent to boarding-school or go to a day-school; in the

latter case, always accompanied by one of their parents or a trusty

servant. But the parents, if their means will not permit them to send

their boys to schools that support a one-horse omnibus, or if they have

not a servant to go with them, perform that task themselves. In the

schools for the poorer classes, when teaching is over, the children

file out, two by two, the older children being appointed monitors, and

the little processions disappear in different directions; the teachers

standing at the gate until they are lost from sight, for they have not

far to go, as there is a free school in each quarter.

[Illustration: THE ENEMY.]

But I pity the charity-school girls. Although always neatly and cleanly

dressed, they are all alike, with white caps, and dresses which might

have been cut from the same piece. They file through the streets or

public gardens, under the charge of the "good sisters," and perhaps

they stop to play or rest sometimes, but I never saw them do so.

Perhaps there is no real reason to pity these charity-children, boys or

girls; but I remember my own free and happy school-days in America, and

so I pity them.

[Illustration]

THE PETERKINS ARE OBLIGED TO MOVE.

BY LUCRETIA P. HALE.

Agamemnon had long felt it an impropriety to live in a house that was

called a "semi-detached" house, when there was no other "semi" to it.

It had always remained wholly detached as the owner had never built the

other half. Mrs. Peterkin felt this was not a sufficient reason for

undertaking the terrible process of a move to another house, when they

were fully satisfied with the one they were in.

But a more powerful reason forced them to go. The track of a new

railroad had to be carried directly through the place, and a station

was to be built on that very spot.

Mrs. Peterkin so much dreaded moving that she questioned whether they

could not continue to live in the upper part of the house and give up

the lower part to the station. They could then dine at the restaurant,

and it would be very convenient about traveling, as there would be no

danger of missing the train, if one were sure of the direction.

But when the track was actually laid by the side of the house, and the

steam-engine of the construction train puffed and screamed under the

dining-room windows, and the engineer calmly looked in to see what the

family had for dinner, she felt indeed that they must move.

But where should they go? It was difficult to find a house that

satisfied the whole family. One was too far off, and looked into a

tan-pit, another was too much in the middle of the town, next door to

a machine shop. Elizabeth Eliza wanted a porch covered with vines, that

should face the sunset, while Mr. Peterkin thought it would not be

convenient to sit there looking toward the west in the late afternoon,

(which was his only leisure time) for the sun would shine in his face.

The little boys wanted a house with a great many doors, so that they

could go in and out often. But Mr. Peterkin did not like so much

slamming, and felt there was more danger of burglars with so many

doors. Agamemnon wanted an observatory, and Solomon John a shed for a

workshop. If he could have carpenters' tools and a work-bench, he could

build an observatory, if it were wanted.

But it was necessary to decide upon something, for they must leave

their house directly. So they were obliged to take Mr. Finch's at the

Corners. It satisfied none of the family. The porch was a piazza, and

was opposite a barn. There were three other doors,--too many to please

Mr. Peterkin, and not enough for the little boys. There was no

observatory, and nothing to observe, if there were one, as the house

was too low, and some high trees shut out any view. Elizabeth Eliza had

hoped for a view, but Mr. Peterkin consoled her by deciding it was more

healthy to have to walk for a view, and Mrs. Peterkin agreed that they

might get tired of the same every day.

And everybody was glad a selection was made, and the little boys

carried their India rubber boots the very first afternoon.

Elizabeth Eliza wanted to have some system in the moving, and spent the

evening in drawing up a plan. It would be easy to arrange everything

beforehand, so that there should not be the confusion that her mother

dreaded, and the discomfort they had in their last move. Mrs. Peterkin

shook her head, she did not think it possible to move with any comfort.

Agamemnon said a great deal could be done with a list and a programme.

Elizabeth Eliza declared if all were well arranged a programme would

make it perfectly easy. They were to have new parlor carpets, which

could be put down in the new house the first thing. Then the parlor

furniture could be moved in, and there would be two comfortable rooms,

in which Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin could sit, while the rest of the move

went on. Then the old parlor carpets could be taken up for the new

dining-room and the down-stairs bedroom, and the family could meanwhile

dine at the old house. Mr. Peterkin did not object to this, though the

distance was considerable, as he felt exercise would be good for them

all. Elizabeth Eliza's programme then arranged that the dining-room

furniture could be moved the third day, by which time one of the old

parlor carpets would be down in the new dining-room, and they could

still sleep in the old house. Thus there would always be a quiet,

comfortable place in one house or the other. Each night when Mr.

Peterkin came home, he would find some place for quiet thought and

rest, and each day there should be moved only the furniture needed for

a certain room. Great confusion would be avoided and nothing misplaced.

Elizabeth Eliza wrote these last words at the head of her

programme--"Misplace nothing." And Agamemnon made a copy of the

programme for each member of the family.

The first thing to be done was to buy the parlor carpets. Elizabeth

Eliza had already looked at some in Boston, and the next morning she

went by an early train, with her father, Agamemnon, and Solomon John,

to decide upon them.

They got home about eleven o'clock, and when they reached the house

were dismayed to find two furniture wagons, in front of the gate,

already partly filled! Mrs. Peterkin was walking in and out of the open

door, a large book in one hand, and a duster in the other, and she came

to meet them in an agony of anxiety. What should they do? The furniture

carts had appeared soon after the rest had left for Boston, and the men

had insisted upon beginning to move the things. In vain had she shown

Elizabeth Eliza's programme, in vain had she insisted they must take

only the parlor furniture. They had declared they must put the heavy

pieces in the bottom of the cart, and the lighter furniture on top. So

she had seen them go into every room in the house, and select one piece

of furniture after the other, without even looking at Elizabeth Eliza's

programme; she doubted if they could have read it, if they had looked

at it.

Mr. Peterkin had ordered the carters to come, but he had no idea they

would come so early, and supposed it would take them a long time to

fill the carts.

But they had taken the dining-room sideboard first,--a heavy piece of

furniture,--and all its contents were now on the dining-room tables.

Then, indeed, they selected the parlor book-case, but had set every

book on the floor. The men had told Mrs. Peterkin they would put the

books in the bottom of the cart, very much in the order they were taken

from the shelves. But by this time Mrs. Peterkin was considering the

carters as natural enemies, and dared not trust them; besides, the

books ought all to be dusted. So she was now holding one of the volumes

of Agamemnon's Encyclopedia, with difficulty in one hand, while she was

dusting it with the other. Elizabeth Eliza was in dismay. At this

moment, four men were bringing down a large chest of drawers from her

father's room and they called to her to stand out of the way. The

parlors were a scene of confusion. In dusting the books, Mrs. Peterkin

neglected to restore them to the careful rows in which they were left

by the men, and they lay in hopeless masses in different parts of the

room. Elizabeth Eliza sunk in despair upon the end of a sofa.

"It would have been better to buy the red and blue carpet," said

Solomon John.

"Is not the carpet bought?" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin. And then they were

obliged to confess they had been unable to decide upon one, and had

come back to consult Mrs. Peterkin.

"What shall we do?" asked Mrs. Peterkin.

Elizabeth Eliza rose from the sofa and went to the door, saying, "I

shall be back in a moment."

Agamemnon slowly passed round the room, collecting the scattered

volumes of his Encyclopedia. Mr. Peterkin offered a helping hand to a

man lifting a wardrobe.

Elizabeth Eliza soon returned. "I did not like to go and ask her. But I

felt that I must in such an emergency. I explained to her the whole

matter and she thinks we should take the carpet at Makillan's."

"Makillan's" was a store in the village, and the carpet was the only

one all the family had liked without any doubt; but they had supposed

they might prefer one from Boston.

The moment was a critical one. Solomon John was sent directly to

Makillan's to order the carpet to be put down that very day. But where

should they dine? where should they have their supper? where was Mr.

Peterkin's "quiet hour?" Elizabeth Eliza, was frantic--the dining-room

floor and table were covered with things.

It was decided that Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin should dine at the

Bromwiches, who had been most neighborly in their offers, and the rest

should get something to eat at the baker's.

Agamemnon and Elizabeth Eliza hastened away to be ready to receive the

carts at the other house, and direct the furniture as they could. After

all, there was something exhilarating in this opening of the new house,

and in deciding where things should go. Gayly Elizabeth Eliza stepped

down the front garden of the new home, and across the piazza, and to

the door. But it was locked, and she had no keys!

"Agamemnon, did you bring the keys?" she exclaimed.

No, he had not seen them since the morning--when--ah--yes, the little

boys were allowed to go to the house for their India rubber boots, as

there was a threatening of rain. Perhaps they had left some door

unfastened--perhaps they had put the keys under the door-mat. No, each

door, each window was solidly closed, and there was no mat!

"I shall have to go to the school to see if they took the keys with

them," said Agamemnon; "or else go home to see if they left them

there." The school was in a different direction from the house, and far

at the other end of the town for Mr. Peterkin had not yet changed the

boys' school, as he proposed to do, after their move.

"That will be the only way," said Elizabeth Eliza; for it had been

arranged that the little boys should take their lunch to school and not

come home at noon.

She sat down on the steps to wait, but only for a moment, for the carts

soon appeared turning the corner. What should be done with the

furniture? Of course, the carters must wait for the keys, as she should

need them to set the furniture up in the right places. But they could

not stop for this. They put it down upon the piazza, on the steps, in

the garden, and Elizabeth Eliza saw how incongruous it was! There was

something from every room in the house! even the large family chest,

which had proved too heavy for them to travel with, had come down from

the attic, and stood against the front door.

And Solomon John appeared with the carpet woman, and a boy with a

wheelbarrow bringing the new carpet. And all stood and waited. Some

opposite neighbors appeared to offer advice, and look on, and Elizabeth

Eliza groaned inwardly that only the shabbiest of their furniture

appeared to be standing full in view.

It seemed ages before Agamemnon returned, and no wonder; for he had

been to the house, then to the school, then back to the house, for one

of the little boys had left at home the keys, in the pocket of his

clothes. Meanwhile, the carpet woman had waited, and the boy with the

wheelbarrow had waited, and when they got in they found the parlor must

be swept and cleaned. So the carpet woman went off in dudgeon, for she

was sure there would not be time enough to do anything.

And one of the carts came again, and in their hurry the men set the

furniture down anywhere. Elizabeth Eliza was hoping to make a little

place in the dining-room where they might have their supper and go home

to sleep. But she looked out, and there were the carters bringing the

bedsteads, and proceeding to carry them upstairs.

In despair Elizabeth Eliza went back to the old house. If she had been

there she might have prevented this. She found Mrs. Peterkin in an

agony about the entry oil-cloth. It had been made in the house, and how

could it be taken out of the house? Agamemnon made measurements; it

certainly could not go out of the front door! He suggested it might be

left till the house was pulled down, when it could easily be moved out

of one side. But Elizabeth Eliza reminded him that the whole house was

to be moved without being taken apart. Perhaps it could be cut in

strips narrow enough to go out. One of the men loading the remaining

cart disposed of the question by coming in and rolling up the oil-cloth

and carrying it off on top of his wagon.

Elizabeth Eliza felt she must hurry back to the new house. But what

should they do?--no beds here, no carpets there! The dining-room table

and sideboard were at the other house, the plates and forks and spoons

here. In vain she looked at her programme. It was all reversed,

everything was misplaced. Mr. Peterkin would suppose they were to eat

there and sleep here, and what had become of the little boys?

Meanwhile, the man with the first cart had returned. They fell to

packing the dining-room china. They were up in the attic, they were

down in the cellar. Even one of them suggested to take the tacks out of

the parlor carpets, as they should want to take them next. Mrs.

Peterkin sunk upon a kitchen chair.

"Oh, I wish we had decided to stay and be moved in the house!" she

exclaimed.

Solomon John urged his mother to go to the new house, for Mr. Peterkin

would be there for his "quiet hour." And when the carters at last

appeared carrying the parlor carpets on their shoulders she sighed and

said, "There is nothing left," and meekly consented to be led away.

They reached the new house to find Mr. Peterkin sitting calmly in a

rocking-chair on the piazza, watching the oxen coming into the opposite

barn. He was waiting for the keys, which Solomon John had taken back

with him. The little boys were in a horse-chestnut tree, at the side of

the house.

Agamemnon opened the door. The passages were crowded with furniture,

the floors were strewn with books, the bureau was upstairs that was to

stand in a lower bedroom, there was not a place to lay a table, there

was nothing to lay upon it; for the knives and plates and spoons had

not come, and although the tables were there, they were covered with

chairs and boxes.

At this moment came a covered basket from the lady from Philadelphia.

It contained a choice supper, and forks and spoons, and at the same

moment appeared a pot of hot tea from an opposite neighbor. They placed

all this on the back of a book-case lying upset, and sat around it.

Solomon John came rushing from the gate:

"The last load is coming. We are all moved!" he exclaimed, and the

little boys joined in a chorus, "We are moved, we are moved!"

Mrs. Peterkin looked sadly round; the kitchen utensils were lying on

the parlor lounge, and an old family gun on Elizabeth Eliza's hat-box.

The parlor clock stood on a barrel; some coal-scuttles had been placed

on the parlor table, a bust of Washington stood in the door-way, and

the looking-glasses leaned against the pillars of the piazza. But they

were moved! Mrs. Peterkin felt indeed that they were very much moved.

[Illustration: GET UP!]

[Illustration: GOT DOWN!]

THE SING-AWAY BIRD.

BY LUCY LARCOM.

[Illustration]

O Say, have you heard of the sing-away bird,

That sings where the Runaway River

Runs down with its rills from the bald-headed hills

That stand in the sunshine and shiver?

"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"

How the pines and the birches are stirred

By the trill of the sing-away bird!

And the bald-headed hills, with their rocks and their rills,

To the tune of his rapture are ringing.

And their faces grow young, all their gray mists among,

While the forests break forth into singing,

"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"

And the river runs singing along;

And the flying winds catch up the song.

It was nothing but--hush! a wild white-throated thrush,

That emptied his musical quiver

With a charm and a spell over valley and dell

On the banks of the Runaway River.

"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"

Yet the song of the wild singer had

The sound of a soul that is glad.

And, beneath the glad sun, may a glad-hearted one

Set the world to the tune of his gladness.

The rivers shall sing it, the breezes shall wing it,

Till life shall forget its long sadness.

"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"

Sing, spirit, who knowest joy's Giver,--

Sing on, by time's Runaway River!

OLD SOUP

BY MRS. E.W. LATIMER.

The following curious anecdote is from a book about elephants, written

by a French gentleman, named Jacolliot, and we will let the author tell

his own story:

In the autumn of 1876 I was living in the interior of Bengal, and I

went to spend Christmas with my friend, Major Daly. The major's

bungalow was on the banks of the Ganges near Cawnpore. He had lived

there a good many years, being chief of the quartermaster's department

at that station, and had a great many natives, elephants,

bullock-carts, and soldiers under his command.

On the morning after my arrival, after a cup of early tea (often taken

before daylight in India), I sat smoking with my friend in the veranda

of his bungalow, looking out upon the windings of the sacred river.

And, directly, I asked the major about his children (a boy and a girl),

whom I had not yet seen, and begged to know when I should see them.

"Soupramany has taken them out fishing," said their father.

"Why, isn't Soupramany your great war-elephant?" I cried.

"Exactly so. You cannot have forgotten Soupramany!"

"Of course not. I was here, you know, when he had that fight with the

elephant who went mad while loading a transport with bags of rice down

yonder. I saw the mad elephant when he suddenly began to fling the rice

into the river. His 'mahout' tried to stop him, and he killed the

mahout. The native sailors ran away to hide themselves, and the mad

elephant, trumpeting, charged into this inclosure. Old Soupramany was

here, and so were Jim and Bessy. When he saw the mad animal, he threw

himself between him and the children. The little ones and their nurses

had just time to get into the house when the fight commenced."

"Yes," said the major. "Old Soup was a hundred years old. He had been

trained to war, and to fight with the rhinoceros, but he was too old to

hunt then."

"And yet," said I, becoming animated by the recollections of that day,

"what a gallant fight it was! Do you remember how we all stood on this

porch and watched it, not daring to fire a shot lest we should hit Old

Soupramany? Do you remember too, his look when he drew off, after

fighting an hour and a half, leaving his adversary dying in the dust,

and walked straight to the 'corral,' shaking his great ears which had

been badly torn, with his head bruised, and a great piece broken from

one of his tusks?"

"Yes, indeed," said the major. "Well, since then, he is more devoted to

my dear little ones than ever. He takes them out whole days, and I am

perfectly content to have them under his charge. I don't like trusting

Christian children to the care of natives; but with Old Soup I know

they can come to no harm."

[Illustration: "BESIDE THE CHILDREN STOOD OLD SOUP WITH A LARGE BAMBOO

ROD IN HIS TRUNK."]

"What! you trust children under ten years of age to Soup, without any

other protection?"

"I do," replied the major. "Come along with me, if you doubt, and we

will surprise them at their fishing."

I followed Major Daly, and, after walking half a mile along the wooded

banks of the river, we came upon the little group. The two

children--Jim, the elder, being about ten--both sat still and silent,

for a wonder, each holding a rod, with line, cork, hook and bait,

anxiously watching the gay corks bobbing in the water. Beside them

stood Old Soup with an extremely large bamboo rod in his trunk, with

line, hook, bait, and cork, like the children's. I need not say I took

small notice of the children, but turned all my attention to their big

companion. I had not watched him long before he had a bite; for, as the

religion of the Hindoos forbids them to take life, the river swarms

with fishes.

The old fellow did not stir; his little eyes watched his line eagerly;

he was no novice in "the gentle craft." He was waiting till it was time

to draw in his prize.

At the end of his line, as he drew it up, was dangling one of those

golden tench so abundant in the Ganges.

When Soupramany perceived what a fine fish he had caught, he uttered

one of those long, low gurgling notes of satisfaction by which an

elephant expresses joy; and he waited patiently, expecting Jim to take

his prize off the hook and put on some more bait for him. But Jim, the

little rascal, sometimes liked to plague Old Soup. He nodded at us, as

much as to say, "Look out, and you'll see fun, now!" Then he took off

the fish, which he threw into a water-jar placed there for the purpose,

and went back to his place without putting any bait on Old Soup's

hook. The intelligent animal did not attempt to throw his line into the

water. He tried to move Jim by low, pleading cries. It was curious to

see what tender tones he seemed to try to give his voice.

Seeing that Jim paid no attention to his calls, but sat and laughed as

he handled his own line, Old Soup went up to him, and with his trunk

tried to turn his head in the direction of the bait-box. At last, when

he found that all he could do would not induce his willful friend to

help him, he turned round as if struck by a sudden thought, and,

snatching up in his trunk the box that held the bait, came and laid it

down at the major's feet; then picking up his rod, he held it out to

his master.

"What do you want me to do with this, Old Soup?" said the major.

The creature lifted one great foot after the other, and again began to

utter his plaintive cry. Out of mischief, I took Jimmy's part, and,

picking up the bait-box, pretended to run with it. The elephant was not

going to be teased by _me_. He dipped his trunk into the Ganges, and in

an instant squirted a stream of water over me with all the force and

precision of a fire-engine, to the immense amusement of the children.

The major at once made Soup a sign to stop, and, to make my peace with

the fine old fellow, I baited his hook myself. Quivering with joy, as a

baby does when it gets hold at last of a plaything some one has taken

from it, Old Soupramany hardly paused to thank me by a soft note of joy

for baiting his line for him, before he went back to his place, and was

again watching his cork as it trembled in the ripples of the river.

Four little houses, blue and round,

Hidden away from sight and sound.

What is in them? The leaves never tell,

But they know the secret very well.

The daisies know, and the clover knows;

So does the pretty, sweet wild rose.

Don't be impatient, only wait

Just outside, at the leafy gate;

Soon a fairy will open the door,

And let out birdies--one, two, three, four!

UNDER THE LILACS.

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

CHAPTER XII.

GOOD TIMES.

Every one was very kind to Ben when his loss was known. The Squire

wrote to Mr. Smithers the boy had found friends and would stay where he

was. Mrs. Moss consoled him in her way, and the little girls did their

very best to "be good to poor Benny." But Miss Celia was his truest

comforter and completely won his heart, not only by the friendly words

she said and the pleasant things she did, but by the unspoken sympathy

which showed itself, just at the right minute, in a look, a touch, a

smile, more helpful than any amount of condolence. She called him "my

man," and Ben tried to be one, bearing his trouble so bravely that she

respected him, although he was only a little boy, because it promised

well for the future.

Then she was so happy herself, it was impossible for those about her to

be sad, and Ben soon grew cheerful again in spite of the very tender

memory of his father laid quietly away in the safest corner of his

heart. He would have been a very unboyish boy if he had _not_ been

happy, for the new place was such a pleasant one, he soon felt as if

for the first time he really had a home.

No more grubbing now, but daily tasks which never grew tiresome, they

were so varied and so light. No more cross Pats to try his temper, but

the sweetest mistress that ever was, since praise was oftener on her

lips than blame, and gratitude made willing service a delight.

At first it seemed as if there was going to be trouble between the two

boys, for Thorny was naturally masterful, and illness had left him weak

and nervous, so he was often both domineering and petulant. Ben had

been taught instant obedience to those older than himself, and if

Thorny had been a man Ben would have made no complaint; but it _was_

hard to be "ordered round" by a boy, and an unreasonable one into the

bargain.

A word from Miss Celia blew away the threatening cloud, however, and

for her sake her brother promised to try to be patient; for her sake

Ben declared he never would "get mad" if Mr. Thorny did fidget, and

both very soon forgot all about master and man and lived together like

two friendly lads, taking each other's ups and downs good-naturedly,

and finding mutual pleasure and profit in the new companionship.

The only point on which they never _could_ agree was legs, and many a

hearty laugh did they give Miss Celia by their warm and serious

discussion of this vexed question. Thorny insisted that Ben was

bow-legged; Ben resented the epithet, and declared that the legs of all

good horsemen must have a slight curve, and any one who knew anything

about the matter would acknowledge both its necessity and its beauty.

Then Thorny would observe that it might be all very well in the saddle,

but it made a man waddle like a duck when afoot; whereat Ben would

retort that for his part he would rather waddle like a duck than tumble

about like a horse with the staggers. He had his opponent there, for

poor Thorny did look very like a weak-kneed colt when he tried to walk;

but he would never own it, and came down upon Ben with crushing

allusions to centaurs, or the Greeks and Romans, who were famous both

for their horsemanship and fine limbs. Ben could not answer that,

except by proudly referring to the chariot-races copied from the

ancients in which _he_ had borne a part, which was more than _some

folks_ with long legs could say. Gentlemen never did that sort of

thing, nor did they twit their best friends with their misfortunes,

Thorny would remark, casting a pensive glance at his thin hands,

longing the while to give Ben a good shaking. This hint would remind

the other of his young master's late sufferings and all he owed his

dear mistress, and he usually ended the controversy by turning a few

lively somersaults as a vent for his swelling wrath, and come up with

his temper all right again. Or, if Thorny happened to be in the wheeled

chair, he would trot him round the garden at a pace which nearly took

his breath away, thereby proving that if "bow-legs" were not beautiful

to some benighted being, they _were_ "good to go."

Thorny liked that, and would drop the subject for the time by politely

introducing some more agreeable topic; so the impending quarrel would

end in a laugh over some boyish joke, and the word "legs" be avoided by

mutual consent till accident brought it up again.

The spirit of rivalry is hidden in the best of us, and is a helpful and

inspiring power if we know how to use it. Miss Celia knew this, and

tried to make the lads help one another by means of it,--not in

boastful or ungenerous comparison of each other's gifts, but by

interchanging them, giving and taking freely, kindly, and being glad to

love what was admirable wherever they found it. Thorny admired Ben's

strength, activity, and independence; Ben envied Thorny's learning,

good manners, and comfortable surroundings; and, when a wise word had

set the matter rightly before them, both enjoyed the feeling that there

was a certain equality between them, since money could not buy health;

and practical knowledge was as useful as any that can be found in

books. So they interchanged their small experiences, accomplishments,

and pleasures, and both were the better, as well as the happier, for

it, because in this way only can we truly love our neighbor as ourself

and get the real sweetness out of life.

There was no end to the new and pleasant things Ben had to do, from

keeping paths and flower-beds neat, feeding the pets, and running

errands, to waiting on Thorny and being right-hand man to Miss Celia.

He had a little room in the old house, newly papered with hunting

scenes, which he was never tired of admiring. In the closet hung

several out-grown suits of Thorny's, made over for his valet, and, what

Ben valued infinitely more, a pair of boots, well blacked and ready for

grand occasions when he rode abroad, with one old spur, found in the

attic, brightened up and merely worn for show, since nothing would have

induced him to prick beloved Lita with it.

Many pictures, cut from illustrated papers, of races, animals and

birds, were stuck round the room, giving it rather the air of a circus

and menagerie. This, however, made it only the more home-like to its

present owner, who felt exceedingly rich and respectable as he surveyed

his premises; almost like a retired showman who still fondly remembers

past successes, though now happy in the more private walks of life.

In one drawer of the quaint little bureau which he used, were kept the

relics of his father; very few and poor, and of no interest to any one

but himself,--only the letter telling of his death, a worn-out

watch-chain, and a photograph of Señor José Montebello, with his

youthful son standing on his head, both airily attired, and both

smiling with the calmly superior expression which gentlemen of their

profession usually wear in public. Ben's other treasures had been

stolen with his bundle; but these he cherished and often looked at when

he went to bed, wondering what heaven was like, since it was lovelier

than California, and usually fell asleep with a dreamy impression that

it must be something like America when Columbus found it,--"a pleasant

land, where were gay flowers and tall trees, with leaves and fruit such

as they had never seen before." And through this happy hunting-ground

"father" was forever riding on a beautiful white horse with wings, like

the one of which Miss Celia had a picture.

Nice times Ben had in his little room poring over his books, for he

soon had several of his own; but his favorites were Hammerton's

"Animals" and "Our Dumb Friends," both full of interesting pictures and

anecdotes such as boys love. Still nicer times working about the house,

helping get things in order; and best of all were the daily drives with

Miss Celia and Thorny, when weather permitted, or solitary rides to

town through the heaviest rain, for certain letters _must_ go and come,

no matter how the elements raged. The neighbors soon got used to the

"antics of that boy," but Ben knew that he was an object of interest as

he careered down the main street in a way that made old ladies cry out

and brought people flying to the window, sure that some one was being

run away with. Lita enjoyed the fun as much as he, and apparently did

her best to send him heels over head, having rapidly learned to

understand the signs he gave her by the touch of hand and foot, or the

tones of his voice.

These performances caused the boys to regard Ben Brown with intense

admiration, the girls with timid awe, all but Bab, who burned to

imitate him, and tried her best whenever she got a chance, much to the

anguish and dismay of poor Jack, for that long-suffering animal was the

only steed she was allowed to ride. Fortunately, neither she nor Betty

had much time for play just now, as school was about to close for the

long vacation, and all the little people were busy finishing up, that

they might go to play with free minds. So the "lilac-parties," as they

called them, were deferred till later, and the lads amused themselves

in their own way, with Miss Celia to suggest and advise.

It took Thorny a long time to arrange his possessions, for he could

only direct while Ben unpacked, wondering and admiring as he worked,

because he had never seen so many boyish treasures before. The little

printing-press was his especial delight, and leaving everything else in

confusion, Thorny taught him its use and planned a newspaper on the

spot, with Ben for printer, himself for editor, and "Sister" for chief

contributor, while Bab should be carrier and Betty office-boy. Next

came a postage-stamp book, and a rainy day was happily spent in pasting

a new collection where each particular one belonged, with copious

explanations from Thorny as they went along. Ben did not feel any great

interest in this amusement after one trial of it, but when a book

containing patterns of the flags of all nations turned up, he was

seized with a desire to copy them _all_, so that the house could be

fitly decorated on gala occasions. Finding that it amused her brother,

Miss Celia generously opened her piece-drawer and rag-bag, and as the

mania grew till her resources were exhausted, she bought bits of gay

cambric and many-colored papers, and startled the storekeeper by

purchasing several bottles of mucilage at once. Bab and Betty were

invited to sew the bright strips or stars, and pricked their little

fingers assiduously, finding this sort of needle-work much more

attractive than piecing bed-quilts.

Such a snipping and pasting, planning and stitching as went on in the

big back room, which was given up to them, and such a noble array of

banners and pennons as soon decorated its walls, would have caused the

dullest eye to brighten with amusement, if not with admiration. Of

course, the Stars and Stripes hung highest, with the English lion

ramping on the royal standard close by; then followed a regular

picture-gallery, for there was the white elephant of Siam, the splendid

peacock of Burmah, the double-headed Russian eagle and black dragon of

China, the winged lion of Venice, and the prancing pair on the red,

white and blue flag of Holland. The keys and miter of the Papal States

were a hard job, but up they went at last, with the yellow crescent of

Turkey on one side and the red full moon of Japan on the other; the

pretty blue and white flag of Greece hung below and the cross of free

Switzerland above. If materials had held out, the flags of all the

United States would have followed; but paste and patience were

exhausted, so the busy workers rested awhile before they "flung their

banner to the breeze," as the newspapers have it.

A spell of ship building and rigging followed the flag fit; for Thorny,

feeling too old now for such toys, made over his whole fleet to "the

children," condescending, however, to superintend a thorough repairing

of the same before he disposed of all but the big man-of-war, which

continued to ornament his own room, with all sail set and a little red

officer perpetually waving his sword on the quarter-deck.

These gifts led to out-of-door water-works, for the brook had to be

dammed up, that a shallow ocean might be made, where Ben's piratical

"Red Rover," with the black flag, might chase and capture Bab's smart

frigate, "Queen," while the "Bounding Betsey," laden with lumber,

safely sailed from Kennebunkport to Massachusetts Bay. Thorny, from his

chair, was chief-engineer, and directed his gang of one how to dig the

basin, throw up the embankment, and finally let in the water till the

mimic ocean was full; then regulate the little water-gate, lest it

should overflow and wreck the pretty squadron of ships, boats, canoes,

and rafts, which soon rode at anchor there.

Digging and paddling in mud and water proved such a delightful pastime

that the boys kept it up, till a series of water-wheels, little mills

and cataracts made the once quiet brook look as if a manufacturing

town was about to spring up where hitherto minnows had played in peace

and the retiring frog had chanted his serenade unmolested.

Miss Celia liked all this, for anything which would keep Thorny happy

out-of-doors in the sweet June weather found favor in her eyes, and

when the novelty had worn off from home affairs, she planned a series

of exploring expeditions which filled their boyish souls with delight.

As none of them knew much about the place, it really was quite exciting

to start off on a bright morning with a roll of wraps and cushions,

lunch, books, and drawing materials packed into the phaeton, and drive

at random about the shady roads and lanes, pausing when and where they

liked. Wonderful discoveries were made, pretty places were named, plans

were drawn, and all sorts of merry adventures befell the pilgrims.

Each day they camped in a new spot, and while Lita nibbled the fresh

grass at her ease, Miss Celia sketched under the big umbrella, Thorny

read or lounged or slept on his rubber blanket, and Ben made himself

generally useful. Unloading, filling the artist's water-bottle, piling

the invalid's cushions, setting out the lunch, running to and fro for a

flower or a butterfly, climbing a tree to report the view, reading,

chatting, or frolicking with Sancho,--any sort of duty was in Ben's

line, and he did them all well, for an out-of-door life was natural to

him and he liked it.

"Ben, I want an amanuensis," said Thorny, dropping book and pencil one

day, after a brief interval of silence, broken only by the whisper of

the young leaves overhead and the soft babble of the brook close by.

"A what?" asked Ben, pushing back his hat with such an air of amazement

that Thorny rather loftily inquired:

"Don't you know what an amanuensis is?"

"Well, no; not unless it's some relation to an anaconda. Shouldn't

think you'd want one of them, anyway."

Thorny rolled over with a hoot of derision, and his sister, who sat

close by, sketching an old gate, looked up to see what was going on.

"Well, you needn't laugh at a feller. _You_ didn't know what a wombat

was when I asked you, and _I_ didn't roar," said Ben, giving his hat a

slap, as nothing else was handy.

"The idea of wanting an anaconda tickled me so, I couldn't help it. I

dare say you'd have got me one if I _had_ asked for it, you are such an

obliging chap."

"Of course I would if I could. Shouldn't be surprised if you did some

day, you want such funny things," answered Ben, appeased by the

compliment.

"I'll try the amanuensis first. It's only some one to write for me; I

get so tired doing it without a table. You write well enough, and it

will be good for you to know something about botany. I intend to teach

you, Ben," said Thorny, as if conferring a great favor.

"It looks pretty hard," muttered Ben, with a doleful glance at the book

laid open upon a strew of torn leaves and flowers.

"No, it isn't; it's regularly jolly, and you'd be no end of a help if

you only knew a little. Now suppose I say, 'Bring me a "ranunculus

bulbosus,"' how would you know what I wanted?" demanded Thorny, waving

his microscope with a learned air.

"Shouldn't."

"There are quantities of them all round us, and I want to analyze one.

See if you can't guess."

Ben stared vaguely from earth to sky, and was about to give it up, when

a buttercup fell at his feet, and he caught sight of Miss Celia smiling

at him from behind her brother, who did not see the flower.

"S'pose you mean this? _I_ don't call 'em rhinocerus bulburses, so I

wasn't sure." And taking the hint as quickly as it was given, Ben

presented the buttercup as if he knew all about it.

"You guessed that remarkably well. Now bring me a 'leontodon

taraxacum,'" said Thorny, charmed with the quickness of his pupil and

glad to display his learning.

Again Ben gazed, but the field was full of early flowers, and if a long

pencil had not pointed to a dandelion close by he would have been lost.

"Here you are, sir," he answered with a chuckle, and Thorny took his

turn at being astonished now.

"How the dickens did you know that?"

"Try it again, and may be you'll find out," laughed Ben.

Diving hap-hazard into his book, Thorny demanded a "trifolium

pratense."

The clever pencil pointed, and Ben brought a red clover, mightily

enjoying the joke, and thinking that _this_ kind of botany wasn't bad

fun.

"Look here, no fooling!" and Thorny sat up to investigate the matter,

so quickly that his sister had not time to sober down. "Ah, I've caught

you! Not fair to tell, Celia. Now, Ben, you've _got_ to learn all about

this buttercup, to pay for cheating."

"Werry good, sir; bring on your rhinoceriouses," answered Ben, who

couldn't help imitating his old friend the clown when he felt

particularly jolly.

"Sit there and write what I tell you," ordered Thorny, with all the

severity of a strict schoolmaster.

Perching himself on the mossy stump, Ben obediently floundered through

the following analysis, with constant help in the spelling and much

private wonder what would come of it:

"Phænogamous. Exogenous. Angiosperm. Polypetalous. Stamens, more than

ten. Stamens on the receptacle. Pistils, more than one and separate.

Leaves without stipules. Crowfoot family. Genus ranunculus. Botanical

name, Ranunculus bulbosus."

"Jerusalem, what a flower! Pistols and crows' feet, and Polly put the

kettles on, and Angy sperms and all the rest of 'em! If that's your

botany I wont take any more, thank you," said Ben, as he paused as hot

and red as if he had been running a race.

"Yes, you will; you'll learn that all by heart, and then I shall give

you a dandelion to do. You'll like that, because it means _dent de

lion_ or lion's teeth, and I'll show them to you through my glass.

You've no idea how interesting it is, and what heaps of pretty things

you'll see," answered Thorny, who had already discovered how charming

the study was, and had found great satisfaction in it since he had been

forbidden more active pleasures.

"What's the good of it, any way?" asked Ben, who would rather have been

set to mowing the big field than to the task before him.

"It tells all about it in my book here--'Gray's Botany for Young

People.' But I can tell you what use it is to _us_," continued Thorny,

crossing his legs in the air and preparing to argue the matter,

comfortably lying flat on his back. "_We_ are a Scientific Exploration

Society, and we must keep an account of all the plants, animals,

minerals and so on, as we come across them. Then suppose we get lost

and have to hunt for food, how are we to know what is safe and what

isn't? Come, now, do you know the difference between a toad-stool and a

mushroom?"

"No, I don't."

"Then I'll teach you some day. There is sweet flag and poisonous flag,

and all sorts of berries and things, and you'd better look out when you

are in the woods or you'll touch ivy and dogwood, and have a horrid

time if you don't know your botany."

"Thorny learned much of his by sad experience and you will be wise to

take his advice," said Miss Celia, recalling her brother's various

mishaps before the new fancy came on.

"Didn't I have a time of it, though, when I had to go round for a week

with plantain leaves and cream stuck all over my face! Just picked some

pretty red dogwood, Ben, and then I was a regular guy, with a face like

a lobster and my eyes swelled out of sight. Come along and learn right

away, and never get into scrapes like most fellows."

Impressed by this warning, and attracted by Thorny's enthusiasm, Ben

cast himself down upon the blanket, and for an hour the two heads

bobbed to and fro from microscope to book, the teacher airing his small

knowledge, the pupil more and more interested in the new and curious

things he saw or heard,--though it must be confessed that Ben

infinitely preferred to watch ants and bugs, queer little worms and

gauzy-winged flies, rather than "putter" over plants with long names.

He did not dare to say so, however, but when Thorny asked him if it

wasn't capital fun, he dodged cleverly by proposing to hunt up the

flowers for his master to study, offering to learn about the dangerous

ones, but pleading want of time to investigate this pleasing science

very deeply.

As Thorny had talked himself hoarse, he was very ready to dismiss his

class of one to fish the milk-bottle out of the brook, and recess was

prolonged till next day. But both boys found a new pleasure in the

pretty pastime they made of it, for active Ben ranged the woods and

fields with a tin box slung over his shoulder, and feeble Thorny had a

little room fitted up for his own use where he pressed flowers in

newspaper books, dried herbs on the walls, had bottles and cups, pans

and platters for his treasures, and made as much litter as he liked.

Presently, Ben brought such lively accounts of the green nooks where

jacks-in-the-pulpit preached their little sermons, brooks beside which

grew blue violets and lovely ferns, rocks round which danced the

columbines like rosy elves, or the trees where birds built, squirrels

chattered and woodchucks burrowed, that Thorny was seized with a desire

to go and see these beauties for himself. So Jack was saddled and went,

plodding, scrambling and wandering into all manner of pleasant places,

always bringing home a stronger, browner rider than he carried away.

This delighted Miss Celia, and she gladly saw them ramble off together,

leaving her time to stitch happily at certain dainty bits of sewing,

write voluminous letters, or dream over others quite as long, swinging

in her hammock under the lilacs.

CHAPTER XIII.

SOMEBODY RUNS AWAY.

"School is done,

Now we'll have fun,"

sung Bab and Betty, slamming down their books as if they never meant to

take them up again, when they came home on the last day of June.

Tired teacher had dismissed them for eight whole weeks and gone away to

rest; the little school-house was shut up, lessons were over, spirits

rising fast, and vacation had begun. The quiet town seemed suddenly

inundated with children all in such a rampant state that busy mothers

wondered how they ever should be able to keep their frisky darlings out

of mischief; thrifty fathers planned how they could bribe the idle

hands to pick berries or rake hay; and the old folks, while wishing the

young folks well, secretly blessed the man who invented schools.

The girls immediately began to talk about picnics, and have them, too;

for little hats sprung up in the fields like a new sort of

mushroom,--every hill-side bloomed with gay gowns, looking as if the

flowers had gone out for a walk, and the woods were full of featherless

birds chirping away as blithely as the thrushes, robins, and wrens.

The boys took to base-ball like ducks to water, and the common was the

scene of tremendous battles waged with much tumult but little

bloodshed. To the uninitiated it appeared as if these young men had

lost their wits; for no matter how warm it was, there they were,

tearing about in the maddest manner, jackets off, sleeves rolled up,

queer caps flung on anyway, all batting shabby leather balls and

catching the same as if their lives depended on it. Every one talking

in his gruffest tone, bawling at the top of his voice, squabbling over

every point of the game, and seeming to enjoy himself immensely in

spite of the heat, dust, uproar, and imminent danger of getting eyes or

teeth knocked out.

Thorny was an excellent player, but not being strong enough to show his

prowess, he made Ben his proxy, and, sitting on the fence, acted as

umpire to his heart's content. Ben was a promising pupil and made rapid

progress, for eye, foot, and hand had been so well trained that they

did him good service now, and Brown was considered a first-rate

"catcher."

Sancho distinguished himself by his skill in hunting up stray balls,

and guarding jackets when not needed, with the air of one of the Old

Guard on duty at the tomb of Napoleon. Bab also longed to join in the

fun, which suited her better than "stupid picnics" or "fussing over

dolls;" but her heroes would not have her at any price, and she was

obliged to content herself with sitting by Thorny, and watching with

breathless interest the varying fortunes of "our side."

A grand match was planned for the Fourth of July; but when the club

met, things were found to be unpropitious. Thorny had gone out of town

with his sister to pass the day, two of the best players did not

appear, and the others were somewhat exhausted by the festivities,

which began at sunrise for them. So they lay about on the grass in the

shade of the big elm, languidly discussing their various wrongs and

disappointments.

"It's the meanest Fourth I ever saw. Can't have no crackers, because

somebody's horse got scared last year," growled Sam Kitteridge,

bitterly resenting the stern edict which forbade free-born citizens to

burn as much gunpowder as they liked on that glorious day.

"Last year Jimmy got his arm blown off when they fired the old cannon.

Didn't we have a lively time going for the doctors and getting him

home?" asked another boy, looking as if he felt defrauded of the most

interesting part of the anniversary, because no accident had occurred.

"Ain't going to be fire-works either, unless somebody's barn burns up.

Don't I just wish there would," gloomily responded another youth who

had so rashly indulged in pyrotechnics on a former occasion that a

neighbor's cow had been roasted whole.

"I wouldn't give two cents for such a slow old place as this. Why, last

Fourth at this time, I was rumbling through Boston streets up top of

our big car, all in my best toggery. Hot as pepper, but good fun

looking in at the upper windows and hearing the women scream when the

old thing waggled round and I made believe I was going to tumble off,"

said Ben, leaning on his bat with the air of a man who had seen the

world and felt some natural regret at descending from so lofty a

sphere.

"Catch me cutting away if I had such a chance as that!" answered Sam,

trying to balance _his_ bat on his chin and getting a smart rap across

the nose as he failed to perform the feat.

"Much you know about it, old chap. It's hard work, I can tell you, and

that wouldn't suit such a lazy bones. Then you are too big to begin,

though you might do for a fat boy if Smithers wanted one," said Ben,

surveying the stout youth with calm contempt.

"Let's go in swimming, not loaf round here, if we can't play," proposed

a red and shiny boy, panting for a game of leap-frog in Sandy pond.

"May as well; don't see much else to do," sighed Sam, rising like a

young elephant.

The others were about to follow, when a shrill "Hi, hi, boys, hold on!"

made them turn about to behold Billy Barton tearing down the street

like a runaway colt, waving a long strip of paper as he ran.

"Now, then, what's the matter?" demanded Ben, as the other came up

grinning and puffing, but full of great news.

"Look here, read it! I'm going; come along, the whole of you," panted

Billy, putting the paper into Sam's hand, and surveying the crowd with

a face as beaming as a full moon.

"Look out for the big show," read Sam. "Van Amburgh & Co.'s New Great

Golden Menagerie, Circus and Colosseum, will exhibit at Berryville,

July 4th, at 1 and 7 precisely. Admission 50 cents, children

half-price. Don't forget day and date. H. Frost, Manager."

While Sam read, the other boys had been gloating over the enticing

pictures which covered the bill. There was the golden car, filled with

noble beings in helmets, all playing on immense trumpets; the

twenty-four prancing steeds with manes, tails, and feathered heads

tossing in the breeze; the clowns, the tumblers, the strong men, and

the riders flying about in the air as if the laws of gravitation no

longer existed. But, best of all, was the grand conglomeration of

animals where the giraffe appears to stand on the elephant's back, the

zebra to be jumping over the seal, the hippopotamus to be lunching off

a couple of crocodiles, and lions and tigers to be raining down in all

directions with their mouths wide open and their tails as stiff as that

of the famous Northumberland House lion.

"Cricky! wouldn't I like to see that," said little Cyrus Fay, devoutly

hoping that the cage, in which this pleasing spectacle took place, was

a very strong one.

"You never would, it's only a picture! That, now, is something like,"

and Ben, who had pricked up his ears at the word "circus," laid his

finger on a smaller cut of a man hanging by the back of his neck with a

child in each hand, two men suspended from his feet, and the third

swinging forward to alight on his head.

"I'm going," said Sam, with calm decision, for this superb array of

unknown pleasures fired his soul and made him forget his weight.

"How will you fix it?" asked Ben, fingering the bill with a nervous

thrill all through his wiry limbs, just as he used to feel it when his

father caught him up to dash into the ring.

"Foot it with Billy. It's only four miles, and we've got lots of time,

so we can take it easy. Mother wont care, if I send word by Cy,"

answered Sam, producing half a dollar, as if such magnificent sums were

no strangers to his pocket.

"Come on, Brown; you'll be a first-rate fellow to show us round, as you

know all the dodges," said Billy, anxious to get his money's worth.

"Well, I don't know," began Ben, longing to go, but afraid Mrs. Moss

would say "No!" if he asked leave.

"He's afraid," sneered the red-faced boy, who felt bitterly toward all

mankind at that instant, because he knew there was no hope of _his_

going.

"Say that again, and I'll knock your head off," and Ben faced round

with a gesture which caused the other to skip out of reach

precipitately.

"Hasn't got any money, more likely," observed a shabby youth, whose

pockets never had anything in them but a pair of dirty hands.

Ben calmly produced a dollar bill and waved it defiantly before this

doubter, observing with dignity:

"I've got money enough to treat the whole crowd, if I choose to, which

I _don't_."

"Then come along and have a jolly time with Sam and me. We can buy some

dinner and get a ride home, as like as not," said the amiable Billy,

with a slap on the shoulder, and a cordial grin which made it

impossible for Ben to resist.

"What are you stopping for?" demanded Sam, ready to be off, that they

might "take it easy."

"Don't know what to do with Sancho. He'll get lost or stolen if I take

him, and it's too far to carry him home if you are in a hurry," began

Ben, persuading himself that this was the true reason for his delay.

"Let Cy take him back. He'll do it for a cent; wont you, Cy?" proposed

Billy, smoothing away all objections, for he liked Ben, and saw that he

wanted to go.

"No, I wont; I _don't_ like him. He winks at me, and growls when I

touch him," muttered naughty Cy, remembering how much reason poor Sanch

had to distrust his tormentor.

"There's Bab; she'll do it. Come here, sissy; Ben wants you," called

Sam, beckoning to a small figure just perching on the fence.

Down it jumped and came fluttering up, much elated at being summoned by

the captain of the sacred nine.

"I want you to take Sanch home, and tell your mother I'm going to walk,

and may be wont be back till sundown. Miss Celia said I might do what I

pleased, all day. You remember, now."

Ben spoke without looking up, and affected to be very busy buckling a

strap into Sanch's collar, for the two were so seldom parted that the

dog always rebelled. It was a mistake on Ben's part, for while his eyes

were on his work, Bab's were devouring the bill, which Sam still held,

and her suspicions were aroused by the boys' faces.

"Where are you going? Ma will want to know," she said, as curious as a

magpie all at once.

"Never you mind; girls can't know everything. You just catch hold of

this and run along home. Lock Sanch up for an hour, and tell your

mother I'm all right," answered Ben, bound to assert his manly

supremacy before his mates.

"He's going to the circus," whispered Fay, hoping to make mischief.

"Circus! Oh, Ben, _do_ take me!" cried Bab, falling into a state of

great excitement at the mere thought of such delight.

"You couldn't walk four miles," began Ben.

"Yes, I could, as easy as not."

"You haven't got any money."

"You have; I saw you showing your dollar, and you could pay for me,

and Ma would pay it back."

"Can't wait for you to get ready."

"I'll go as I am. I don't care if it is my old hat," and Bab jerked it

on to her head.

"Your mother wouldn't like it."

"She wont like your going, either."

"She isn't my missis now. Miss Celia wouldn't care, and I'm going,

anyway."

"Do, do take me, Ben! I'll be just as good as ever was, and I'll take

care of Sanch all the way," pleaded Bab, clasping her hands and looking

round for some sign of relenting in the faces of the boys.

"Don't you bother; we don't want any girls tagging after us," said Sam,

walking off to escape the annoyance.

"I'll bring you a roll of chickerberry lozengers, if you wont tease,"

whispered kind-hearted Billy, with a consoling pat on the crown of the

shabby straw hat.

"When the circus comes here you shall go, certain sure, and Betty too,"

said Ben, feeling mean while he proposed what he knew was a hollow

mockery.

"They never do come to such little towns; you said so, and I think you

are very cross, and I wont take care of Sanch, so, now!" cried Bab

getting into a passion, yet ready to cry, she was so disappointed.

"I suppose it wouldn't do--" hinted Billy, with a look from Ben to

the little girl, who stood winking hard to keep the tears back.

"Of course it wouldn't. I'd like to see _her_ walking eight miles. I

don't mind paying for her; it's getting her there and back. Girls are

such a bother when you want to knock round. No, Bab, you _can't_ go.

Travel right home and don't make a fuss. Come along, boys; it's most

eleven, and we don't want to walk fast."

Ben spoke very decidedly, and, taking Billy's arm, away they went,

leaving poor Bab and Sanch to watch them out of sight, one sobbing, the

other whining dismally.

Somehow those two figures seemed to go before Ben all along the

pleasant road, and half spoilt his fun, for though he laughed and

talked, cut canes, and seemed as merry as a grig, he could not help

feeling that he ought to have asked leave to go, and been kinder to

Bab.

"Perhaps Mrs. Moss would have planned somehow so we could _all_ go, if

I'd told her. I'd like to show her round, and she's been real good to

me. No use now. I'll take the girls a lot of candy and make it all

right."

He tried to settle it in that way and trudged gayly on, hoping Sancho

wouldn't feel hurt at being left, wondering if any of "Smither's lot"

would be round, and planning to do the honors handsomely to the boys.

It was very warm, and just outside of the town they passed by a wayside

watering-trough to wash their dusty faces and cool off before plunging

into the excitements of the afternoon. As they stood refreshing

themselves, a baker's cart came jingling by, and Sam proposed a hasty

lunch while they rested. A supply of gingerbread was soon bought, and,

climbing the green bank above, they lay on the grass under a wild

cherry-tree, munching luxuriously while they feasted their eyes at the

same time on the splendors awaiting them, for the great tent, with all

its flags flying, was visible from the hill.

[Illustration: "THERE STOOD BAB WAITING FOR SANCHO TO LAP HIS FILL OUT

OF THE OVERFLOWING TROUGH."]

"We'll cut across those fields,--it's shorter than going by the

road,--and then we can look round outside till it's time to go in. I

want to have a good go at everything, especially the lions," said Sam,

beginning on his last cookie.

"I heard 'em roar just now;" and Billy stood up to gaze with big eyes

at the flapping canvas which hid the king of beasts from his longing

sight.

"That was a cow mooing. Don't you be a donkey, Bill. When you hear a

real roar, you'll shake in your boots," said Ben, holding up his

handkerchief to dry after it had done double duty as towel and napkin.

"I wish you'd hurry up, Sam. Folks are going in now. I see 'em;" and

Billy pranced with impatience for this was his first circus, and he

firmly believed that he was going to behold all that the pictures

promised.

"Hold on a minute while I get one more drink. Buns are dry fodder,"

said Sam, rolling over to the edge of the bank and preparing to descend

with as little trouble as possible.

He nearly went down head first, however, for, as he looked before he

leaped, he beheld a sight which caused him to stare with all his might

for an instant, then turn and beckon, saying in an eager whisper: "Look

here, boys--quick!"

Ben and Billy peered over, and both suppressed an astonished "Hullo!"

for there stood Bab waiting for Sancho to lap his fill out of the

overflowing trough.

Such a shabby, tired-looking couple as they were! Bab with a face as

red as a lobster and streaked with tears, shoes white with dust,

play-frock torn at the gathers, something bundled up in her apron, and

one shoe down at the heel as if it hurt her. Sancho lapped eagerly,

with his eyes shut; all his ruffles were gray with dust, and his tail

hung wearily down, the tassel at half-mast, as if in mourning for the

master whom he had come to find. Bab still held the strap, intent on

keeping her charge safe though she lost herself; but her courage seemed

to be giving out, as she looked anxiously up and down the road, seeing

no sign of the three familiar figures she had been following as

steadily as a little Indian on the war-trail.

"Oh, Sanch, what _shall_ I do if they don't come along? We must have

gone by them somewhere, for I don't see any one that way, and there

isn't any other road to the circus, seems to me."

Bab spoke as if the dog could understand and answer, and Sancho looked

as if he did both, for he stopped drinking, pricked up his ears, and,

fixing his sharp eyes on the grass above him, gave a suspicious bark.

"It's only squirrels; don't mind, but come along and be good, for I'm

so tired I don't know what to do!" sighed Bab, trying to pull him after

her as she trudged on, bound to see the outside of that wonderful tent,

even if she never got in.

But Sancho had heard a soft chirrup, and with a sudden bound twitched

the strap away, sprang up the bank, and landed directly on Ben's back

as he lay peeping over. A peal of laughter greeted him, and having got

the better of his master in more ways than one, he made the most of the

advantage by playfully worrying him as he kept him down, licking his

face in spite of his struggles, burrowing in his neck with a ticklish

nose, snapping at his buttons, and yelping joyfully, as if it was the

best joke in the world to play hide-and-seek for four long miles.

Before Ben could quiet him, Bab came climbing up the bank with such a

funny mixture of fear, fatigue, determination, and relief in her dirty

little face that the boys could not look awful if they tried.

"How dared you come after us, miss?" demanded Sam, as she looked calmly

about her and took a seat before she was asked.

"Sanch _would_ come after Ben; I couldn't make him go home, so I had to

hold on till he was safe here, else he'd be lost, and then Ben would

feel bad."

The cleverness of that excuse tickled the boys immensely, and Sam tried

again, while Ben was getting the dog down and sitting on him.

"Now you expect to go to the circus, I suppose."

"Course I do. Ben said he didn't mind paying if I could get there

without bothering him, and I have, and I'll go home alone. I aint

afraid. Sanch will take care of me, if you wont," answered Bab,

stoutly.

"What do you suppose your mother will say to you?" asked Ben, feeling

much reproached by her last words.

"I guess she'll say you led me into mischief," and the sharp child

nodded as if she defied him to deny the truth of that.

"You'll catch it when you get home, Ben, so you'd better have a good

time while you can," advised Sam, thinking Bab great fun, since none of

the blame of her pranks would fall on him.

"What would you have done if you _hadn't_ found us?" asked Billy,

forgetting his impatience in his admiration for this plucky young lady.

"I'd have gone on and seen the circus, and then I'd have gone home

again and told Betty all about it," was the prompt answer.

"But you haven't any money."

"Oh, I'd ask somebody to pay for me. I'm so little, it wouldn't be

much."

"Nobody would do it, so you'd have to stay outside, you see."

"No, I wouldn't. I thought of that and planned how I'd fix it if I

didn't find Ben. I'd make Sanch do his tricks and get a quarter that

way, so now," answered Bab, undaunted by any obstacle.

"I do believe she would! You are a smart child, Bab, and if I had

enough I'd take you in myself," said Billy, heartily; for, having

sisters of his own, he kept a soft place in his heart for girls,

especially enterprising ones.

"I'll take care of her. It was very naughty to come, Bab, but so long

as you did, you needn't worry about anything. I'll see to you, and you

shall have a real good time," said Ben, accepting his responsibilities

without a murmur, and bound to do the handsome thing by his persistent

friend.

"I thought you would," and Bab folded her arms as if she had nothing

further to do but enjoy herself.

"Are you hungry?" asked Billy, fishing out several fragments of

gingerbread.

"Starving!" and Bab ate them with such a relish that Sam added a small

contribution, and Ben caught some water for her in his hand where the

little spring bubbled up beside a stone.

"Now, you go and wash your face and spat down your hair, and put your

hat on straight, and then we'll go," commanded Ben, giving Sanch a roll

on the grass to clean him.

Bab scrubbed her face till it shone, and pulling down her apron to wipe

it, scattered a load of treasures collected in her walk. Some of the

dead flowers, bits of moss and green twigs fell near Ben, and one

attracted his attention,--a spray of broad, smooth leaves, with a bunch

of whitish berries on it.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, poking it with his foot.

"In a swampy place, coming along. Sanch saw something down there, and I

went with him 'cause I thought may be it was a musk-rat and you'd like

one if we could get him."

"Was it?" asked the boys all at once and with intense interest.

"No, only a snake, and I don't care for snakes. I picked some of that,

it was so green and pretty. Thorny likes queer leaves and berries, you

know," answered Bab, "spatting" down her rough locks.

"Well, he wont like that, nor you either; it's poisonous, and I

shouldn't wonder if you'd got poisoned, Bab. Don't touch it;

swamp-sumach is horrid stuff, Miss Celia said so," and Ben looked

anxiously at Bab, who felt her chubby face all over and examined her

dingy hands with a solemn air, asking eagerly:

"Will it break out on me 'fore I get to the circus?"

"Not for a day or so, I guess; but it's bad when it does come."

"I don't care, if I see the animals first. Come quick and never mind

the old weeds and things," said Bab, much relieved, for present bliss

was all she had room for now in her happy little heart.

_(To be continued.)_

[Illustration: THE LITTLE ITALIAN FLOWER-MERCHANT.]

FATHER CHIRP.

BY S.C. STONE.

Three little chirping crickets

Came, one night, to our door;

Tried all their keys,

Then tried their knees.

Till they could try no more.

The biggest of the crickets

Scratched hard his shiny head;

And what to do,

And what to do,

He didn't know, he said.

[Illustration: "THEN TRIED THEIR KNEES."]

The door, it would not open

To comers so belated;

Nobody heard,

Nobody stirred,

As still the crickets waited.

And then, as on a sudden,

By some new impulse bent,

Their voices three

'Rose shrill and free,

To give their feelings vent!

[Illustration: "HIGH UPON THEIR TINY LEGS."]

Then high upon their tiny legs

They stretched, to peep and peer;

While right behind

The window-blind

I crouched, to see and hear.

Louder the crickets chirped and chirped,

And, as I heard it then,

The tale they sung

In crickets' tongue

I render with my pen.

The tallest one was Father Chirp;

Here was his early home;

Here lived his mother

And dearest brother,

And hither had he come;

And with him brought his two brave sons,

Both skipping at his side,

To show to her,

Their grandmother,

With true paternal pride.

"There used to be," sang Father Chirp,

"A little child about;

And that door there

Was free as air

For going in or out.

"But days have passed since I lived here,--

It's like the folks are dead!

My children, oh!

My children, oh!

I'm going to weep," he said.

And then into his handkerchief

His little head went bobbing,

And his two heirs

They pulled out theirs,

And all three fell to sobbing.

[Illustration: "ALL THREE FELL TO SOBBING."]

I lost no time in opening wide

The door that had been fast;

And I could see

Those crickets three

Like dusky ghosts flit past.

And when I, listening, heard a chirp,

Another, and another,

I knew as well

As words could tell

They'd found the old grandmother!

WHERE MONEY IS MADE.

BY M.W.

"Ho!" I hear some New York boys say; "no need to tell us that.

Everybody knows that New York is the place to make money. Look at the

men in Wall street."

Indeed! And what will you say if I tell you that there is not a dollar

of money made in New York; nor in Chicago, neither; though I know my

young friends who live there are eager to speak up and claim the honor.

There are but three cities in all the Union where money is actually

made; that is, where metals are coined. The principal mint of the

United States is in Philadelphia. Here are made all the copper and

nickel coins--one, two and five cent pieces--and a large part of the

gold and silver coins used in the country. There are also branch mints

at San Francisco and Carson City. And at these places gold and silver

coins of every value are coined in great quantities.

Those of you who have been in Philadelphia will remember, on the north

side of Chestnut street, near Broad, a Grecian building of white

marble, somewhat gray from age, with a tall chimney rising from the

center, and the United States flag flying from the roof. This is the

mint. Let us climb the long flight of steps and enter the building. On

the door is a placard: "Visitors admitted from 9 to 12." The door opens

into a circular entrance hall, with seats around the wall. In a moment

a polite usher, who has grown gray in the service of the institution,

comes to show us all that visitors are allowed to see. He leads us

through a hall into an open court-yard in the middle of the building.

On the left is the weighing-room; and if you owned a gold mine, like

the boy I read of in a late number of ST. NICHOLAS, it is to this room

you would bring your gold to be weighed, so that you might know how

much money the mint must pay you for it. All the gold and silver

received in the mint is weighed in this room. Sometimes the gold is

brought in the form of fine dust; sometimes in the shape of grains from

the size of a pin's head to that of a pea; sometimes in plates and

bars, and sometimes it is old jewelry and table service. Visitors are

not allowed to enter the weighing-room; but, by looking through the

window you can see the scales, large and small, which are balanced with

wonderful delicacy, and the vault on the other side, where the treasure

is kept.

[Illustration: THE MINT AT PHILADELPHIA.]

"When the gold has been weighed," says our guide, "it is locked up in

iron boxes, and carried to the melting-room, where it is melted and

poured into molds."

A small piece is then cut off, and its fineness ascertained by a long

and delicate process called assaying. This decides the value of the

lot. The depositor is then paid, and the metal is handed over to the

melter and refiner, to be entirely freed from its impurities and made

fit for coinage.

And a hard time it has of it, to be sure. Nothing but pure gold and

silver could ever stand such treatment. It is melted again, dissolved

in nitric acid, squeezed under immense pressure, baked in a hot cellar,

and finally carried to this dingy-looking room, at the left of the

court-yard, where we have stood all this time. The metal is perfectly

pure now, but before the final melting one-tenth of its weight in

copper is added to it, to make it hard enough to bear the rough usage

which it will meet with in traveling about the world.

The room would be dark but for the fiery glow of the furnaces which

line one end of the place. On these are a number of small pots, filled

with red-hot liquid metal; and while we look, a workman lifts one after

another, with a pair of long tongs, and pours the glowing gold in

streams into narrow iron molds.

"This piece of gold," says the usher, taking up one of the yellow bars

from a cold mold, "is called an ingot, and is worth about 1,200

dollars."

One of the party asks why one end of the ingot is shaped like a wedge.

"That it may enter easily between the rollers," is the reply. "You will

see the rollers when we go upstairs."

The guide calls our attention to the curious false floor, made of iron

in a honey-comb pattern, and divided into small sections so that it can

be readily taken up to save the dust. He tells us that the sweepings of

these rooms have sometimes proved to be worth fifty thousand dollars in

a single year. The particles which adhere to the workmen's clothing are

also carefully saved, and there is an arrangement in the chimney for

arresting any light-minded atoms that may try to pass off in the smoke.

We would gladly remain longer, peering in at the glowing fires and the

swarthy figures of the workmen, but our guide is already half-way

across the court, and we reluctantly follow, stepping aside to make

room for a workman with his burden of silver bars, which he is carrying

to the next process.

This takes place in the rolling-room, where the short, thick ingots are

pressed between two steel rollers, again and again, till they are

rolled down into long thin ribbons of metal about the thickness of a

coin.

[Illustration: THE ROLLERS.]

The next step in the work is to draw the metal ribbons through a

"draw-plate," to bring them down to an exactly uniform thickness. This

pulling through a narrow slit in a steel plate hardens the metal, and

again and again it has to be put in the fire and brought to a light red

to make it soft and pliable. This drawing and annealing brings each

band of metal to just the right thickness and condition, and we may go

on and see the cutting-presses that stamp out the round pieces of metal

called "planchets." A workman takes a ribbon of gold and inserts the

end in the immense jaws of the press, and they bite, bite and bite, and

the round bits of gold drop in a shower into a box below.

[Illustration: POURING THE MELTED GOLD INTO THE MOLDS.]

"This press," says the usher, "is cutting double-eagles; and in the

single moment, by the watch, that we have been looking at it, it has

cut forty-five hundred dollars' worth. The same number of cuts would

make only two dollars and twenty cents if made in copper."

The machine goes on hastily biting out the round planchets to the end

of the ribbon, and then the guide holds up the long strip full of

holes, much as you have seen the dough after the cook has cut out her

ginger-snaps. These perforated bars go back to the furnace to be melted

over.

"The planchets," says the guide, "after being annealed in those

furnaces which you see at the rear of the room, are taken upstairs and

most carefully weighed."

None but women are employed in the weighing-room, and so delicate are

the scales that they will move with the weight of a hair. If a planchet

is found too light, it is thrown aside to be remelted; if only slightly

over the proper weight, a tiny particle is filed off from the edge; but

if the weight is much in excess, it is to go back to the furnace.

Nothing but perfection passes here, you see.

Now, one final washing in acid, then in water, and these much-enduring

bits of metal are admitted to the coining-room, there to receive the

stamp which testifies to their worth.

In the coining-room the planchets are first given to the

milling-machine. They are laid down flat between two steel rings, and

as the rings move one draws nearer to the other, and the planchets are

squeezed and crowded on every side, and finding no escape they turn up

about the edges and come out at the end of the sorry little journey

with a rim raised around the edges. Beyond the milling-machines stand

the ten coining-presses. These presses are attended by women. Watch

this one near us. At her right hand is a box containing silver

planchets, which are to be coined into fifty-cent pieces. On that round

"die," which you see in the center of the machine, are engraved the

letters and figures which are to appear on the back of the half-dollar.

Directly above the die, on the end of a rod, which works up and down

with the most exquisite accuracy, is the sunken impression of the face.

[Illustration: THE CUTTING PRESS.]

The woman gathers up a handful of the planchets and drops them one at a

time into a brass tube, which they just fit. They slip down in the

tube, and as the lowest planchet slides from under the tube, two small

steel arms spring out and grasp it and lay it on the die. At the same

instant, the upper die descends with a quick thump, and the silver

counter, stamped in a twinkling on both sides, falls into a box below.

In an instant, another takes its place, and thus they go on dropping

under the swiftly moving rod, and turning into coins in a flash.

[Illustration: "THE LONG STRIP FULL OF HOLES."]

Take up one of the coins and study it carefully. Every mark, letter,

number and bit of decoration is deeply cut in the metal. Even the

"reeding," or roughened edge, is stamped sharply, and we can tell just

what the coin is by feeling of it with the finger, even in the dark.

This last step finishes the work. The money is made, coined and ready

for exchange in the shop and market. Sometimes you may have noticed

that coins, like the nickel five-cent and the silver twenty-cent piece,

have smooth edges. In these coins the reeding is omitted. The dies in

the presses have only the letters and figures of the face and back of

the coin, and when the planchet is caught between them the metal is

squeezed up against the smooth sides of the die, and none of the little

reeding marks on the edge are formed.

"And now," says our kind conductor, "you have seen all the process of

making money. This next room is the cabinet, and here you can remain as

long as you please."

But I have not time to tell you half the curious and instructive things

you may see in this apartment. There are coins of all nations and ages.

Egyptian, Greek, and Roman, bearing effigies of forgotten kings and

emperors; curious oblong coins, of very fine workmanship, from China

and Japan, and others of a square shape with a hole in the middle, that

they may be strung on a string, instead of putting them into a purse.

Smallest of all, so small that you might overlook it, if your attention

was not especially drawn to it, is the "widow's mite." Perhaps----who

knows?--this may be the very coin which, dropped into the

trumpet-shaped mouth of the treasury, called forth the commendation of

the Savior upon the poor giver.

In other cases are the coins of England, France, Germany and other

modern nations; some more beautiful than our own, others far inferior

to them in design and workmanship. The cases around the wall are filled

with beautiful minerals, and, in particular, many fine specimens of

gold in its native state.

For so long a time have we been using paper money in this country that

it seemed almost useless to have mints to make coins, when ordinary

people never saw any of them, excepting those made of copper or nickel.

But our merchants, and others dealing with foreign countries, needed

gold, for our paper money could not be sent to Europe, or anywhere out

of the United States, to pay for goods; and so gold eagles and

double-eagles and half-eagles and quarter-eagles and gold dollars were

coined to be sent away, or to be used here to pay duties on imports.

Silver coins also were made, to be used in foreign countries, and among

these was the trade-dollar, which many of you may have seen.

[Illustration: THE COINING-PRESS.]

When silver small-change lately came into use again, there were many

boys and girls who had never seen a quarter or a half dollar. When they

spoke of fifty or twenty-five cents, they meant a piece of paper

currency, printed like a bank-note, of no value in itself, but only a

promise to pay.

But, since Congress has decided that we are to have not only silver

small-change, but also silver dollars, and now that these have became

again a part of the legal currency of the country; all three of our

mints have gone to work and are coining dollars as fast as they can,

for millions of them will be required, if we are all to use them.

I hope that you and I, dear reader, may be able to get as many of these

new dollars as we actually shall need, though perhaps none of us may

ever have as many of them, or of any other kind of money, as we think

we should like to have.

A SONG OF SPRING.

BY CAROLINE A. MASON.

O the sweet spring days when the grasses grow.

And the violets blow,

And the lads and the lassies a-maying go!

When the mosses cling in their velvet sheen,

Like a fringe of green,

To the rocks that o'er the deep pools lean;

When the brooks wake up with a merry leap

From their winter sleep,

And the frogs in the meadows begin to peep;

When the robin sings, thro' the long bright hours,

Of his southern bowers,

With a dream in his heart of the coming flowers;

When the earth is full of delicious smells

From the ferny dells,

And the scent of the breeze quite plainly tells

He has been with the apple-blooms! They fly

From his kisses sly

Like feathery snow-flakes scurrying by!

O the saucy pranks of the madcap breeze

In the blossoming trees!

O the sounds that thrill, and the sights that please,

And the nameless joys that the May days bring

On their glad, glad wing!

O the dear delights of the sweet, sweet spring!

SAM'S BIRTHDAY.

BY IRWIN RUSSELL.

On the nineteenth day of last month, Sam could and would have

testified, from information and belief, that he was "eight yeahs ol',

gwine on nine;" but on the morning of the twentieth, that interesting

infant of color was informed by his mother, as soon as he awoke, that

he was "nine yeahs ol', gwine on ten." When Aunt Phillis imparted this

surprising intelligence to her son, he was greatly amazed and

confounded; and he immediately began to speculate as to what

extraordinary combination of circumstances could have so suddenly

wrought this remarkable change.

"Hoo-_ee_!" he cried, "whut a pow'ful while I mus' ha' slep'! Or else I

grows wuss an' dat ar Jonus's gourd you tol' me 'bout, whut wuz only a

_teenchy_ leetle simblin at night, and got big as de hen-house afore

mornin'--early sun-up. Hm! hey! look heah, mammy, is I skipped any

Christmusses?"

"No, chile," replied his mother; "you aint skipped nuffin. Dis is yo'

buff-day: de 'fects ob which is, dat it's des so many yeahs sence you

wuz fust borned. I don't know how 't 'll be, Sam,--folks is sim'lar to

de cocoa-grass, whut grows up mighty peart, tell 'long come somebody

wid a hoe to slosh it down,--but ef you libs long enough, an' nuffin

happens, you'll keep on habbin a buff-day ebry yeah wunst a yeah till

you dies. An' ebry time you has one, son, you'll be one yeah older."

"Fine way to git gray-headed," said Sam.

At this moment a mighty crash resounded from the kitchen, down-stairs,

and Aunt Phillis descended the steps with great precipitation. Then Sam

heard her shouting, angrily:

"You, Bose! Oh, you _bettah_ git, you mean ole no-'count rascal! I do

'_spise_ a houn'-dog!"

Sam went on with his toilet, musing, the while, upon the probability of

his ever getting to be as old as Uncle "Afrikin Tommy," who was the

patriarch of the plantation, and popularly supposed to be "cluss onto"

two hundred years of age; and who was wont to aver that when _he_

arrived in that part of the country, when he was a boy, the squirrels

all had two tails apiece, and the Mississippi River was such a small

stream that people bridged it, on occasion, with a fence-rail. Thus

meditating upon the glorious possibilities of his future, Sam got ready

for breakfast, and went down. It was not until he had absorbed an

enormous quantity of fried pickled-pork and hot corn-cakes, and finally

with reluctance ceased to eat, that his mother told him what had caused

the noise a little while before,--how old Bose, the fox-hound, had with

felonious intent come into the kitchen, and surreptitiously "supped up"

the chicken-soup that had been prepared for Sam's birthday breakfast;

and further, how the said delinquent had added insult to injury, by

contemptuously smashing the bowl that he had emptied.

"I alluz did 'low," exclaimed Sam, in justifiable wrath, "as dat 'ar

ole houn' Bose wuz de triflin'est meanest dog in de whole State ob

Claiborne County!"

Sam, however, was too true a philosopher to cry long over spilt

milk--or soup. He reflected that the breakfast he had just taken would

prevent his eating any soup, even if he had it. "I isn't injy-rubber,"

said he to himself, with which beautiful and happy thought his frown

was superseded by a smile, the smile developed into his normal grin,

and he began to chant an appropriate stanza from one of his favorite

lyrics:

"O-o-o-old Uncle John!

A-a-a-aunt Sally Goodin!

When you got enough corn-bread

It's des as good as puddin'."

The excellent Aunt Phillis was much affected by this saint-like

conduct on the part of her son. She sighed; fearing that the boy was

too good to live.

"Nemmind, Sam," said she; "you needn't tote no wood to-day, or fetch no

water, or do nuffin. Go down to de quarters, an' git Pumble to play wid

you."

Pumble was a boy who in age and tastes corresponded closely with Sam,

as he did in complexion. His real name, at full length, was

Pumblechook,--he having been so christened at the instance of Mahs'r

George, in honor of the immortal corn-and-seedsman. Off went Sam in

search of this boy; and he found him at the back of the maternal

mansion splitting up pine-knots for kindlings. Sam approached him with

a very slow, dignified step, and a look of commiseration.

"Hey, nigger!" said Sam, "dat's all you fit for, is to work. Why don't

you be a gemman like me, whut aint a-gwine to do a lick o' work dis

whole day?"

"Done runned away, is you?" answered Pumble. "Well, I'll come 'round

dis ebenin, when de ole ooman gibs you a dose ob hickory-tea."

"Dat'll do, boy;" said Sam. "Let you know dis is my buff-day, an' _I_

wont work for _no_body, on _my_ buff-day. Go ax yo' mammy kin you come

up an' play wid me; tell her _my_ mammy sont word for you to come."

Pumble dropped the hatchet, stared ecstatically, and ran in to obtain

the desired permission. It was granted. Then this dialogue occurred:

"Be a good chile!"

"Yes'm."

"Don't forgit yo' manners!"

"Nome."

"'Member you's _my_ son!"

"Yes'm."

"Don't you git into no mischuf!"

"Nome."

"Ef you dose, I'll w'ar you out, sah! Now, go 'long!"

The boys trotted merrily away together. But they had not gone fifty

rods before they heard Pumble's mother calling him. They stopped to

listen.

"_Take--keer--ob yo'--clo'es!_" she shouted, and then went back into

her house.

Under a great pecan-tree, on the lawn before the "big house," Sam and

Pumble sat down to consider and consult, or, as they expressed it, "to

study up whut us gwine to do."

"Shill I tell a story?" asked Pumble.

"Does you know a good one?" inquired Sam.

"Dis story's gwine to be a new one," said Pumble "beakase I'll make it

up as I go 'long."

"Tell ahead," said Sam.

"Wunst apon a time--" began Pumble.

"What time?" interrupted Sam.

"Shut up! Wunst upon a time. Dey wuz a man. An' dis heah man lighted up

he pipe, an' started out on de big road. An' he went walkin' along.

Right stret along. An' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, _an'_ walkin'

along. An' _walkin'_ along. An' walkin' along, an' walkin' along--"

"Dat man wuz gwine all de way, wuzn't he?" interjected the listener.

[Illustration: "THE BOYS TROTTED MERRILY AWAY TOGETHER."]

"He hadn't got _no_ way, hardly, yit," said Pumble, "but he kep'

a-walkin' along. An' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, an' walkin'

along, an' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, an' walkin' along, an'

walkin' along, an' walkin' along--."

"Stop dat walkin' now," said Sam, "and tell whut he done when he _got

froo_ walkin'."

"He come to de place he wuz a-gwine to," said Pumble.

"Did he, sho' enough?" exclaimed Sam. "I wuz kinder skeered he wudn't

nebber git dar at all. Whut did he don nex'?"

"De nex' t'ing he done," said Pumble, impressively, "wuz to turn right

'round an' go back whar he come from. An' dat's all!"

As was his invariable custom when deeply impressed Sam began to sing,

Pumble joining in:

"Jay-bird a-settin

On a swingin' limb,

He wink at Stephen,

Stephen wink at him;

Stephen pint de gun,

Pull on de trigger,

Off go de load--

An' down come de nigger!"

Greatly refreshed and invigorated by the chanting of this touching

ballad, Sam and Pumble returned to the consideration of their day's

programme. A great many amusements were proposed, discussed, and

rejected in their respective turns. Almost any one of them would have

been held entirely satisfactory on any ordinary occasion, but Sam

thought none of them good enough for his birthday. He required

something extraordinary.

"Kaint you think up nuffin else?" he asked his friend, after a long

pause.

"I done thinked plumb to de back o' my head a'ready," replied Pumble.

"Den I tell you what," said Sam; "I heared my pappy say dis: when a

pusson want to think _rale strong_, he mus' lay down on de flat ob his

back and shet his eyes; an' den, putty soon, he kin think anything he

wants to. Let's try it."

This plan was immediately experimented on. Pumble instantly succeeded

in thinking; but he only thought that he wished he could have a

"buff-day" of his own. Very soon afterward, he ceased to think at all.

As for Sam, _his_ thoughts were for some time very ordinary--of too

commonplace a nature to be here recorded; but they gradually assumed

such an odd and remarkable shape that they may fairly be described as a

vision. It seemed to Sam that the whole country around, as far as one

could see, was transformed into one great field, in a perfect state of

cultivation. But the growing "crop" was not one of cotton, or corn, or

cow-peas, or sorghum, or anything else that he had ever before seen in

such a place. Coming up out of the ground were long rows of very

singular bushes, whereof the stalks were sticks of candy, and the

leaves were blackberry pies, and over the whole field was falling a

drenching rain of molasses. Sam, however, was most astonished at the

curious fruit that the bushes bore. The twigs of some of them supported

jew's-harps and tin trumpets; others bent beneath a wealth of

fire-crackers and Roman candles; others, again, were weighted with his

favorite sardines; and so on in endless variety. It is not at all

surprising that the idea occurred to him that this crop ought to be

"picked." He found himself becoming highly indignant at the negligence

of the planter--whoever he might be--in leaving all these good things

to spoil on the bushes; and he burned with a desire to have them

properly gathered, and to assist in that work himself. Accordingly, he

was just about to reach for a pie and a jew's-harp, by way of

beginning, when he found that this was made impossible, by the fact of

himself having been suddenly and incomprehensibly changed to a huge

water-melon. Over him grew one of the largest bushes, from whose

branches depended seven roasted 'possums. It was some consolation to

look at them, and imagine how good they would taste if he only _could_

taste them. Presently a little gingerbread bird flew down and began to

peck at him, and say, "Git up, Sam! You Sam! Sam!"

He woke up, and found that the wonderful field had vanished, and that

he was lying under the old pecan-tree instead of the 'possum-bush; and

there was his mother shouting in his ear:

"Sam! don't you heah me, you lazy--_S-a-m_! _Git_ up dis minnit an' go to

de well for a bucket ob water, sah, foah I _whoop_ you!"

Pumble sat up and stared.

"Why, mammy," said Sam, "you tol' me I needn't do no work, kase it's my

buff-day."

"I's ben countin' it up ag'in," said Aunt Phillis, "an' foun' out where

I made a mis-figger, de fust time, and tallied wrong altogedder.

'Cordin' to de _c'rect_ calkilation, yo' buff-day was one day _las'

month._ WALK arter dat water!"

WAIT

BY DORA READ GOODALE.

When the icy snow is deep,

Covering the frozen land,

Do the little flowerets peep

To be crushed by Winter's hand?

No, they wait for brighter days,

Wait for bees and butterflies;

Then their dainty heads they raise

To the sunny, sunny skies.

When the cruel north winds sigh,

When 'tis cold with wind and rain,

Do the birdies homeward fly

Only to go back again?

No, they wait for spring to come,

Wait for gladsome sun and showers;

Then they seek their northern home,

Seek its leafy, fragrant bowers.

Trustful as the birds and flowers,

Tho' our spring of joy be late,

Tho' we long for brighter hours,

We must ever learn to wait.

THE STORY OF MAY-DAY.

BY OLIVE THORNE.

Alas, children! the world is growing old. Not that dear old Mother

Earth begins to show her six thousand (more or less) years, by stiff

joints and clumsy movements, by clinging to her winter's rest and her

warm coverlet of snow, forgetting to push up the blue-eyed violets in

the spring, or neglecting to unpack the fresh green robes of the trees.

No, indeed! The blessed mother spins around the sun as gayly as she did

in her first year. She rises from her winter sleep fresh and young as

ever. Every new violet is as exquisitely tinted, as sweetly scented, as

its predecessors of a thousand years ago. Each new maple-leaf opens as

delicate and lovely as the first one that ever came out of its tightly

packed bud in the spring. Mother Nature never grows old.

But the human race changes in the same way that each one of us does.

The race had its childhood when men and women played the games that are

now left to you youngsters. We can even see the change in our own day.

Some of us--who are not grandmothers, either--can remember when youth

of fourteen and fifteen played many games which, nowadays, an

unfortunate damsel of six years--ruffled, embroidered, and white

gowned, with delicate shoes, and hips in the vice-like grasp of a

modern sash--feels are altogether too young for her. I dare say I shall

live to see the once-beloved dolls abandoned to babies; and I fear the

next generation will find a Latin grammar in the cradle instead of a

rattle-box, and baby cutting his teeth scientifically, with a surgical

instrument, instead of on a rubber ring.

Well, well! What _do_ you suppose our great-grandchildren will do?

We must not let these old-fashioned customs be forgotten, and I want to

tell you the story of May-day. A curious tale is told of the beginning

of the May-day celebration, which is of more venerable age than perhaps

you know. You shall hear it, and then you can believe as much as you

choose, as all the rest of the world takes the liberty of doing; for

although the grave old Roman writers put it in their books for truth,

it is very much doubted by our modern wiseheads, because it is so

unreasonable, and so inelegant (as our dainty critic says). As though

the world was always reasonable, forsooth! or undoubted historical

facts did not sometimes lack the important quality of elegance!

However it may be, here is the story: Many hundred years ago,--about

two hundred before Christ, in fact,--there lived in Rome a beautiful

woman named Flora. Had she lived in these luxurious days, she would

have enjoyed another name or two; but in those simple times she was

plain Flora.

Being human, this lady had a great dread of being forgotten when she

had left the world. So she devised a plan to keep her memory green. She

made a will giving her large fortune to the city of Rome, on condition

that a festival in her memory should be celebrated every year.

When the will came before the grave and reverend Roman senators, it

caused serious talk. To decline so rich a gift was not to be thought

of; yet to accept the condition they did not like, for it was a bold

request in Madam Flora, who had, to say the least, done nothing worthy

of celebrating. At last, according to the old story-tellers, a way out

of the difficulty was found, as there generally is; and the city

fathers decided to accept the terms, and make Flora worthy of the honor

by placing her among their minor deities, of which there were no less

than thirty thousand. She took her place as Goddess of Flowers, with a

celebration about the first of May, to be called Floralia, after her.

This little story may be a fable; but now I shall tell you some facts.

When the Romans came to Britain to live, many hundred years ago, they

brought, of course, their own customs and festivals, among which was

this one in memory of Flora. The heathen--our ancestors, you

know--adopted them with delight, being in the childhood of their race.

They became very popular; and when, some years later, a good priest,

Gregory, came (from Rome also) to convert the natives, he wisely took

advantage of their fondness for festivals, and not trying to suppress

them, he simply altered them from heathen feasts to Christian games, by

substituting the names of saints and martyrs for heathen gods and

goddesses. Thus the Floralia became May-day celebration, and lost none

of its popularity by the change. On the contrary, it was carried on all

over England for ages, till its origin would have been lost but for a

few pains-taking old writers, who "made notes" of everything.

The Floralia we care nothing for, but the May-day games have lasted

nearly to our day, and some relics of it still survive in our young

country. When you crown a May queen, or go with a May party, you are

simply following a custom that the Romans began, and that our remote

ancestors in England carried to such lengths, that not only ordinary

people, but lords and ladies, and even king and queen, laid aside their

state and went "a-Maying" early in the morning, to wash their faces in

May dew, and bring home fresh boughs and flowers to deck the May-pole,

which reared its flowery crown in every village.

Great were the doings around the May-pole, for which the tallest and

straightest of trees was selected. It was drawn to its place by as many

as thirty or forty yoke of oxen, their horns decorated with flowers,

followed by all the lads and lassies of the village. The pole was wound

or painted with gay colors, and trimmed with garlands, bright

handkerchiefs, and ribbon streamers, from top to bottom.

With great ceremonies, and shouts of joy, it was lifted to its place by

ropes and pulleys, and set up firmly in the ground; and then the people

joined hands and danced around it. The whole day was given up to

merriment, every one dressed in holiday clothes, doors and windows were

adorned with green boughs and flowers, the bells rang, processions of

people in grotesque dresses were arranged, and the famous Morris

dancers performed.

In this dance the people assumed certain characters. There was always

Robin Hood, the great hero of the rustics; Maid Marian, the queen, with

gilt crown on her head; Friar Tuck; a fool, with his fool's-cap and

bells; and, above all, the hobby-horse. This animal was made of

pasteboard, painted a sort of pink color, and propelled by a man

inside, who made him perform various tricks not common to horses, such

as threading a needle and holding a ladle in his mouth for pennies.

The various characters labored to support their parts. The friar gave

solemn advice, the queen imitated lady-like manners, the fool joked and

made fun, and the horse pranced in true horsey style.

This Morris dance is supposed to have been brought in early times from

Spain, where the Moors danced it, and where it still survives as the

"fandango."

All this May-day merriment came to an end when our grim Puritan fathers

had power in England. Dancing around the May-pole looked to them like

heathen adoration of an idol. Parliament made a law against it, and all

the May-poles in the island were laid in the dust. The common people

had their turn, when, a few years later, under a new king, the

prohibitory law was repealed and a new May-pole, the highest ever in

England (one hundred and thirty-four feet), was set up in the Strand,

London, with great pomp. But the English people were fast outgrowing

the sport, and the customs have been dying out ever since. Now, a very

few May-poles in obscure villages are all that can be found.

Though May-pole and Morris dancing were the most common, there were

other curious customs in different parts of the kingdom. In one place,

the Mayers went out very early to the woods, and gathering green

boughs, decorated every door with one. A house containing a sweetheart

had a branch of birch, the door of a scold was disgraced with alder,

and a slatternly person had the mortification to find a branch of a

nut-tree at hers, while the young people who overslept found their

doors closed by a nail over the latch.

In other places, wreaths were made on hoops, with a gayly dressed doll

in the middle of each, and carried about by girls, the little owners

singing a ballad which had been sung since the time of Queen Bess,--and

expecting a shower of pennies, of course.

In Dublin, the youths decorated a bush, four or five feet high, with

candles, which they lighted and danced around till burnt out. They then

lighted a huge bonfire, threw the bush on it, and continued their dance

around that. In other parts of Ireland, the boys had a mischievous

habit of running through the streets with bundles of nettles, with

which they struck the face and hands of every one they met. The sting

of nettle, perhaps you know, is a very uncomfortable pain. The same

people are very superstitious, and they believed that the power of the

Evil Eye was greater on the first of May than at any other time; and

they insured a good supply of milk for the year by putting a green

bough against the house, which is certainly an easy way. In old times,

the Druids drove all the cattle through the fire, to keep them from

diseases, and this custom still survives in parts of Ireland, where

many a peasant who owns a cow and a bit of straw is careful to do the

same.

In the Scottish Highlands, in the eighteenth century, the boys had a

curious custom. They would go to the moors outside of the town, make a

round table in the sod, by cutting a trench around it, deep enough for

them to sit down to their grassy table. On this table they would kindle

a fire and cook a custard of eggs and milk, and knead a cake of

oat-meal, which was toasted by the fire. After eating the custard, the

cake was cut into as many parts as there were boys; one piece was made

black with coal, and then all put into a cap. Each boy was in turn

blindfolded, and made to take a piece, and the one who selected the

black one was to be sacrificed to Baal, whose favor they wished to ask

for their harvest. The victim in that day had only to leap through the

fire; but there is little doubt that the whole thing was a survival

from the days when human beings were really sacrificed.

In the island of Lewis, in the west of Scotland, there prevails a

custom of sending a man very early on May-day to cross a certain river,

believing that if a woman crossed it first the salmon would not come

into the stream for a year.

May-day festivals were not confined to the British islands. They were

found, with variations suited to the different races, all over Europe.

In France, the day was consecrated to the Virgin, and young girls

celebrated it by dressing the prettiest one in white, crowning, and

decorating her with flowers, and throning her under a canopy of flowers

and greens, built beside the road. There she sat in state, while her

attendants begged of passers-by, for the "Lady of the May," money,

which was used in a feast later in the day.

In Toulouse, there was an ancient custom of giving a prize of a golden

violet for the best poem. This custom held its place for more than four

centuries. May-poles also flourished in France, and had gilt pendants.

The Dutch May-pole was still different, being surrounded by trees stuck

into flower-pots, and ornamented with gay-colored flags, and hoops with

garlands and gilt balls hanging. Another sort had wooden dolls made to

represent the figures of peasants, nailed against the pole by their

hands and knees, as though climbing it. There were also figures of

birds and people. In some parts of Germany it was the firm belief of

the common people that certain ill-disposed beings met on a high

mountain on May-day to dance and feast, with no good intentions to

their human neighbors. Accordingly on the day before, every family was

careful to have a thorn of a certain kind, which was stuck into the

door as a protection.

[Illustration: AN OLD-TIME MAY-DAY IN "MERRIE ENGLAND."]

The Scandinavians, whose first of May is not very balmy, had of old a

curious fight between Summer and Winter. Winter--or the man

representing him--was dressed in skins, armed with fire-forks, and

threw snow-balls and pieces of ice. Summer was dressed in green leaves

and summer dress. They had a mock fight which was called "Driving away

Winter and welcoming Summer," and in the Isle of Man, where Norwegians

had rule for many years, this custom lingered until very lately.

But, as the years went on, these merry games died out, and a few years

ago May-day was in London simply the festival of chimney-sweeps and

milk-maids, certainly a falling off from the times of King Henry VIII.

The only traces of the old custom of going a-Maying were the garlands

of the milk-maids and the Jack-in-the-green of the sweeps. The garland

(so called) was made of silver plate, borrowed for the day, and

fastened upon a sort of pyramid. Accompanying this droll garland were

the maids themselves in gay dress, with ribbons and flowers, and

attended by musicians who played for them to dance in the street.

Sometimes a cow was dressed in festive array, with bouquets and ribbons

on her horns, neck and tail, and over her back a net, stuck full of

flowers. Thus highly ornamented, the meek creature was led through the

streets.

The sweeps brought out the Jack-in-the-green, which was a tall cone

made of green boughs, decorated with flowers, gay streamers and a

flag, and carried by a man inside. Each of these structures was

followed by a band of sweeps who assumed certain characters, the

fashion of which had been handed down from the palmy times of May-day.

There were always a lord and lady who wore ridiculous imitations of

fashionable dress, and made ludicrous attempts to imitate elegant

manners. Mad Moll and her husband were another pair who flourished in

tawdry, gay-colored rags, and tatters, he brandishing a sweep's broom

and she a ladle. Jim Crow and a fancifully bedizened ballet-dancer in

white muslin, often swelled the ranks, and the rest of the party rigged

out in a profusion of gilt paper, flowers, tinsel and gewgaws, their

faces and legs colored with brick-dust, made up a comical crowd. But

even these mild remains of the great festival are almost entirely

banished to the rural districts, and are almost extinct there.

Poor Flora! (if there ever was such a person) she has her wish (if that

wish ever existed save in the imagination of the Romans); she is not

forgotten; her story survives in musty books, though her personality be

questioned; various marble statues bear her pretty name, and, after

running this declining scale through the ages, she and her May-day are

softened by time to a fragrant memory.

WILD GEESE.

BY CELIA THAXTER.

The wind blows, the sun shines, the birds sing loud,

The blue, blue sky is flecked with fleecy dappled cloud,

Over earth's rejoicing fields the children dance and sing,

And the frogs pipe in chorus, "It is spring! it is spring!"

The grass comes, the flower laughs where lately lay the snow,

O'er the breezy hill-top hoarsely calls the crow,

By the flowing river the alder catkins swing,

And the sweet song-sparrow cries, "Spring! it is spring!"

Hark, what a clamor goes winging through the sky!

Look, children! Listen to the sound so wild and high!

Like a peal of broken bells,--kling, klang, kling,--

Far and high the wild geese cry, "Spring! it is spring!"

Bear the winter off with you, O wild geese dear!

Carry all the cold away, far away from here;

Chase the snow into the north, O strong of heart and wing,

While we share the robin's rapture, crying, "Spring! it is spring!"

THE CHARCOAL-BURNERS' FIRE; OR, EASTER EVE AMONG THE COSSACKS.

(_A Russian Legend._)

BY DAVID KER.

"If you want me to tell you any wonderful stories, Barin, such as

_you've_ been telling us," says Ostap Mordenko, shaking his bushy

yellow beard, as he finished his cup of tea, "you're just looking for

corn upon a rock, as the saying is; for _I_ never had an adventure

since the day I was born, except that time when I slipped through a

hole in the ice, last winter. But, perhaps, it will do as well if I

tell you an old tale that I've heard many a time from my grandfather,

that's dead (may the kingdom of heaven be his!), and which will show

you how there may be hope for a man, even when everything seems to be

at the very worst.

"Many, many years ago, there lived in a village on the Don River, a

poor man. When I say he was poor, I don't mean that he had a few holes

in his coat at times, or that he had to go without a dinner every now

and then, for that's what we've all had to do in our time; but it

fairly seemed as if poverty were his brother, and had come to stay with

him for good and all. Many a cold day his stove was unlighted, because

he couldn't afford to buy wood; and he lived on black bread and cold

water from the New Year to the Nativity--it was no good talking to

_him_ about cabbage soup, or salted cucumber, or tea with lemon in

it.[A]

"Now, if he had only had himself to be troubled about, it wouldn't have

mattered a kopeck,[B] for a _man_ can always make shift for himself.

But, you see, this man had been married once upon a time, and, although

his wife was gone, his three children were left, and he had _them_ to

care for as well as himself. And, what was worse, instead of being

boys, who might have gone out and earned something for themselves, they

were all girls, who could do nothing but stay at home and cry for food,

and many a time it went to his heart so that he stopped his ears, and

ran out of the house that he mightn't hear them.

"However, as the saying is, 'Bear up, Cossack, and thou'll be Maman

(chief) some day;' so he struggled on somehow or other, till at last it

came to Easter Eve. And then all the village was up like a fair, some

lighting candles before the pictures of the saints; some baking cakes

and pies, and all sorts of good things; others running about in their

best clothes, greeting their friends and relations; and, as soon as it

came to midnight, such a kissing and embracing, such a shaking of hands

and exchanging of good wishes, as I daresay you've seen many a time in

our villages; and nothing to be heard all over the place but 'Christ is

risen!' 'He is risen indeed!'[C]

"But, as you may think, our poor Stepka (Stephen) had neither new

clothes nor rejoicings in _his_ hut--nor lighted candles either, for

that matter. The good old priest had left him a few tapers as he

passed, for _he_ was always a kind man to the poor; but he had quote

forgotten that the poor fellow would have nothing to kindle them with,

and so, though the candles were in their places, all ready for

lighting, there was not a glimmer of light to be seen! And that

troubled poor Stepka more than all his other griefs, for he was a true

Russian, and thought it a sore thing that he could not even do honor to

the day on which our Lord had arisen from the dead. Besides, he had

hoped that the sight of the pretty light would amuse his children, and

make them forget their hunger a little; and at the thought of their

disappointment his heart was very sore.

"However, as the proverb says, 'Sitting still won't make one's corn

grow.' So he got up and went out to beg a light from some of his

neighbors. But the people of the village (it's a pity to have to say

it), were a hard-hearted, cross-grained set, who had not a morsel of

compassion for a man in trouble; for they forgot that the tears of the

poor are God's thunder-bolts, and that every one of them will burn into

a man's soul at last, as good father Arkadi used to tell us. So, when

poor Stepka came up to one door after another, saying humbly, 'Give me

a light for my Easter candles, good neighbors, for the love of Heaven,'

some mocked at him, and others bade him begone, and others asked why he

didn't take better care of his own concerns, instead of coming

bothering _them_; and one or two laughed, and told him there was a fine

bright moon overhead, and all he had to do was to reach up a good long

stick and get as much light as he wanted. So, you see, the poor fellow

didn't get much by _that_ move; and what with the disappointment, and

what with grief at finding himself so shabbily treated by his own

neighbors, just because he happened to be poor, he was ready to go out

of his wits outright.

"Just then he happened to look down into the plain (for the village

stood on the slope of a hill), and behold! there were ever so many

lights twinkling all over it, as if a regiment were encamped there; and

Stepka thought that this must be a gang of charcoal-burners halting for

the night, as they often did in passing to and fro. So, then the

thought struck him, "Why shouldn't I go and beg a light from _them_;

they can't well be harder upon me than my own neighbors have been. I'll

try, at any rate!"

"And off he set, down the hill, right toward the encampment.

"The nearer he came to it, the brighter the fires seemed to burn; and

the sight of the cheery light, and all the people coming and going

around it, all so busy and happy, made him feel comforted without

knowing why. He went right up to the nearest fire, and took off his

cap.

"'Christ is risen!' said he.

"'He is risen indeed!' answered one of the black men, in such a clear,

sweet voice, that it sounded to Stepka just like his mother singing him

to sleep when he was a child.

"'Give me a light for my Easter candles, good people, I pray you.'

"'You are heartily welcome,' said the other, pointing to the glowing

fire; 'but how are you going to carry it home?'

[Illustration: STEPKA CARRIES THE FIRE IN HIS CLOAK.]

"'Oh, dear me!' cried poor Stepka, striking his forehead, 'I never

thought about that!'

"'Well, that shows that you were very much in earnest, my friend,' said

the other, laughing; 'but never mind; I think we can manage it for you.

Lay down your coat.'

Stepka pulled off his old patched coat and laid it on the ground,

wondering what was to come next; but what was his amazement when the

man coolly threw two great shovelfuls of blazing wood into the coat, as

coolly as if it were a charcoal bucket!

"'Hallo! hallo!' cried Stepka, seizing his arm, 'what on earth are you

about, burning my coat that way?'

"'Your coat will be none the worse, brother,' said the charcoal-burner,

with a curious smile. 'Look and see!'

"And, sure enough, the fire lay quietly in the hollow of the coat, and

never singed a thread of it! Stepka was so startled, that for a moment

he thought he had to do, not with charcoal-burners, but with something

worse; but, remembering how they had greeted him in the Holy Name, he

became easy again.

"'Good luck to you, my lad,' said the strange man, as the Cossack took

up his load. 'You'll get it home all right, never fear.'

"Away went Stepka like one in a dream, and never stopped till he got to

his own house. He lighted all his candles, and then awoke his children

(who had cried themselves to sleep) that they might enjoy the bonny

light; and, when they saw it they clapped their hands and shouted for

joy.

"Just then Stepka happened to look toward his coat, which he had laid

down on the table, with the burning wood still in it, and started as if

he had been stung. It was choke-full of _gold_--good, solid ducats[D]

as ever were coined, more than he could have counted in a whole hour.

Then he knew that his strange companions were no charcoal-burners, but

God's own angels sent to help him in his need; and he kneeled down and

gave thanks to God for his mercy.

"Now, just at that moment one of the neighbors happened to be passing,

and, hearing the children hurrahing and clapping their hands, he peeped

through the window, wondering what _they_ could find to be merry about.

But, when he saw the heap of gold on the table, everything else went

clean out of his head, and he opened the door and burst in, like a wolf

flying from the dogs.

"'I say,' cried he, without even stopping to give Stepka the greeting

of the day, 'where did you get this fine legacy from? It makes one's

eyes blink to look at it!'

"Now, Stepka was a good-hearted fellow, as I've said, and he never

thought of remembering how badly this very man had treated him an hour

or two before, but just told him the whole story right out, exactly as

I tell it you now. The other hardly waited to hear the end of it, but

set off full speed to find these wonderful charcoal-burners and try if

_he_ couldn't get some gold out of them, too. And, as there had been

more than a few listeners at the door while the tale was being told, it

ended with the whole village running like mad in the same direction.

"When they got to the burners' camp, the charcoal men looked at them

rather queerly, as well they might, to see such a procession come to

ask for a light all at once. However, they said nothing, but signed to

them to lay their coats on the ground, and served out two shovelfuls of

burning wood to each; and away went the roguish villagers, chuckling at

the thought of getting rich so easily, and thinking what they would do

with their money.

"But they had hardly gone a quarter of the way home, when the foremost

suddenly gave a terrible howl and let fall his load; and in another

moment all the rest joined in, till there was a chorus that you might

have heard a mile off. And they had good reason; for, although the fire

had lain in Stepka's coat, it wouldn't lie in theirs--it had burned

right through, and their holiday clothes were spoiled, and their hands

famously blistered, and all that was left of their riches was a smoke

and smell like the burning of fifty tar-barrels. And when they turned

to abuse the charcoal-burners, the charcoal-burners were gone; fires,

camp and men had all vanished like a dream!

"But as for Stepka, _his_ gold stuck by him, and he used it well. And

always, on the day of his visit to the charcoal-burners, he gave a good

dinner to as many poor folk as he could get together, saying that he

must be good to others, even as God had been good to _him_. And that's

the end of my story."

[Footnote A: The three great dainties of the Russian peasant.]

[Footnote B: One third of a penny; one hundred kopecks equal one

rouble.]

[Footnote C: The Easter greeting, and reply.]

[Footnote D: The Russian word is "tchervontzi"--gold pieces worth five

dollars each.]

PARLOR BALLOONING.

BY L. HOPKINS.

[Illustration]

There goes the toy balloon man!

Here, take this ten-cent piece; run after him as hard as ever you can,

and bring me one of those over-grown ripe-cherry-looking things, and I

will show you a few queer tricks the toy balloon can do, which, I'll

venture to say, the inventor of toy balloons himself never thought of.

Ah! I see you have picked out a fine plump one. Now for a bit of

paper--any kind will do. This, torn from an old newspaper at random,

will serve the purpose admirably.

Now, I crumple it up at one corner, and tie it to Mr. Balloon's half

yard or so of tail, and turn him loose in the room. He rises slowly for

a little, and then as slowly settles down to the floor. That won't do.

I want to see him exactly balanced between floor and ceiling; so, of

course, the paper must be of exactly the same weight as the balloon

itself. We soon can accomplish that. See! I tear off a bit more. Top

heavy yet? He rises higher this time, and settles down more slowly to

the floor. Tear again. Whew! I took off too much that time. He rises to

the ceiling, bumping his head against it a few times, and finally

remains there in a sullen manner as if determined he will have no more

of our nonsense.

[Illustration]

I recapture him, and this time I add to the weight of his tail, by

dividing in two the last bit which I tore off, and twisting it around

the string.

Now, then, sir, you may go! See! he rises slowly, slowly, until about

midway between floor and ceiling, where he stops and turns slowly

about, as if making up his mind what to do next.

[Illustration]

Presto! a current of air strikes him, and he begins dodging about in a

frantic manner, as if to escape from some invisible enemy. Presently he

becomes calmer, and proceeds to explore every nook and corner of the

room; now going up close to the clock on the mantel, as if to ascertain

the time of day; now taking a look at himself in the mirror; then,

turning suddenly away (as if in confusion to find you have caught him

at it), he moves toward the window, and pretends to be interested in

what is going on outside; but, a draught of air coming briskly in, he

hastens away as fast as ever he can, as if in fear of taking cold.

Skimming along close to the floor, he reaches the opposite side of the

room, and, slowly rising again, peers into the canary's cage. The

occupant resents the liberty with erect feathers, and our balloon

quickly descends, and takes refuge under the piano. Recovering his

presence of mind, presently he peeps cautiously out, and begins to

ascend again. Here he comes toward us--slowly, majestically! Strike at

him with a fan, and lo! he retreats in great disorder to a remote

corner of the room, dodging about in most eccentric fashion, when,

recovering his self-possession after a time, he goes about examining

the pictures on the wall with the air of a critic. You lie down on

your back, on the comfortable sofa in the corner, watching the balloon

as it sails slowly about, and wondering what it will do next,

until--until you fall asleep!

[Illustration]

You are awakened by something tickling your nose; and, looking up, you

suddenly discover the toy balloon hovering over you, with its tail in

your face, and apparently enjoying your surprise.

[Illustration]

All this, and much more indeed, will a toy balloon do, if treated in

the manner I have described.

Begin with a piece of paper rather heavier than the balloon, and tear

off bit by bit until the two exactly balance.

DRIFTED INTO PORT.

BY EDWIN HODDER.

CHAPTER IX.

AMONG THE FISHER FOLKS.

We cannot follow the holiday party through all their pleasant

wanderings, nor tell of the impressions made upon them by the scenes,

celebrated in history and romance, through which they traveled.

Their drives in the midday heat, their strolls in the cool evening,

their resting hours as they talked over the events of the day, all were

harmonious and gladsome.

If there was one part of the trip which gave them greater pleasure than

the rest, it was their visit to the Shetland Isles.

There was an indescribable pleasure to our young folks in wandering

under cliffs gaunt and bare, and hearing the stories of Vikings, who

fought and fell,--or fought and conquered in these isles.

Sometimes in their wanderings they would come upon a "fairy-ring," and

as they listened to the strange stories told by the islanders, they

seemed to be really in some bewitched and spell-bound place. Or,

perhaps a "kern," standing solitary upon some hill-top, would call

forth a whole series of Danish and Norwegian legends, which would give

them food for reflection for days.

Many a pleasant adventure they had as they rode together on their

sure-footed little "shelties," or climbed the crags and rocks to look

down upon the isles, "like so many stars reflected from the sky." And

many a pleasant talk they had with the hospitable inhabitants, who

rehearsed to them some of the dangers which assail the dwellers in

those solitary little islands. The narrow belts of sea, which divide

their ocean-girded homes, have constantly to be ferried across, and

many a boat which has gone out manned with a gallant crew has never

returned or sent a waif to tell its story.

It was partly to acquire a knowledge of the Shetland character, and to

see some phases of its home-life, that our friends, when they came at

last to one little village by the sea, where they had only intended to

make a flying visit, determined to halt there for a few days. It was a

charming spot; on the one side of the village there were to be seen

some of the finest specimens of the savage grandeur of cliff and crag,

and on the other the smiling, genial face of cultivation and quiet

beauty.

On the morning our friends arrived at the village they found three

fishermen at work beside their cottage door, on the margin of the sea.

They were brothers--Ole, Maurice, and Eric Hughson; all young men,

handsome, strong and intelligent. Howard and Martin made friends with

them at once, and as the morning was calm and bright, entered into

arrangements with them for their best boat to be launched, so that our

friends might have a long sail, to visit some of the caverns abounding

on the coast, and to see the homes of the wild sea-birds, and the

haunts of the fowlers.

When the hamper of provisions was safely on board, and the party for

the picnic had followed it, of course the sea air and the fine scenery

set every tongue loose, so that the solitary places rang again with the

merry laughter and the voice of song. And then, when the first

irrepressible pleasure had spent itself a little, the young folks

gathered round the three brothers, and listened with attentive interest

to the yarns they were spinning to Mr. Morton about some of the places

they were passing; for every spot in the Shetlands has its own story.

Madeleine noticed that beneath the mirth and apparent gayety of the

men, there seemed to be an under-current of deep feeling, probably born

of sorrow, and she determined, if possible, to find her way to the

hearts of the fine manly fellows, in whom she began to be interested.

It was not long before an opportunity occurred. The boat was steered

round a huge bluff, and before our friends were aware where they were

going, they found themselves in a vast cavern. There was something

awful in the half-darkness into which they passed, and the dreary

stillness, only broken by the splashing of the water against the sides

of the cave, enhanced the feeling. As the boat rested in the midst of

the cavern, they looked up, and saw as it were, stars shining through

the massive roof; they looked around, and the huge rocks seemed like

burnished metal. It was a curious sight, and the sounds were equally

curious for every word they spoke came back again to the speaker, with

a ghostly hollowness.

Madeleine, with Howard and Martin, sang a song together, which sounded

splendidly within this vaulted cave, with all its wild re-echoings.

When it ended, the boat glided slowly out of the cavern, and although

they had enjoyed the somber magnificence they had left, they were all

glad to be in the fresh air and cheerful sunshine again.

Madeleine watched her opportunity, and when she saw Eric alone in the

fore part of the boat, she quietly disengaged herself from the rest of

the party, and, sitting down beside him, said: "Eric, I believe you

have seen some great sorrow, though you are so young."

"I was only twenty-two last birthday, Miss, but I have had sorrow

enough."

"Would it pain you to tell me your story?" she said.

"No, Miss, it may do me good to tell it. It is a short and sad one. Two

years ago my two brothers, Robbie and Gideon, both younger than I am,

went away from here on a whaling expedition. There was a fine crew of

fifty, half of them Shetlanders and the rest English. There were one or

two gentlemen's sons amongst the crew, and as nice a set of fellows

altogether as a seaman could wish. They set sail in good spirits, and

it was from the headland yonder that we heard their cheers, as they

sailed out on their whaling expedition. From that day to this no word

has come of them, and we fear that all are lost. It has been a heavy

blow to us. When they went away it seemed as if the light had gone out

of the old home, for they were young and merry and clever. The long

waiting to hear from them has been as bad as the fear that they have

perished."

"God comfort you, Eric," said Madeleine, tenderly, as she wiped away

her tears. "God comfort you. No words of mine can help to heal this

wound."

"Thank you, Miss," said Eric. "I see you feel for us, and that

helps--better than words, sometimes."