CHAPTER I.

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Lynn Bornath and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.

[Illustration: A HORSE AT SEA. [See page 367.]]

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. V.

MARCH, 1878.

No. 5.

[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]

HANSA, THE LITTLE LAPP MAIDEN.

BY KATHARINE LEE.

Once upon a time, in a very small village on the borders of one of the

great pine forests of Norway, there lived a wood-cutter, named Peder

Olsen. He had built himself a little log-house, in which he dwelt with

his twin boys, Olaf and Erik, and their little sister Olga.

Merry, happy children were these three, full of life and health, and

always ready for a frolic. Even during the long, cold, dark winter

months, they were joyous and contented. It was never too cold for these

hardy little Norse folk, and the ice and snow which for so many months

covered the land, they looked on as sent for their especial enjoyment.

The wood-cutter had made a sledge for the boys, just a rough box on

broad, wooden runners, to be sure, but it glided lightly and swiftly

over the hard, frozen surface of snow, and the daintiest silver-tipped

sledge could not have given them more pleasure.

They shared it, generously, with each other, as brothers should, and

gave Olga many a good swift ride; but it was cold work for the little

maid, sitting still, and, after a while, she chose rather to watch the

boys from the little window, as they took turns in playing "reindeer."

One day they both wanted to be "reindeer" at once, and begged Olga to

come and drive, but the chimney corner was bright and warm, and she

would not go.

"Of course," said Olaf; "what else could one expect? She is only a

girl! I would far rather take Krikel; he is always ready. Hi! Krikel!

come take a ride!" and he whistled to the clever little black Spitz dog

that Peder Olsen had brought from Tromsöe for the children.

Krikel really seemed to know what was said to him, and scampered to the

door, pushed it open with his paws and nose, then, jumping into the

little sledge, sat up straight and gave a quick little bark, as if to

say: "Come on, then: don't you see I am ready!"

"Come, Erik; Krikel is calling us," said Olaf. But Olga was crying

because she had vexed her brother, and Erik stayed to comfort her. So

Olaf went alone, and he and Krikel had such a good time that they

forgot all about everything, till it grew so very dark that only the

tracks on the pure, white snow, and a little twinkle of light from the

hut window helped them to find their way home again.

In the wood-cutter's home lived some one else whom the children loved

dearly. This was old grandmother Ingeborg, who was almost as good as

the dear mother who had gone to take their baby sister up to heaven,

and had never yet come back to them.

All day long, while the merry children played about the door, or

watched their father swing the bright swift ax that fairly made the

chips dance, Dame Ingeborg spun and knit and worked in the little hut,

that was as clean and bright and cheery as a hut with only one door and

a tiny window could be. But then it had such a grand, wide

chimney-place, where even in summer great logs and branches of fir and

pine blazed brightly, lighting up all the corners of the little room

that the sunbeams could not reach.

Here, when tired with play, the children would gather, and throwing

themselves down on the soft wolf-skins that lay on the floor before the

fire, beg dear grandmother Ingeborg for a story. And such stories as

she told them!

So the long winter went peacefully and happily by, and at last all

hearts were gladdened at sight of the glorious sun, as he slowly and

grandly rose above the snow-topped mountains, bringing to them sunshine

and flowers, and the golden summer days.

One bright day in July, father Peder went to the fair in Lyngen.

"Be good, my children," said he, as he kissed them good-bye, "and I

will bring you something nice from the fair."

But they were nearly always good, so he really need not have said that.

Now, it was a very wonderful thing indeed for the wood-cutter to go

from home in summer, and grandmother Ingeborg was quite disturbed.

"Ah!" said she, "something bad will happen, I know."

But the children comforted her, and ran about so merrily, bringing

fresh, fragrant birch-twigs for their beds, shaking out their blankets

of reindeer-skins, and helping her so kindly, that the good dame quite

forgot to be cross, and before she knew it, was telling them her very,

very best story, that she always kept for Sundays.

[Illustration]

So the hours went by, and the children almost wearied themselves

wondering what father Peder would bring from the fair.

"I should like a little reindeer for my sledge," said Olaf.

"I should like a fur coat and fur boots," said Erik; "I was cold last

winter."

You see, these children did not really know anything about toys, so

could not wish for them.

"_I_ should like a little sister," said Olga, wistfully. "There are two

of you boys for everything, and that is so nice; but there is only one

of me, ever, and that is _so_ lonely."

And the little maid sighed; for besides these three, there were no

children in the village. The brawny wood-cutters who lived in groups in

the huts around, and who came home at night-fall to cook their own

suppers and sleep on rude pallets before the fires, were the only

other persons whom the little maiden knew; and sometimes the two boys

(as boys will do to their sisters) teased and laughed at her, because

she was timid, and because her little legs were too short to climb up

on the great pile of logs where they loved to play. So it was no wonder

that she longed for a playmate like herself.

"Hi!" cried the boys, both together; "one might be sure you would wish

for something silly! What should we do with _two_ girls, indeed?"

"But father said he would bring 'something nice,' and _I_ think girls

are the very nicest things in the world," replied Olga, sturdily.

There would certainly have been more serious words, but just then good

grandmother Ingeborg called "supper," and away scampered the hungry

little party to their evening meal of brown bread and cream, to which

was added, as a treat that night, a bit of goat's-milk cheese.

During midsummer in Norway the sun does not set for nearly ten weeks,

and only when little heads nod, and bright eyes shut and refuse to

open, do children know that it is "sleep-time." So on this day, though

the little hearts longed to wait for father's coming, six heavy lids

said "no," and soon the tired children were sleeping soundly on their

sweet, fresh beds of birch-twigs.

[Illustration: OLAF GIVES KRIKEL A RIDE IN HIS SLED.]

A few miles beyond Lyngen, on the north, a little colony of wandering

Lapps had pitched their tents, some years before our story begins, and

finding there a pleasant resting-place, had made it their home,

bringing with them their herds of reindeer to feed on the abundant

lichens with which the stony fields and hill-side trees were covered.

Somewhat apart from the little cluster of tents stood one, quite

pretentious, where dwelt Haakon, the wealthiest Lapp of all the tribe.

He counted his reindeer by hundreds, and in his tent, half buried in

the ground for safe keeping, were two great chests filled with furs,

gay, bright-colored jackets and skirts, beautiful articles of carved

bone and wood, and, more valuable than all, a little iron-bound box

full of silver marks. For Haakon had married Gunilda, a rich maiden of

one of the richest Lapp families, and she had brought these to his

tent.

Here, for a while, Gunilda lived a peaceful, happy life. Haakon was

kind, and, when baby Niels came to share her love, the days were full

of joy and content. She made him a little cradle of green baize bound

with bright scarlet, filled with moss as soft and fine as velvet, and

covered with a dainty quilt of hare's-skin. This was hung by a cord to

one of the tent-poles, and here the baby rocked for hours, while his

mother sang to him quaint, weird songs, that yet were not sad because

of the joyous baby laugh that mingled with the notes.

But, alas! after a time Haakon fell into bad habits and grew cruel and

hard to Gunilda. Though she spoke no word, her meek eyes reproached him

when he let the strong drink, or "finkel," steal away his senses; and

because he could not bear this look, he gave his wife many an unkind

word and blow, so that at last her heart was broken. Even baby Hansa,

who had come to take Niels' place in the little cradle, could not

comfort her; and, one day, when Haakon was sleeping, stupidly, by the

tent-fire, Gunilda kissed her children,--then she, too, slept, but

never to waken.

When Haakon came to his senses, he was sad for a while; but he loved

his finkel more than either children or wealth, and many a long day he

would leave them and go to Lyngen, to drink with his companions there.

Ah! those were lonely days for Niels and little Hansa. The Lapp women

were kind, taking good care of the little ones in Haakon's absence, and

would have coaxed them away to their tents to play with the other

children; but Niels remembered his gentle-voiced mother, and would not

go with those women who spoke so harshly, though their words were kind.

Hansa and he were happy alone together. Each season brought its own

joys to their simple, childish hearts; but they loved best the soft,

balmy summer-time, when the harvests ripened quickly in the warm

sunshine, and they could wander away from their tent to the fields

where the reapers were at work, who had always a kindly word for the

gentle, quiet Lapp children. Here Hansa would sit for hours, weaving

garlands of the sweet yellow violets, pink heath, anemones, and dainty

harebells, that grew in such profusion along the borders of the fields

and among the grain, that the reapers, in cutting the wheat, laid the

flowers low before them as well. Niels liked to bind the sheaves, and

did his work so deftly that he was always welcome. He it was, too, who

made such a wonderful "scarecrow" that not a bird dared venture near.

But little Hansa laughed and said: "Silly birds! the old hat cannot

harm you. See! I will bring my flowers close beside it." Then the

reapers, laughing, called the ugly scarecrow "Hansa's guardian."

So the years went by, and the children lived their quiet life, happy

with each other. It seemed as though the tender mother-love that had

been theirs in their babyhood was around them still, guarding and

shielding them from harm. Niels was a wonderful boy, the neighbors

said, and little Hansa, by the time she was twelve years old, could

spin and weave, and embroider on tanned reindeer-skins (which are used

for boots and harness) better than many a Lapp woman. Besides, she was

so clever and good that every one loved her. Every one, alas! but

Haakon, her father. He was not openly cruel; with Gunilda's death the

blows had ceased, but Hansa seemed to look at him with her mother's

gentle, reproachful eyes, and so he dreaded and disliked her.

One summer's day he said, suddenly: "Hansa, to-day the great fair in

Lyngen is held; dress yourself in your best clothes, and I will take

you there."

"Oh, how kind, dear father!" said Hansa, whose tender little heart

warmed at even the semblance of a kind word. "That will be joyful! But,

may Niels go also? I _cannot_ go without him," she said, entreatingly,

as she saw her father's brow darken.

But Haakon said, gruffly: "No, Niels may _not_ go; he must stay at home

to guard the tent."

"Never mind, Hansa," whispered Niels; "I shall not be lonely, and you

will have so many things to tell me and to show me when you come home,

for father will surely buy us something at the fair; and perhaps," he

added, bravely, seeing that Hansa still lingered at his side, "perhaps

father will love you if you go gladly with him."

"Oh, Niels!" said Hansa, "do you really think so? Quick! help me, then,

that I may not keep him waiting."

Never was toilet more speedily made, and soon Hansa stepped shyly up to

Haakon, saying gently, "I am ready, father."

She was very pretty as she stood before him, so gayly dressed, and with

a real May-day face, all smiles and tears--tears for Niels, to whom for

the first time she must say "good-bye," smiles that perhaps might coax

her father to love her. But Haakon looked not at her, and only saying

"Come, then," walked quickly away.

"Good-bye, my Hansa," said Niels, for the last time. "_I_ love you.

Come back ready to tell me of all the beautiful things at the fair."

Then he went into the tent, and Hansa ran on beside her father, who

spoke not a word as they walked mile after mile till four were passed,

and Lyngen, with its tall church spires, its long rows of houses, and

many gayly decorated shops, was before them. Hansa, to whom everything

was new and wonderful, gazed curiously about her, and many a question

trembled on her tongue but found no voice, as Haakon strode moodily on,

till they reached the market-place, and there beside one of the many

drinking-booths sat himself down, while Hansa stood timidly behind him.

Soon he called for a mug of finkel, and drank it greedily; then another

and another followed, till Hansa grew frightened and said, "Oh, dear

father, do not drink any more!"

Then Haakon beat her till she cried bitterly.

"Oh, cry on!" said the cruel father, who we must hope hardly knew what

he was saying, "for never will I take you back to my tent and to Niels.

I brought you here to-day that some one else may have you. You shall be

my child no longer. I will give you for a pipe, that I may smoke and

drink my finkel in peace. Who'll buy?"

Just then, good Peder Olsen came by, and his kind heart ached for the

little maid.

"See!" said he to the angry Lapp. "Give me the child, and I will give

you a pipe and these thirty marks as well. They are my year's earnings,

but I give them gladly."

"Strike hands! She is yours!" said Haakon, who, without one look at his

weeping child, turned away; while the wood cutter led Hansa, all

trembling and frightened, toward his home.

At first, she longed to tell her kind protector of Niels, and beg him

to take her back. But she was a wise little maid, and curious withal.

So she said to herself: "Who knows? It may be a beautiful home, and the

kind people may send me back for Niels. I will go on now, for I have

never been but one road in all my life, and surely I can find it

again."

So she walked quietly on beside father Peder, till at last his little

cottage appeared in sight.

"This is your new home, dear child," said he, and they stepped quickly

up to the door, opened it softly, and entered the little room.

Grandmother Ingeborg was nodding in her big chair in the chimney

corner, but the soft footsteps aroused her, and, looking up, she said:

"Oh! _tak fur sidst_[A] good Peder. Hi, though! What is that you bring

with you?"

[Footnote A: Thanks for seeing you again.]

Before she could be answered, the children, whose first nap was nearly

over, awoke and saw their father with the little girl clinging to his

hand, and looking shyly at them from his sheltering arm.

"Oh!" cried Olga, "a little sister! _My_ wish has come true!"--and she

ran to the new-comer and gave her sweet kisses of welcome; at which

father Peder said, "That is my own good Olga."

But grandmother Ingeborg, who had put on her spectacles, said:

"Ah! I see now! A good-for-nothing Lapp child! She shall not stay here,

surely!"

"Listen," said Peder Olsen, "and I will tell you why I brought home the

little Hansa, for that is her name,"--and he told the story of the

father's drinking so much finkel, and offering to give his little girl

for a pipe, and how he himself had purchased her. "But see!" added the

worthy Peder, turning toward Hansa, "you are not bound but for as long

as the heart says stay."

Hansa looked about, and, meeting Olga's sweet, entreating glance, said,

"I will stay ever."

Then Olga cried, joyously, "Now, indeed, have I a sister!" and took her

to her own little bed, where soon they both were sleeping, side by

side.

As for Olaf and Erik, they were still silent, though now from anger,

and that was very bad.

Grandmother Ingeborg, I think, was angry, too, for said she to herself:

"Now I shall have to spin more cloth, and sew and knit, that when her

own clothes wear out we may clothe this miserable Lapp child" (for the

good dame was a true Norwegian, and despised the Lapps); "and our

little ones must divide their brown bread and milk with her, for we are

too poor to buy more, and it is very bad altogether. Ah! I was sure

something bad would happen,"--and grandmother fairly grumbled herself

into bed.

In the morning all were awake early, you may be sure, and gazing

curiously at the new-comer, whom they had been almost too sleepy to see

perfectly before; and this is how she appeared to their wondering eyes.

She seemed about twelve years old, but no taller than Olga, who was

just ten. She had beautiful soft, brown eyes; and fair, flaxen hair,

which hung in rich, wavy locks far down her back. She wore a short

skirt of dark blue cloth, with yellow stripes around it; a blue apron,

embroidered with bright-colored threads; a little scarlet jacket; a

jaunty cap, also of scarlet cloth, with a silver tassel; and neat,

short boots of tanned reindeer-skin, embroidered with scarlet and

white.

Soon grandmother Ingeborg, who had been out milking the cow, came in,

and almost dropped her great basin of milk, in her anger.

"What!" cried she to Hansa, "all your Sunday clothes on? That will

never do!"

"But I have no others," said the little maid.

"Then you shall have others," said grandmother, and she took from a

great chest in the corner an old blue skirt of Olga's, a jacket which

Olaf had outgrown, and a pair of Erik's wooden shoes.

[Illustration: "HANSA'S GUARDIAN."]

Meekly, Hansa donned the strange jacket and skirt; but her tiny feet,

accustomed to the soft boots of reindeer-skin, could not endure the

hard, clumsy wooden shoes.

"Ah!" said grandmother, who was watching her. "Then must you wear my

old cloth slippers," which were better, though they would come off

continually.

"Now bring me my big scissors, that I may cut off this troublesome

hair," cried Dame Ingeborg. "I do not like that long mane; Olga's head

is far neater!"

And, in spite of poor Hansa's entreaties, all her long, beautiful,

shining locks were cut short off.

But Hansa proved herself a merry little maid, who, after all, did not

care for such trifles. Besides, this, she was so helpful in straining

the milk, preparing the breakfast, and bringing fresh twigs for the

beds, that Dame Ingeborg quite relented toward her, and said:

"You are very nice indeed--for a Lapp child. If you could only spin,

I'd really like to keep you."

Then Hansa moved quickly toward the great spinning-wheel which stood

near the open door, and, before a word could be spoken, began to spin

so swiftly, yet carefully, that grandmother, in her surprise, forgot to

say "Ah," but kissed the clever little maid instead.

"She'll be proud," said the boys, "because she is so wise. Let us go by

ourselves and play,"--and away they ran.

"Come," said Olga to Hansa; "though they have run away, they will not

be happy without us,"--which wise remark showed that she knew boys

pretty well; and the two little maids went hand in hand, and sat down

beside the boys.

"We have no room for _two_ girls here," said Olaf, and he gave poor

Hansa a very rough push.

"What can you do to make us like you?" said Erik.

"I can tell stories," said Hansa. "Listen!"

And she told them a wonderful tale, far better than grandmother's

Sunday best one.

"That is a very good story," said Olaf, when it was finished, "and you

are not so bad--for a girl. But still, if my father had not bought you,

I should have owned a reindeer for my sledge to-day."

"And I should have had a fur coat and boots, to keep me warm next

winter," said Erik.

At this, Hansa opened her bright eyes very wide, and looked curiously

at the boys for a moment, then said: "Did you wish for those things?"

"We have wished for them all our lives," said Erik; while Olaf, too

sore at his disappointment to say a word, gave Hansa a rude slap

instead.

That night, when all were sleeping soundly, little Hansa arose,

dressed, and stole softly from the hut. The sun was shining brightly,

and it seemed as if the path over which father Peder had led her showed

itself, and said, "Come, follow me, and I will lead you home!" And so

it did, safely and surely, though the way seemed long, and her little

feet ached sorely before she had gone many miles. But she kept bravely

on, till at last her father's tent appeared in sight. Then her heart

failed her.

"I hope father is not home," said she, "else he will beat me again. I

only want my Niels."

And she gave a curious little whistle that Niels had taught her as a

signal; but no answer came back. So she crept gently up to the tent,

drew aside the scarlet curtain that hung before the opening, and looked

in.

Meanwhile, let us go back to Haakon at the fair.

As father Peder led Hansa away, he turned again to the booth, and being

soon joined by some friendly Lapps, spent the night, and far on into

the next day, in games and wild sports (such as abound at the fair)

with them.

At last, a thought of home seemed to come to him, and, heedless of all

cries and exclamations from his companions, he hurried away. The long

road was passed as in a kind of dream, and, almost ere he knew it, he

stood before his tent, with Niels' frightened eyes looking into his,

and Niels' eager voice crying:

"Oh, father! where is Hansa? What have you done with my sister?"

"Be silent, boy!" said Haakon, sternly. "Your sister is well, but--she

will never come back to the tent again!"

Then, as if suddenly a true knowledge of his crime flashed upon him, he

buried his face in his hands, and tears, that for many years had been

strangers to his eyes, trickled slowly down his rough brown cheeks, and

so, not daring to meet his boy's truthful questioning gaze, he told him

all.

"Oh, father, let us go for her! She will surely come back if you are

sorry," cried Niels, eagerly.

"You cannot, for, alas! I know neither her new master's name nor

whither he went," said Haakon.

Then Niels, in despair, threw himself down on his bed and wept

bitterly--wept, till at last, all exhausted with the force of his

grief, he slept. How long he knew not, for in the Lapp's tent was

nothing to mark the flight of the hours; but he awoke, finally, with a

start, sat up and rubbed his eyes, and looked wildly about, saying:

"Yes, there sits father, just where I left him, and there is no one

else here. But I am sure I heard Hansa whistle to me; no one else knows

our signal, and----Oh! there--_there_ she is at the door!" and he

sprang toward her and clasped her in his arms, crying, "Hansa, my

Hansa! I have had a dream--such an ugly dream! How joyful that I am

awake at last! See, father," he said, leading her to Haakon; "have you,

too, dreamed?"

"It was no dream, boy," said his father; and, turning to Hansa, he

asked, more gently than he had ever yet spoken to her, "How came you

back, my child?"

Then Hansa, clinging closely to Niels the while, told him all that had

befallen her, and of the pleasant home she had found, and added,

boldly;

"Father, let me take these kind friends some gifts; we have _so_ much,

and I wish to make them happy."

"Take what you want, child," said Haakon. "And see! here is a bag of

silver marks; give it to Peder Olsen, and say that each year I will

fill it anew for him, so that he shall never more want." Then, turning

to Niels, he added: "Go you, too, with Hansa. Surely those kind people

will give you a home as well. It is better for you both that you have a

happier home, and care; and I--can lead my life best alone."

In the wood-cutter's little hut, Olga was the first to discover Hansa's

absence.

"Ah, you naughty boys!" cried she. "You have driven my new sister

away!"--and she wept all day and would not be comforted.

Bed-time came, but brought no trace of Hansa. Poor, tender-hearted Olga

cried herself to sleep; while Olaf and Erik were really both frightened

and sorry, and whispered privately to each other, under their reindeer

blanket, that if Hansa should ever come back, they would be very good

to her.

"And I will give her my Sunday cap," said Erik, "since she cannot wear

my shoes."

Two, three, four days went by, and still Hansa came not; and father

Peder, who was the last to give up hope, said, finally:

"I fear we shall never see our little maid again."

The children gathered around him, sorrowing, while Dame Ingeborg threw

her apron over her head, and rocked to and fro in her big chair in the

chimney corner.

Just then came a gentle little tap on the door, which, as Olga sprang

toward it, softly opened, and there on the threshold stood little

Hansa, smiling at them; and--wonder of wonders!--behind her was a

little reindeer, gayly harnessed, with bright silver bells fastened to

the collar, which tinkled merrily as it tossed its pretty head. Beside

it stood a boy, somewhat taller than Olaf, balancing on his head a

great package.

"I have been far, far away to my own home," said Hansa, "and my brother

Niels has come back with me, bringing something for you."

Then Niels laid down the package, and gravely opening it, displayed to

the wondering eyes real gifts from fairy-land, it seemed.

There were the fur coat and boots, and a cap also, more beautiful than

Erik had ever dreamed of. A roll of soft, fine blue wool, for

grandmother, came next; then a beautifully embroidered dress, and

scarlet apron and jacket, for Olga; and last of all, a fat little

leather bag, which Hansa gave to father Peder, saying:

"There are many silver marks for you, and my father has promised that

it shall never more be empty, if you will give to Niels and me a home."

Then turning quickly to Olaf, she said: "And here is my own pet

reindeer 'Friska' for you."

So the children, in the gladness of their hearts, kissed the little

maid, and Olaf whispered, "Forgive me that slap, dear Hansa!"

Father Peder stood thoughtfully quiet a moment, then, turning to the

children, he said:

"See, little ones! I gave my last mark for Hansa, and knew not where I

should find bread for you all afterward; but the dear child has brought

only good to us since. I am getting old, and my arms grow too weak to

swing the heavy ax, and I thought, often, soon must my little ones go

hungry. But now we are rich, and my cares have all gone. So long as

they wish, therefore, shall Niels and Hansa be to me as my own

children; they shall live here with us, and we will love them well."

[Illustration: ON THE SPRING-BOARD.]

Then he kissed all the happy faces, and said: "Now go and play, little

ones, for grandmother and I must think quietly over these God-sent

gifts."

So the children, first putting Friska, the reindeer, carefully in the

little stable beside the cow (so that he should not run away from the

strange new home, Hansa said), hastened to their favorite

play-place,--a large pine board lying on the slope of the hill, whence

they could look far away across the fields and fjords to the Kilpis,

the great mountain peaks where, even in summer, the pure white snow lay

glistening in the sunlight.

"Ho!" cried Niels, "that is a fine board, but no good so; see what _I_

can do with it!" and lifted one end and put it across a great log that

lay near by.

"Now you little fellows," said he to Olaf and Erik, "I am strong as a

giant, but I cannot quite roll up this other log alone. Come you and

help."

So the boys together rolled the heavy log to its place, and put the

other end of the board upon it.

"Now jump!" cried Niels; and with one joyous "halloo" the children were

on the broad, springy plank, enjoying to the utmost this novel

pleasure.

Their shouts of delight brought the wood-cutter to the door of the

little hut, and grandmother Ingeborg following, caught the excitement,

and, pulling off her cap, she waved it wildly, crying: "Hurrah for the

Lapps! Hurrah!"

Then she and father Peder went back to their chairs in the chimney

corner; and Hansa, sitting on the spring-board, with the children

around her, told them such a wonderful, beautiful story, that they were

quite silent with delight.

At last said Olaf, contentedly, as he lay with his head on Hansa's

knee:

"After all, girls _are_ the nicest things in the world!"

"Except boys," said little Hansa, slyly.

[Illustration: JUNO'S WONDERFUL TROUBLES.]

JUNO'S WONDERFUL TROUBLES.

BY E. MULLER.

Juno lived in a great park, where there was a menagerie, and neither

the park nor the menagerie could have done without Juno. Now, who do

you think Juno was? She was a dear old black and brown dog, the

best-natured dog in the world. And this was the reason they could not

do without her in the park. A lioness died, and left two little

lion-cubs with no one to take care of them. The poor little lions

curled up in a corner of the cage, and seemed as if they would die.

Then the keeper of the menagerie brought Juno, and showed her the

little lion-cubs, and said: "Now, Juno, here are some puppies for you;

go and take care of them, that's a good dog." Juno's own puppies had

just been given away, and she was feeling very badly about it, and was

rather glad to take care of the two little lions. They were so pretty,

with their soft striped fur and yellow paws, that Juno soon loved them,

and she took the best of care of them till they grew old enough to live

by themselves. Many people used to come and stand near the big lion's

cage, and laugh to see only a quiet old dog, and two little bits of

lion-cubs shut in it.

[Illustration]

It was very pretty to see Juno playing with the cubs, and all the

children who came to the park wanted first to see "the doggie that

nursed the lion-puppies." But when they grew large enough they were

taken away from her, and sold to different menageries far away, and

poor Juno wondered what had become of her pretty adopted children. She

looked for them all about the menagerie, and asked all the animals if

they had seen her two pretty yellow-striped lion-puppies. No one had

seen them, and nearly every one was sorry, and had something kind to

say, for Juno was a favorite with many. To be sure, the wolf snarled at

her, and said it served her right for thinking that she, a miserable

tame dog, could bring up young lions. But Juno knew she had only done

as she was told, so she did not mind the wolf. The monkeys cracked

jokes, and teased her, saying they guessed she would be given another

family to take care of--sea lions, most likely, and she would have to

live in the water to keep them in order. This had not occurred to Juno

before, and it made her quite uneasy.

"It is not possible they would want me to nurse young sea-lions," said

she. "They are so very rude, and so very slippery, I never could make

them mind me."

[Illustration: JUNO IS WARNED BY THE PELICAN.]

"You may be thankful if you don't get those two young alligators in the

other tank," said a gruff-voiced adjutant.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Juno. "You don't think it possible?"

"Of course it is possible," said a pelican, stretching his neck through

his cage-bars. "You'll see what comes of being too obliging."

"We all think you are a good creature, Juno," said a crane. "Indeed, I

should willingly trust you with my young crane children, but really, if

you _will_ do everything that is asked of you, there's no knowing whose

family you may have next."

Juno went and lay down in a sunshiny place near the elephant's house,

and thought over all these words. Very soon she grew sleepy, in spite

of her anxiety, and was just dropping off into a doze, when she heard

the keeper whistle for her. She ran to him and found him in the

hippopotamus's cage.

[Illustration: JUNO TAKES CARE OF THE YOUNG HIPPOPOTAMUS.]

"Juno," said he, "I guess you'll have to take charge of this young

hippopotamus, the poor little fellow has lost his mother."

"Dear, dear!" sighed Juno. "I was afraid it would come to this. I'm

thankful it isn't the young alligators."

So Juno took charge of the young hippo,--she called him hippo for

short, and only when he was naughty she called him: "Hip-po-pot-a-mus,

aren't you ashamed of yourself?" But he was a great trial. He was

awkward and clumsy, and not a bit like her graceful little

lion-puppies. When he got sick, and she had to give him peppermint, his

mouth was so large that she lost the spoon in it, and he swallowed

spoon and all, and was very ill afterward. But he grew up at last, and

just as Juno had made up her mind not to take care of other people's

families any more, the keeper came to her with two young giraffes, and

told her she really must be a mother to the poor little scraps of

misery, for their mother was gone, and they would die if they weren't

cared for immediately. These were a dreadful trouble, and besides, they

would keep trotting after her everywhere, till the pelican, and the

adjutant, and the cranes nearly killed themselves laughing at her. Poor

Juno felt worse and worse, till when one day she heard the keeper say

she certainly would have to take care of the young elephant, she felt

that she could stand it no longer, and made up her mind to run away. So

she said good-bye to all her friends, and ran to the wall of the park.

There she gave a great jump, and,--waked up, and found herself in the

sunshiny grass near the elephant's house.

"Oh, how glad I am!" said Juno.

"What in the world has been the matter?" asked the elephant. "You've

been kicking and growling in your sleep at a great rate. I've been

watching you this long time."

"Such dreadful dreams!" said Juno. "Lion-puppies are all very well, but

when it comes to hippopotamus, and giraffes, and elephant----"

"What _are_ you talking about?" said the elephant. "I guess you'd

better go to your supper; I heard the keeper call you long ago."

So Juno went to her supper very glad to find she had only dreamed her

troubles; but she made up her mind that if the old hippopotamus

_should_ die, she would run away that very night.

WISHES

BY MARY N. PRESCOTT.

I wish that the grasses would learn to sprout,

That the lilac and rose-bush would both leaf out;

That the crocus would put on her gay green frill,

And robins begin to whistle and trill!

I wish that the wind-flower would grope its way

Out of the darkness into the day;

That the rain would fall and the sun would shine,

And the rainbow hang in the sky for a sign.

I wish that the silent brooks would shout,

And the apple-blossoms begin to pout;

And if I wish long enough, no doubt

The fairy Spring will bring it about!

HOW MATCHES ARE MADE.

BY F.H.C.

[Illustration]

A match is a small thing. We seldom pause to think, after it has

performed its mission, and we have carelessly thrown it away, that it

has a history of its own, and that, like some more pretentious things,

its journey from the forest to the match-safe is full of changes. This

little bit of white pine lying before me came from far north, in the

Hudson Bay Territory, or perhaps from the great silent forests about

Lake Superior, and has been rushed and jammed and tossed in its long

course through rivers, over cataracts and rapids, and across the great

lakes.

We read that near the middle of the seventeenth century it was

discovered that phosphorus would ignite a splint of wood dipped in

sulphur; but this means of obtaining fire was not in common use until

nearly a hundred and fifty years later.

This, then, appears to have been the beginning of match-making. Not

that kind which some old gossips are said to indulge in, for that must

have had its origin much farther back, but the business of making those

little "strike-fires," found in every country store, in their familiar

boxes, with red and blue and yellow labels.

The matches of fifty years ago were very clumsy affairs compared with

the "parlor" and "safety" matches of to-day, but they were great

improvements upon the first in use. Those small sticks, dipped in

melted sulphur, and sold in a tin box with a small bottle of oxide of

phosphorus, were regarded by our forefathers as signs of "ten-leagued

progress." Later, a compound made of chlorate of potash and sulphur was

used on the splints. This ignited upon being dipped in sulphuric acid.

In 1829 an English chemist discovered that matches on which had been

placed chlorate of potash could be ignited by friction. Afterward, at

the suggestion of Professor Faraday, saltpeter was substituted for the

chlorate, and then the era of friction matches, or matches lighted by

rubbing, was fairly begun.

But the match of to-day has a story more interesting than that of the

old-fashioned match. As we have said, much of the timber used in the

manufacture comes from the immense tracts of forest in the Hudson Bay

Territory. It is floated down the water-courses to the lakes, through

which it is towed in great log-rafts. These rafts are divided; some

parts are pulled through the canals, and some by other means are taken

to market. When well through the seasoning process, which occupies from

one to two years, the pine is cut up into blocks twice as long as a

match, and about eight inches wide by two inches thick. These blocks

are passed through a machine which cuts them up into "splints," round

or square, of just the thickness of a match, but twice its length. This

machine is capable, as we are told, of making about 2,000,000 splints

in a day. This number seems immense when compared with the most that

could be made in the old way--by hand. The splints are then taken to

the "setting" machine, and this rolls them into bundles about eighteen

inches in diameter, every splint separated from its neighbors by little

spaces, so that there may be no sticking together after the "dipping."

In the operation of "setting," a ribbon of coarse stuff about an inch

and a half wide, and an eighth of an inch thick, is rolled up, the

splints being laid across the ribbon between each two courses, leaving

about a quarter of an inch between adjoining splints. From the

"setting" machine the bundles go to the "dipping" room.

After the ends of the splints have been pounded down to make them even,

the bundles are dipped--both ends---into the molten sulphur and then

into the phosphorus solution, which is spread over a large iron plate.

Next they are hung in a frame to dry. When dried they are placed in a

machine which, as it unrolls the ribbon, cuts the sticks in two across

the middle, thus making two complete matches of each splint.

The match is made. The towering pine which listened to the whisper of

the south wind and swayed in the cold northern blast, has been so

divided that we can take it bit by bit and lightly twirl it between two

fingers. But what it has lost in size it has gained in use. The little

flame it carries, and which looks so harmless, flashing into brief

existence, has a latent power more terrible than the whirlwind which

perhaps sent the tall pine-tree crashing to the ground.

But the story is not yet closed. From the machine which completed the

matches they are taken to the "boxers"--mostly girls and women--who

place them in little boxes. The speed with which this is done is

surprising. With one hand they pick up an empty case and remove the

cover, while with the other they seize just a sufficient number of

matches, and by a peculiar shuffling motion arrange them evenly,

then--'t is done!

The little packages of sleeping fire are taken to another room, where

on each one is placed a stamp certifying the payment to the government

of one cent revenue tax. Equipped with these passes the boxes are

placed in larger ones, and these again in wooden cases, which are to be

shipped to all parts of the country, and over seas.

All this trouble over such little things as matches! Yet on these

fire-tipped bits of wood millions of people depend for warmth, cooked

food and light. They have become a necessity, and the day of flint,

steel and tinder seems almost as far away in the past as are the bow

and fire-stick of the Indian.

Some idea of the number of matches used in North America during a year

may be gained from the fact that it is estimated by competent judges

that, on an average, six matches are used every day by each inhabitant;

this gives a grand total of 87,400,000,000 matches, without counting

those that are exported. Now, this would make a single line, were the

matches placed end to end, more than 2,750,000 miles in length! It

would take a railroad train almost eight years to go from one end to

the other, running forty miles an hour all the time.

How apt to our subject is that almost worn-out Latin phrase, "_multum

in parvo_"--much in little! Much labor, much skill, and much

usefulness, all in a little piece of wood scarcely one-eighth of an

inch through and about two inches long!

[Illustration: Finis]

[Illustration: WHERE AUNT ANN HID THE SUGAR]

WHERE AUNT ANN HID THE SUGAR

BY MARY L. BOLLES BRANCH.

Teddy was such a rogue, you see! If Aunt Ann sent him to the store for

raisins, the string on the package would be very loose, and the paper

very much lapped over, when he brought it home; if he went to the

baker's, the tempting end of the twist loaf was sure to be snapped off

in the street, and a dozen buns were never more than ten when they

reached the table. Boys are _so_ hungry! Teddy knew every corner of the

pantry: if half a pie were left over from dinner, it could not possibly

be hidden under any pan, bowl, pail, or cunningly folded towel, but he

would find it before supper. Pieces of cake disappeared as if by magic,

preserves were found strangely lowered in the crocks, pickles went by

the wholesale, gingerbread never could be reckoned on after the first

day, and once--only once--did Teddy's mamma succeed in hiding a whole

baking of apple tarts in the cellar for a day by setting them under a

tub. The cellar never was a safe place again; Aunt Ann tried it with

doughnuts, and the crock was empty in two days. She put her stick

cinnamon on the top shelf in the closet, behind her medicine bottles,

and when she wanted it a week after, there was not a sliver to be

found. Then the loaf sugar--I don't know but that was the worst of all.

Did he stuff his pockets with it? did he carry it away by the capful?

It seemed incredible that anything _could_ go so fast. One day, Aunt

Ann detected Teddy behind the window curtain with a tumbler so nearly

full of sugar that the water in it only made a thick syrup, and there

he was reading "Robinson Crusoe" and sipping this delightful mixture.

From that moment Aunt Ann made up her mind that he should "stop it."

"I'll tell him it's nothing more nor less than downright STEALING--so I

will," muttered the good soul to herself; "the poor child's never had

proper teaching on the subject from one of us; he's got all his pa's

appetite without the good principles of _our_ side of the family to

save him."

So, the next day, the sugar being out, she bought two dollars' worth

while Teddy was at school, and without even telling his mother, she

searched the house for a hiding-place. She shook her head at the pantry

and cellar, but she visited the garret, and the spare front chamber;

she looked into the camphor-chest, she contemplated a barrel of

potatoes, she moved about the things in her wardrobe, and at last she

hid the sugar! No danger of Teddy finding it this time! Aunt Ann could

not repress a smile of triumph as she sat down to her knitting.

Unconscious Teddy came home at noon, ate his dinner, and was off again.

His mother and Aunt Ann went out making calls that afternoon, and as

Aunt Ann closed the street door she thought to herself--

"I can really take comfort going out, I feel so safe in my mind, now

that sugar is hid."

But at tea-time she almost relented when she saw Teddy look into the

sugar-bowl, and turn away without taking a single lump.

"He is really honorable," she said to herself; "he thinks that is all

there is, and he wont touch it." And she passed the gingerbread to him

three times, as a reward of merit.

There was sugar enough in the bowl to sweeten all their tea the next

day, and so far all went well. But the third day, in the afternoon, up

drove a carry-all to the gate, with Uncle Wright, Aunt Wright, and two

stranger young ladies from the city--all come to take tea, have a good

time, and drive home again by moonlight.

Teddy's mother sat down in the front room to entertain them, and Aunt

Ann hurried out to see about supper. How lucky it was that she had

boiled a ham that very morning! Pink slices of ham, with nice biscuit

and butter, were not to be despised even by city guests. She had also a

golden comb of honey, brought to the house by a countryman a few hours

before; it looked really elegant as she set it on the table in a

cut-glass dish. Then there were,--oh, moment of suspense! would she

find any left?--yes; there _were_ enough sweet crisp seed-cakes to fill

a plate.

The table was set--the tea with its fine aroma, and the coffee,

amber-clear, were made. The cream was on, so was the sugar-bowl, and

Aunt Ann was just going to summon her guests, when she happened to

think to lift the sugar-bowl cover and peep in. Sure enough, there

wasn't a lump there!

"I must run and fill it!" exclaimed Aunt Ann, lifting it in a hurry,

and starting; but she had to stop to think in what direction to go.

"Where was it I put that sugar?" she asked herself.

In the camphor chest? No. In the potatoes? No; she remembered thinking

they were not clean enough. Was it anywhere up garret? If she went

there and looked around, maybe it would come into her mind. She did go

there, sugar-bowl in hand, and she did look around, but all in

vain--she could not think where she had put that two dollars' worth of

sugar!

And time was flying, the sun was setting--pretty soon the moon would be

up. How hungry the company must be, and they must wonder why supper

wasn't ready. It would never do to sit down to the table with an empty

sugar-bowl, for Aunt Wright always wanted her tea extra sweet, and

Uncle Wright never could drink coffee without his eight lumps in the

cup. Dear, dear! Aunt Ann was all in a flurry. _Why_ had she ever

undertaken to hide that sugar!

"I shall certainly have to send to the store for some more!" she said

to herself, "and that will take so long; but it can't be helped."

So she spoke to Teddy, who was sitting in the dining-room window

apparently studying his geography lesson, but in reality wondering what

in the world Aunt Ann was fluttering all over the house so uneasily

for.

"Run to the store, Teddy!" she said quickly; "get me half a dollar's

worth of loaf sugar as soon as ever you can."

"Why, Aunt Ann," he replied, "what for? I should think you had sugar

enough already."

"So I have!" she exclaimed, nervously. "I got two dollars' worth day

before yesterday, and I hid it away in a safe place to keep it from

you, and now, to save my life, I can't think where I put it, and I've

searched high and low. Hurry!"

Teddy smiled upon her benignly.

"You should have told me sooner what you were looking for," he said.

"That sugar is on the upper shelf of your wardrobe, in your muff-box in

the farther corner. It is _very_ nice sugar, Aunt Ann!"

"Sure enough!" she cried. "That is where I hid it, and covered it up

with my best bonnet and veil. And then, when I went calling, I wore my

bonnet and veil, and never once thought about the sugar. I suppose that

was when you found it, you bad boy."

"Yes 'm, I found it that time. I was looking for a string," he said;

"but I should have found it anyhow in a day or two, even if you hadn't

let sugar crumbs fall on the shelf, Aunt Ann!"

"I believe you, you terrible boy!" she rejoined. "Now go call the

company to tea."

And she did believe him, and would have given up the struggle from that

day, convinced that the fates were against her, but for her heroic

resolve to instill straightway into this young gentleman with his pa's

appetite the good principles of _her_ side of the family.

UNDER THE LILACS.

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

CHAPTER IX.

A HAPPY TEA.

Exactly five minutes before six the party arrived in great state, for

Bab and Betty wore their best frocks and hair-ribbons, Ben had a new

blue shirt and his shoes on as full-dress, and Sancho's curls were

nicely brushed, his frills as white as if just done up.

No one was visible to receive them, but the low table stood in the

middle of the walk, with four chairs and a foot-stool around it. A

pretty set of green and white china caused the girls to cast admiring

looks upon the little cups and plates, while Ben eyed the feast

longingly, and Sancho with difficulty restrained himself from repeating

his former naughtiness. No wonder the dog sniffed and the children

smiled, for there was a noble display of little tarts and cakes, little

biscuits and sandwiches, a pretty milk-pitcher shaped like a white

calla rising out of its green leaves, and a jolly little tea-kettle

singing away over the spirit-lamp as cozily as you please.

"Isn't it perfectly lovely?" whispered Betty, who had never seen

anything like it before.

"I just wish Sally could see us _now_" answered Bab, who had not yet

forgiven her enemy.

"Wonder where the boy is," added Ben, feeling as good as any one, but

rather doubtful how others might regard him.

Here a rumbling sound caused the guests to look toward the garden, and

in a moment Miss Celia appeared, pushing a wheeled chair in which sat

her brother. A gay afghan covered the long legs, a broad-brimmed hat

half hid the big eyes, and a discontented expression made the thin face

as unattractive as the fretful voice which said, complainingly:

"If they make a noise, I'll go in. Don't see what you asked them for."

"To amuse you, dear. I know they will, if you will only try to like

them," whispered the sister, smiling and nodding over the chair-back as

she came on, adding aloud: "Such a punctual party! I am all ready,

however, and we will sit down at once. This is my brother Thornton, and

we are going to be very good friends by and by. Here's the droll dog,

Thorny; isn't he nice and curly?"

Now, Ben had heard what the other boy said, and made up his mind that

he shouldn't like him; and Thorny had decided beforehand that he

wouldn't play with a tramp, even if he _could_ cut capers; so both

looked decidedly cool and indifferent when Miss Celia introduced them.

But Sancho had better manners, and no foolish pride; he, therefore, set

them a good example by approaching the chair, with his tail waving like

a flag of truce, and politely presented his ruffled paw for a hearty

shake.

Thorny could not resist that appeal, and patted the white head, with a

friendly look into the affectionate eyes of the dog, saying to his

sister as he did so:

"What a wise old fellow he is! It seems as if he could almost speak,

doesn't it?"

"He can. Say 'How do you do,' Sanch," commanded Ben, relenting at once,

for he saw admiration in Thorny's face.

"Wow, wow, wow!" remarked Sancho, in a mild and conversational tone,

sitting up and touching one paw to his head, as if he saluted by taking

off his hat.

Thorny laughed in spite of himself, and Miss Celia, seeing that the ice

was broken, wheeled him to his place at the foot of the table. Then

seating the little girls on one side, Ben and the dog on the other,

took the head herself and told her guests to begin.

Bab and Betty were soon chattering away to their pleasant hostess as

freely as if they had known her for months; but the boys were still

rather shy, and made Sancho the medium through which they addressed one

another. The excellent beast behaved with wonderful propriety, sitting

upon his cushion in an attitude of such dignity that it seemed almost a

liberty to offer him food. A dish of thick sandwiches had been provided

for his especial refreshment, and as Ben from time to time laid one on

his plate, he affected entire unconsciousness of it till the word was

given, when it vanished at one gulp, and Sancho again appeared absorbed

in deep thought.

But having once tasted of this pleasing delicacy, it was very hard to

repress his longing for more, and, in spite of all his efforts, his

nose would work, his eye kept a keen watch upon that particular dish,

and his tail quivered with excitement as it lay like a train over the

red cushion. At last, a moment came when temptation proved too strong

for him. Ben was listening to something Miss Celia said, a tart lay

unguarded upon his plate, Sanch looked at Thorny, who was watching

him, Thorny nodded, Sanch gave one wink, bolted the tart, and then

gazed pensively up at a sparrow swinging on a twig overhead.

The slyness of the rascal tickled the boy so much that he pushed back

his hat, clapped his hands, and burst out laughing as he had not done

before for weeks. Every one looked around surprised, and Sancho

regarded him with a mildly inquiring air, as if he said, "Why this

unseemly mirth, my friend?"

[Illustration: MISS CELIA AND THORNY.]

Thorny forgot both sulks and shyness after that, and suddenly began to

talk. Ben was flattered by his interest in the dear dog, and opened out

so delightfully that he soon charmed the other by his lively tales of

circus-life. Then Miss Celia felt relieved, and everything went

splendidly, especially the food, for the plates were emptied several

times, the little tea-pot ran dry twice, and the hostess was just

wondering if she ought to stop her voracious guests, when something

occurred which spared her that painful task.

A small boy was suddenly discovered standing in the path behind them,

regarding the company with an air of solemn interest. A pretty, well

dressed child of six, with dark hair cut short across the brow, a rosy

face, a stout pair of legs, left bare by the socks which had slipped

down over the dusty little shoes. One end of a wide sash trailed behind

him, a straw hat hung at his back, while his right hand firmly grasped

a small turtle, and his left a choice collection of sticks. Before Miss

Celia could speak, the stranger calmly announced his mission.

"I have come to see the peacocks."

"You shall presently--" began Miss Celia, but got no further, for the

child added, coming a step nearer:

"And the wabbits."

"Yes, but first wont you--"

"And the curly dog," continued the small voice, as another step brought

the resolute young personage nearer.

"There he is."

A pause, a long look, then a new demand with the same solemn tone, the

same advance.

"I wish to hear the donkey bray."

"Certainly, if he will."

"And the peacocks scream."

"Anything more, sir?"

Having reached the table by this time, the insatiable infant surveyed

its ravaged surface, then pointed a fat little finger at the last cake,

left for manners, and said, commandingly;

"I will have some of that."

"Help yourself; and sit upon the step to eat it, while you tell me

whose boy you are," said Miss Celia, much amused at his proceedings.

Deliberately putting down his sticks, the child took the cake, and,

composing himself upon the step, answered with his rosy mouth full:

"I am papa's boy. He makes a paper. I help him a great deal."

"What is his name?"

"Mr. Barlow. We live in Springfield," volunteered the new guest,

unbending a trifle, thanks to the charms of the cake.

"Have you a mamma, dear?"

"She takes naps. I go to walk then."

"Without leave, I suspect. Have you no brothers or sisters to go with

you?" asked Miss Celia, wondering where the little runaway belonged.

"I have two brothers, Thomas Merton Barlow and Harry Sanford Barlow. I

am Alfred Tennyson Barlow. We don't have any girls in our house, only

Bridget."

"Don't you go to school?"

"The boys do. I don't learn any Greeks and Latins yet. I dig, and read

to mamma, and make poetrys for her."

"Couldn't you make some for me? I'm very fond of poetrys," proposed

Miss Celia, seeing that this prattle amused the children.

"I guess I couldn't make any now; I made some coming along. I will say

it to you."

And, crossing his short legs, the inspired babe half said, half sung

the following poem:[B]

"Sweet are the flowers of life,

Swept o'er my happy days at home;

Sweet are the flowers of life

When I was a little child.

"Sweet are the flowers of life

That I spent with my father at home;

Sweet are the flowers of life

When children played about the house.

"Sweet are the flowers of life

When the lamps are lighted at night;

Sweet are the flowers of life

When the flowers of summer bloomed.

"Sweet are the flowers of life

Dead with the snows of winter;

Sweet are the flowers of life

When the days of spring come on.

[Footnote B: These lines were actually composed by a six-year-old child.]

"That's all of that one. I made another one when I digged after the

turtle. I will say that. It is a very pretty one," observed the poet

with charming candor, and, taking a long breath, he tuned his little

lyre afresh:

"Sweet, sweet days are passing

O'er my happy home,

Passing on swift wings through the valley of life.

Cold are the days when winter comes again.

When my sweet days were passing at my happy home,

Sweet were the days on the rivulet's green brink;

Sweet were the days when I read my father's books;

Sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing."

"Bless the baby! where did he get all that?" exclaimed Miss Celia,

amazed, while the children giggled as Tennyson, Jr., took a bite at the

turtle instead of the half-eaten cake, and then, to prevent further

mistakes, crammed the unhappy creature into a diminutive pocket in the

most business-like way imaginable.

"It comes out of my head. I make lots of them," began the imperturbable

one, yielding more and more to the social influences of the hour.

"Here are the peacocks coming to be fed," interrupted Bab, as the

handsome birds appeared with their splendid plumage glittering in the

sun.

Young Barlow rose to admire, but his thirst for knowledge was not yet

quenched, and he was about to request a song from Juno and Jupiter,

when old Jack, pining for society, put his head over the garden wall

with a tremendous bray.

This unexpected sound startled the inquiring stranger half out of his

wits; for a moment the stout legs staggered and the solemn countenance

lost its composure, as he whispered, with an astonished air:

"Is that the way peacocks scream?"

The children were in fits of laughter, and Miss Celia could hardly make

herself heard as she answered, merrily:

"No, dear; that is the donkey asking you to come and see him. Will you

go?"

"I guess I couldn't stop now. Mamma might want me."

And, without another word, the discomfited poet precipitately retired,

leaving his cherished sticks behind him.

Ben ran after the child to see that he came to no harm, and presently

returned to report that Alfred had been met by a servant and gone away

chanting a new verse of his poem, in which peacocks, donkeys, and "the

flowers of life" were sweetly mingled.

"Now I'll show you my toys, and we'll have a little play before it gets

too late for Thorny to stay with us," said Miss Celia, as Randa carried

away the tea-things and brought back a large tray full of

picture-books, dissected maps, puzzles, games, and several pretty

models of animals, the whole crowned with a large doll dressed as a

baby.

At sight of that, Betty stretched out her arms to receive it with a cry

of delight. Bab seized the games, and Ben was lost in admiration of the

little Arab chief prancing on the white horse, "all saddled and bridled

and fit for the fight." Thorny poked about to find a certain curious

puzzle which he could put together without a mistake after long study.

Even Sancho found something to interest him, and standing on his

hind-legs thrust his head between the boys to paw at several red and

blue letters on square blocks.

"He looks as if he knew them," said Thorny, amused at the dog's eager

whine and scratch.

"He does. Spell your name, Sanch," and Ben put all the gay letters

down upon the flags with a chirrup which set the dog's tail to wagging

as he waited till the alphabet was spread before him. Then with great

deliberation he pushed the letters about till he had picked out six;

these he arranged with nose and paw till the word "Sancho" lay before

him correctly spelt.

"Isn't that clever? Can he do any more?" cried Thorny, delighted.

"Lots; that's the way he gets his livin' and mine too," answered Ben,

and proudly put his poodle through his well-learned lessons with such

success that even Miss Celia was surprised.

"He has been carefully trained. Do you know how it was done?" she

asked, when Sancho lay down to rest and be caressed by the children.

"No 'm, father did it when I was a little chap, and never told me how. I

used to help teach him to dance, and that was easy enough, he is so

smart. Father said the middle of the night was the best time to give

him his lessons, it was so still then and nothing disturbed Sanch and

made him forget. I can't do half the tricks, but I'm going to learn

when father comes back. He'd rather have me show off Sanch than ride,

till I'm older."

"I have a charming book about animals, and in it an interesting account

of some trained poodles who could do the most wonderful things. Would

you like to hear it while you put your maps and puzzles together?"

asked Miss Celia, glad to keep her brother interested in their

four-footed guest at least.

"Yes 'm, yes 'm," answered the children, and fetching the book she read

the pretty account, shortening and simplifying it here and there to

suit her hearers.

"'I invited the two dogs to dine and spend the evening, and they came

with their master, who was a Frenchman. He had been a teacher in a deaf

and dumb school, and thought he would try the same plan with dogs. He

had also been a conjurer, and now was supported by Blanche and her

daughter Lyda. These dogs behaved at dinner just like other dogs, but

when I gave Blanche a bit of cheese and asked if she knew the word for

it, her master said she could spell it. So a table was arranged with a

lamp on it, and round the table were laid the letters of the alphabet

painted on cards. Blanche sat in the middle waiting till her master told

her to spell cheese, which she at once did in French, F R O M A G E.

Then she translated a word for us very cleverly. Some one wrote

_pferd_, the German for horse, on a slate. Blanche looked at it and

pretended to read it, putting by the slate with her paw when she had

done. "Now give us the French for that word," said the man, and she

instantly brought C H E V A L. "Now, as you are at an Englishman's

house, give it to us in English," and she brought me H O R S E. Then we

spelt some words wrong and she corrected them with wonderful accuracy.

But she did not seem to like it, and whined and growled and looked so

worried that she was allowed to go and rest and eat cakes in a corner.

"'Then Lyda took her place on the table, and did sums on a slate with a

set of figures. Also mental arithmetic which was very pretty. "Now,

Lyda," said her master, "I want to see if you understand division.

Suppose you had ten bits of sugar and you met ten Prussian dogs, how

many lumps would you, a French dog, give to each of the Prussians?"

Lyda very decidedly replied to this with a cipher. "But, suppose you

divided your sugar with me, how many lumps would you give me?" Lyda

took up the figure five and politely presented it to her master.'"

[Illustration: ALFRED TENNYSON BARLOW.]

"Wasn't she smart? Sanch can't do that," exclaimed Ben, forced to own

that the French doggie beat his cherished pet.

"He is not too old to learn. Shall I go on?" asked Miss Celia, seeing

that the boys liked it though Betty was absorbed with the doll and Bab

deep in a puzzle.

"Oh yes! What else did they do?"

"'They played a game of dominoes together, sitting in chairs opposite

each other, and touched the dominoes that were wanted; but the man

placed them and kept telling how the game went, Lyda was beaten and hid

under the sofa, evidently feeling very badly about it. Blanche was

then surrounded with playing-cards, while her master held another pack

and told us to choose a card; then he asked her what one had been

chosen, and she always took up the right one in her teeth. I was asked

to go into another room, put a light on the floor with cards round it,

and leave the doors nearly shut. Then the man begged some one to

whisper in the dog's ear what card she was to bring, and she went at

once and fetched it, thus showing that she understood their names. Lyda

did many tricks with the numbers, so curious that no dog could possibly

understand them, yet what the secret sign was I could not discover, but

suppose it must have been in the tones of the master's voice, for he

certainly made none with either head or hands.'

"It took an hour a day for eighteen months to educate a dog enough to

appear in public, and (as you say, Ben) the night was the best time to

give the lessons. Soon after this visit the master died, and these

wonderful dogs were sold because their mistress did not know how to

exhibit them."

"Wouldn't I have liked to see 'em and find out how they were taught.

Sanch, you'll have to study up lively for I'm not going to have you

beaten by French dogs," said Ben, shaking his finger so sternly that

Sancho groveled at his feet and put both paws over his eyes in the most

abject manner.

"Is there a picture of those smart little poodles?" asked Ben, eying

the book, which Miss Celia left open before her.

"Not of them, but of other interesting creatures; also anecdotes about

horses, which will please you, I know," and she turned the pages for

him, neither guessing how much good Mr. Hamerton's charming "Chapters

on Animals" were to do the boy when he needed comfort for a sorrow

which was very near.

CHAPTER X.

A HEAVY TROUBLE.

"Thank you, ma'am, that's a tip-top book, 'specially the pictures. But

I can't bear to see these poor fellows," and Ben brooded over the fine

etching of the dead and dying horses on a battle-field, one past all

further pain, the other helpless but lifting his head from his dead

master to neigh a farewell to the comrades who go galloping away in a

cloud of dust.

"They ought to stop for him, some of 'em," muttered Ben, hastily

turning back to the cheerful picture of the three happy horses in the

field, standing knee-deep among the grass as they prepare to drink at

the wide stream.

"Aint that black one a beauty? Seems as if I could see his mane blow in

the wind, and hear him whinny to that small feller trotting down to

see if he can't get over and be sociable. How I'd like to take a

rousin' run round that meadow on the whole lot of 'em," and Ben swayed

about in his chair as if he was already doing it in imagination.

"You may take a turn round my field on Lita any day. She would like it,

and Thorny's saddle will be here next week," said Miss Celia, pleased

to see that the boy appreciated the fine pictures, and felt such hearty

sympathy with the noble animals whom she dearly loved herself.

"Needn't wait for that. I'd rather ride bare-back. Oh, I say, is this

the book you told about where the horses talked?" asked Ben, suddenly

recollecting the speech he had puzzled over ever since he heard it.

"No, I brought the book, but in the hurry of my tea-party forgot to

unpack it. I'll hunt it up to-night. Remind me, Thorny."

"There, now, I've forgotten something too! Squire sent you a letter,

and I'm having such a jolly time I never thought of it."

Ben rummaged out the note with remorseful haste, protesting that he was

in no hurry for Mr. Gulliver, and very glad to save him for another

day.

Leaving the young folks busy with their games, Miss Celia sat in the

porch to read her letters, for there were two, and as she read her face

grew so sober, then so sad, that if any one had been looking he would

have wondered what bad news had chased away the sunshine so suddenly.

No one did look, no one saw how pitifully her eyes rested on Ben's

happy face when the letters were put away, and no one minded the new

gentleness in her manner as she came back to the table. But Ben thought

there never was so sweet a lady as the one who leaned over him to show

him how the dissected map went together, and never smiled at his

mistakes.

So kind, so very kind was she to them all that when, after an hour of

merry play, she took her brother in to bed, the three who remained fell

to praising her enthusiastically as they put things to rights before

taking leave.

"She's like the good fairies in the books, and has all sorts of nice,

pretty things in her house," said Betty, enjoying a last hug of the

fascinating doll whose lids would shut so that it was a pleasure to

sing "Bye, sweet baby, bye," with no staring eyes to spoil the

illusion.

"What heaps she knows! More than Teacher, I do believe, and she doesn't

mind how many questions we ask. I like folks that will tell me things,"

added Bab, whose inquisitive mind was always hungry.

"I like that boy first-rate, and I guess he likes me, though I didn't

know where Nantucket ought to go. He wants me to teach him to ride when

he's on his pins again, and Miss Celia says I may. _She_ knows how to

make folks feel good, don't she?" and Ben gratefully surveyed the Arab

chief, now his own, though the best of all the collection.

"Wont we have splendid times? She says we may come over every night and

play with her and Thorny."

"And she's going to have the seats in the porch lift up so we can put

our things in there all dry, and have 'em handy."

"And I'm going to be her boy, and stay here all the time; I guess the

letter I brought was a recommend from the Squire."

"Yes, Ben: and if I had not already made up my mind to keep you before,

I certainly would now, my boy."

Something in Miss Celia's voice, as she said the last two words with

her hand on Ben's shoulder, made him look up quickly and turn red with

pleasure, wondering what the Squire had written about him.

"Mother must have some of the 'party,' so you shall take her these,

Bab, and Betty may carry baby home for the night. She is so nicely

asleep, it is a pity to wake her. Good-bye till to-morrow, little

neighbors," continued Miss Celia, and dismissed the girls with a kiss.

"Isn't Ben coming, too?" asked Bab, as Betty trotted off in a silent

rapture with the big darling bobbing over her shoulder.

"Not yet; I've several things to settle with my new man. Tell mother he

will come by and by."

Off rushed Bab with the plateful of goodies; and, drawing Ben down

beside her on the wide step, Miss Celia took out the letters, with a

shadow creeping over her face as softly as the twilight was stealing

over the world, while the dew fell and everything grew still and dim.

"Ben, dear, I've something to tell you," she began, slowly, and the boy

waited with a happy face, for no one had called him so since 'Melia

died.

"The Squire has heard about your father, and this is the letter Mr.

Smithers sends."

"Hooray! where is he, please?" cried Ben, wishing she would hurry up,

for Miss Celia did not even offer him the letter, but sat looking down

at Sancho on the lower step, as if she wanted him to come and help her.

"He went after the mustangs, and sent some home, but could not come

himself."

"Went further on? I s'pose. Yes, he said he might go as far as

California, and if he did he'd send for me. I'd like to go there; it's

a real splendid place, they say."

"He has gone further away than that, to a lovelier country than

California, I hope." And Miss Celia's eyes turned to the deep sky,

where early stars were shining.

"Didn't he send for me? Where's he gone? When's he coming back?" asked

Ben, quickly, for there was a quiver in her voice, the meaning of which

he felt before he understood.

Miss Celia put her arms about him, and answered very tenderly:

"Ben, dear, if I were to tell you that he was never coming back, could

you bear it?"

"I guess I could--but you don't mean it? Oh, ma'am, he isn't dead?"

cried Ben, with a cry that made her heart ache, and Sancho leap up with

a bark.

"My poor little boy, I _wish_ I could say no."

There was no need of any more words, no need of tears or kind arms

round him. He knew he was an orphan now, and turned instinctively to

the old friend who loved him best. Throwing himself down beside his

dog, Ben clung about the curly neck, sobbing bitterly:

"Oh, Sanch, he's never coming back again; never, never any more!"

Poor Sancho could only whine and lick away the tears that wet the

half-hidden face, questioning the new friend meantime with eyes so full

of dumb love and sympathy and sorrow that they seemed almost human.

Wiping away her own tears, Miss Celia stooped to pat the white head,

and to stroke the black one lying so near it that the dog's breast was

the boy's pillow. Presently the sobbing ceased, and Ben whispered,

without looking up:

"Tell me all about it; I'll be good."

Then, as kindly as she could, Miss Celia read the brief letter which

told the hard news bluntly, for Mr. Smithers was obliged to confess

that he had known the truth months before, and never told the boy lest

he should be unfitted for the work they gave him. Of Ben Brown the

elder's death there was little to tell, except that he was killed in

some wild place at the West, and a stranger wrote the fact to the only

person whose name was found in Ben's pocket-book. Mr. Smithers offered

to take the boy back and "do well by him," averring that the father

wished his son to remain where he left him, and follow the profession

to which he was trained.

"Will you go, Ben?" asked Miss Celia, hoping to distract his mind from

his grief by speaking of other things.

"No, no; I'd rather tramp and starve. He's awful hard to me and Sanch,

and he'll be worse now father's gone. Don't send me back! Let me stay

here; folks are good to me; there's nowhere else to go." And the head

Ben had lifted up with a desperate sort of look went down again on

Sancho's breast as if there was no other refuge left.

"You _shall_ stay here, and no one shall take you away against your

will. I called you 'my boy' in play, now you shall be my boy in

earnest; this shall be your home, and Thorny your brother. We are

orphans, too, and we will stand by one another till a stronger friend

comes to help us," cried Miss Celia, with such a mixture of resolution

and tenderness in her voice that Ben felt comforted at once, and

thanked her by laying his cheek against the pretty slipper that rested

on the step beside him, as if he had no words in which to swear loyalty

to the gentle mistress whom he meant henceforth to serve with grateful

fidelity.

Sancho felt that he must follow suit, and gravely put his paw upon her

knee, with a low whine, as if he said: "Count me in, and let me help to

pay my master's debt if I can."

Miss Celia shook the offered paw cordially, and the good creature

crouched at her feet like a small lion bound to guard her and her house

forever more.

"Don't lie on that cold stone, Ben; come here and let me try to comfort

you," she said, stooping to wipe away the great drops that kept

rolling down the brown cheek half hidden in her dress.

But Ben put his arm over his face, and sobbed out with a fresh burst of

grief:

"You can't; you didn't know him! Oh, daddy! daddy!--if I'd only seen

you jest once more!"

No one could grant that wish; but Miss Celia did comfort him, for

presently the sound of music floated out from the parlor--music so

soft, so sweet, that involuntarily the boy stopped his crying to

listen; then quieter tears dropped slowly, seeming to soothe his pain

as they fell, while the sense of loneliness passed away, and it grew

possible to wait till it was time to go to father in that far-off

country lovelier than golden California.

How long she played Miss Celia never minded, but when she stole out to

see if Ben had gone she found that other friends, even kinder than

herself, had taken the boy into their gentle keeping. The wind had sung

a lullaby among the rustling lilacs, the moon's mild face looked

through the leafy arch to kiss the heavy eyelids, and faithful Sancho

still kept guard beside his little master, who, with his head pillowed

on his arm, lay fast asleep, dreaming, happily, that "Daddy had come

home again."

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration: A TALK OVER THE HARD TIMES.]

COMMON SENSE IN THE HOUSEHOLD.

BY MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.

When you're writing or reading or sewing, it's right

To sit, if you can, with your back to the light;

And then, it is patent to every beholder,

The light will fall gracefully over your shoulder.

[Illustration]

Now here is a family, sensible, wise,

Who all have the greatest regard for their eyes;

They first say, "Excuse me," which also is right,

And then all sit down with their backs to the light.

But their neighbors, most unhygienic, can't see

Why they do it, and think that they cannot agree,

And always decide they've been having a fight,

When they merely are turning their backs to the light.

SECRETS OF THE ATLANTIC CABLE.

BY WILLIAM H. RIDEING.

I believe that the youngsters in our family consider my study a very

pleasant room. There are some books, pictures, and hunting implements

in it, and I have quite a large number of curious things stored in

little mahogany cabinets, including a variety of specimens of natural

history and articles of savage warfare, which have been given to me by

sailors and travelers. In one of these cabinets there are the silver

wings of a flying-fish, the poisoned arrows of South Sea cannibals,

sharks' and alligators' teeth, fragments of well-remembered wrecks, and

an inch or two of thick tarred rope.

The latter appears to be a common and useless object at the first

glance, but when examined closely it is not so uninteresting. It

measures one and one-eighth of an inch in diameter, and running through

the center are seven bright copper wires, surrounded by a hard, dark

brown substance, the nature of which you do not immediately recognize.

It is gutta-percha, the wonderful vegetable juice, which is as firm as

a rock while it is cold and as soft as dough when it is exposed to

heat. This is inclosed within several strands of Manilla hemp, with ten

iron wires woven among them. The hemp is saturated with tar to resist

water, and the wires are galvanized to prevent rust. You may judge,

then, how strong and durable the rope is, but I am not sure that you

can guess its use.

Near the southern extremity of the western coast of Ireland there is a

little harbor called Valentia, as you will see by referring to a map.

It faces the Atlantic Ocean, and the nearest point on the opposite

shore is a sheltered bay prettily named Heart's Content, in

Newfoundland. The waters between are the stormiest in the world, wrathy

with hurricanes and cyclones, and seldom smooth even in the calm months

of midsummer. The distance across is nearly two thousand miles, and the

depth gradually increases to a maximum of three miles. Between these

two points of land--Valentia in Ireland and Heart's Content in

Newfoundland--a magical rope is laid, binding America to Europe with a

firm bond, and enabling people in London to send instantaneous messages

to those in New York. It is the first successful Atlantic cable, and my

piece was cut from it before it was laid. Fig. 2 on the next page shows

how a section of it looks, and Fig. 3 shows a section of the shore

ends, which are larger.

Copper is one of the best conductors of electricity known, and hence

the wires in the center are made of that metal. Water, too, is an

excellent conductor, and if the wires were not closely protected, the

electricity would pass from them into the sea, instead of carrying its

message the whole length of the line. Therefore, the wires must be

encased or insulated in some material that will not admit water and is

not itself a conductor. Gutta-percha meets these needs, and the hemp

and galvanized wire are added for the strength and protection they

afford to the whole.

It was an American who first thought of laying such an electric cable

as this under the turbulent Atlantic. Some foolish people laughed at

the idea and declared it to be impracticable. How could a slender cord,

two thousand miles long, be lowered from an unsteady vessel to the

bottom of the ocean without break? It would part under the strain put

upon it, and it would be attacked by marine monsters, twisted and

broken by the currents. At one point the bed of the sea suddenly sinks

from a depth of two hundred and ten fathoms to a depth of two thousand

and fifty fathoms. Here the strain on the cable as it passed over the

ship's stern would be so great that it certainly must break. More than

this, the slightest flaw--a hole smaller than a pin's head--in the

gutta-percha insulator would spoil the entire work, and no remedy would

be possible. A great many people spoke in this way when the Atlantic

cable was first thought of, as others, years before, had spoken of Watt

and Stephenson. But Watt invented the steam-engine, Stephenson invented

the locomotive, and Cyrus Field bound Great Britain to the United

States by telegraph.

Early in 1854, Mr. Field's attention was drawn to the scheme for a

telegraph between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, in connection with a

line of fast steamships from Ireland to call at St. John's,

Newfoundland. The idea struck him that if a line were laid to Ireland,

lasting benefit would result to the world. So he called together some

of his intimate friends, including Peter Cooper, Moses Taylor, Chandler

White, and Marshall O. Roberts, and they joined him in organizing the

"New York, Newfoundland, and London Telegraph Company," which was the

pioneer in the movement to connect the two continents by a telegraph

cable, and without whose aid its consummation would have been

indefinitely delayed.

The work was costly and difficult. The first part consisted in

surveying the bottom of the sea for a route. This was done by taking

"soundings" and "dredgings." As some of you are aware, "sounding" is

an operation for ascertaining the depth of the sea, while "dredging"

reveals what plants and living creatures are at the bottom. After much

patient labor, a level space was found between Ireland and

Newfoundland, and it seemed to be so well adapted to the surveyor's

purposes that it was called the "Telegraphic Plateau."

[Illustration: THE GRAPNEL.]

Two or three large vessels were next equipped, and sent out with

several thousand miles of cable on board, which they proceeded to lay.

But the fragile cord--fragile compared with the boisterous power of the

waves--broke in twain, and could not be recovered. A second attempt was

made, and that failed, too. Brave men can overcome adversity, however,

and the little band of scientific men and capitalists were brave men

and were determined to succeed. Each heart suffered the acute anguish

of long-deferred hope, and each expedition cost many hundred thousands

of dollars. Nevertheless, the promoters of the Atlantic cable sent out

a third time, and when failure met them again, it seemed to common

minds that their scheme was a settled impossibility. Not so with the

heroes. Each failure showed them some faults in their plans or

machinery. These they amended. Thus, while they were left at a distance

from the object of their ambition, they were brought a little nearer to

its attainment.

Guided by the light of past experience, they equipped a fourth

expedition. The "Great Eastern" was selected, and her interior was

altered for the purpose. She was, and is still, the largest vessel

afloat. Her length is six hundred and ninety-five feet; her breadth

eighty-five feet, and her burthen twenty-two thousand tons. One of the

principal causes of failure in previous expeditions was the inability

of the cable to endure the severe strain put upon it in stormy weather

as it passed from an ordinarily unsteady vessel into the sea. The

"Great Eastern," from her immense size, promised to be steady in the

worst of gales. Her hold was fitted with three enormous iron tanks---a

"fore" tank, a "main" tank, and an "after" tank. The main tank was the

largest, and eight hundred and sixty-four miles of cable were coiled in

it. Eight hundred and thirty-nine miles in addition were coiled in the

after tank, and six hundred and seventy miles in the fore tank, making

in all two thousand three hundred and seventy-four miles of cable. The

food taken on board for the long voyage in prospect consisted of twenty

thousand pounds of butcher-meat, five hundred head of poultry, one

hundred and fourteen live sheep, eight bullocks, a milch cow, and

eighty tons of ice.

[Illustration: SECTION OF THE GRAPPLING LINE.]

What is called the shore-end of the cable--_i.e._, that part nearest

the shore, which is thicker than the rest--was first laid by a smaller

steamer. It extended from Valentia to a point twenty-eight miles at

sea. Here it was buoyed, until the great ship arrived. On a wet day in

July, 1866, it was joined with the main cable on board the "Great

Eastern," and on the same day that vessel started on her voyage to

Newfoundland.

[Illustration: SECTIONS OF CABLES (REDUCED). 1. Main cable of 1858.

1a. Shore end, abandoned cable of 1858. 2. Main cable of 1866.

2a. Shore-end, recovered cable of 1865. 3. Shore end of cable of 1866.]

It may seem a simple matter to distribute or "pay out" the cable, but

in practice it is exceedingly difficult. Twenty men are stationed in

the tank from which it is issuing, each dressed in a canvas suit,

without pockets, and in boots without nails. Their duty is to ease each

coil as it passes out of the tank, and to give notice of the marks

painted on the cable one mile apart. Near the entrance of the tank it

runs over a grooved wheel and along an iron trough until it reaches

that part of the deck where the "paying out" machine is placed. The

latter consists of six grooved wheels, each provided with a smaller

wheel, called a "jockey," placed against the upper side of the groove

so as to press against the cable as it goes through, and retard or help

its progress. These six wheels and their jockeys are themselves

controlled by brakes, and after it has been embraced by them the cable

winds round a "drum" four times. The drum is another wheel, four feet

in diameter and nine inches deep, which is also controlled by powerful

brakes; and from it the cable passes over another grooved wheel before

it gets to the "dynamometer" wheel. The dynamometer is an instrument

which shows the exact degree of the strain on the cable, and the wheel

attached to it rises and falls as the strain is greater or less. Thence

the cable is sent over another deeply grooved wheel into the sea.

You will remember what I said about insulation,--how a tiny hole in the

gutta-percha would allow the electricity to escape. On deck there is a

small house, which is filled with delicate scientific instruments. As

the cable is paid out, it is tested here. If a wire or a nail or a

smaller thing is driven through it, and the insulation is spoiled, an

instrument called the galvanometer instantly records the fact, and

warning is given at all parts of the ship. The man in charge touches a

small handle, and an electric bell rings violently in the tank and at

the paying-out machinery. At the same time a loud gong is struck, at

the sound of which the engines are stopped. Delay might cause much

trouble or total failure, as the injured section must be arrested and

repaired before it enters the water.

The great steamer went ahead at the rate of five nautical miles an

hour, and the cable passed smoothly overboard. Messages were sent to

England and answers received. The weather was bright, and all hands

were cheerful. On the third day after the "splicing" of the shore-end

with the main cable, that part of the ocean was reached where the water

suddenly increases in depth from two hundred and ten fathoms to two

thousand and fifty. One of the earlier cables broke at this place and

was lost forever. The electricians and engineers watched for it with

anxious eyes. It was reached and passed. The black cord still traveled

through the wheels unbroken, and the test applied by the galvanometer

proved the insulation to be perfect. The days wore away without mishap

until the evening of July 17, when the sound of the gong filled all

hearts with a sickening fear.

The rain was falling in torrents and pattering on the heavy oil-skin

clothing of the watchers. The wind blew in chilly gusts, and the sea

broke in white crests of foam. A dense and pitchy cloud issued from the

smoke-stacks. The vessel advanced in utter darkness. A few lights were

moving about, and shadows fell hither and thither as one of the hands

carried a lantern along the sloppy deck. The testing-room was occupied

by an electrician, who was quietly working with his magical instrument,

and the cable could be heard winding over the wheels astern, as the

tinkling of a little bell on the "drum" recorded its progress.

[Illustration: THE "GREAT EASTERN" ENTERING THE BAY OF HEART'S CONTENT.]

The electrician rose from his seat suddenly, and struck the alarum. The

next instant each person on board knew that an accident had happened.

The engines were stopped and reversed within two minutes. Blue-lights

were burned on the paddle-boxes, and showed a knot in the cable as it

lay in the trough.

Two remedies seemed possible. One was to cut the cable, and support one

end in the water by a buoy until the rest could be unraveled. The other

was to unravel the cable without cutting it.

[Illustration]

It is a very intricate knot that an old sailor cannot untie, and the

old sailors on the "Great Eastern" twisted and untwisted coil after

coil until they succeeded in untying this one. The insulation remained

perfect, and in a few hours all was right again. The accident caused

much ill foreboding, however, as it showed how slight an occurrence

might bring the expedition to a disastrous end.

On July 27, after a voyage of fifteen days, the "Great Eastern"

finished her work, and her part of the cable was attached to the

American shore-end, which had been laid by another vessel. Some of you

will remember the rejoicings in the United States over the event. It

surpassed all other achievements of the age, and equaled the invention

of the telegraph itself.

Thus, after infinite labor and repeated failures, the brave men who

undertook the work accomplished it. A year before, their third cable

had broken in mid-ocean, and it was now proposed to "grapple" for it.

The "Great Eastern" was fitted out with apparatus, which may be likened

to an enormous fishing-hook and line, and was sent to the spot where

the treasure had been lost. The line was of hemp interwoven with wire.

Page 328 shows a section of it. Twice the cable was seized and brought

almost to the surface. Twice it slipped from the disappointed

fishermen, but the third time it was secured. It was then united with

the cable on board, which was "paid out" until the great steamer again

reached Newfoundland, and a second telegraph-wire united the two

continents.

The scene on board as the black line appeared above water was exciting

beyond description. It was first taken to the testing-room, and a

signal intended for Valentia was sent over it, to prove whether or not

it was perfect throughout its whole length. If it had proved to be

imperfect, all the labor spent upon it would have been lost. The

electricians waited breathlessly for an answer. The clerk in the

signal-house at Valentia was drowsy when their message came, and

disbelieved his ears. Many disinterested people, and even some of the

promoters of the cable, did not think it possible to recover a wire

that had sunk in thousands of fathoms of water. But the clerk in the

little station connected with the shore-end of the cable of 1865

suddenly found himself in communication with a vessel situated in the

middle of the Atlantic.

The delay aggravated the anxious watchers on the ship, and a second

signal was sent. How astonished that simple-minded Irish

telegraph-operator was! Five minutes passed, and then the answer came.

The chief electrician gave a loud cheer, which was repeated by every

man on board, from the captain down to his servant.

There are now four cables in working order, and the cost of messages

has been reduced twenty-five per cent. The New York newspapers now

contain nearly as much European news as the London newspapers

themselves.

THE CANARY THAT TALKED TOO MUCH

BY MARGARET EYTINGE.

Annette's canary-bird's cage, with the canary in it, was brought into

the library and hung upon a hook beside the window.

Out popped a mouse from a hole behind the book-case.

"Why, what are _you_ doing here, canary?" she said. "I thought _your_

place was the bay-window in the dining-room."

"So it is--so it is!" beginning with a twitter, answered the canary;

"but they said I talked too much!"--ending with a trill.

"Talked!" repeated the mouse, sitting up on her hind-legs and looking

earnestly at him. "I thought _you_ only sang!"

"Well, singing and talking mean about the same thing in bird-language,"

said the canary. "But goodness g-r-r-racious!" he went on, swinging

rapidly to and fro in his little swing at the top of his cage, "'t was

they that talked so much--my mistress and the doctor's wife, and the

doctor's sister--not me. I said scarcely a word, and yet I am called a

chatterbox, and punished--before company, too! I feel mad enough to

pull out my yellowest feathers, or upset my bath-tub. Now, you look

like a sensible little thing, mouse, and I'll tell you all about

it--what they said and what I said--and you shall judge if I deserved

to be banished.

"The doctor's wife and the doctor's sister called.

"'It's a lovely day!' said they.

"'A lovely, lovely, lovely day!' sang I. 'The sun shines bright--the

sky is blue--the grass is green--yes, lovely, lovely, lovely--and I'm

happy, happy, happy, and glad, glad, glad!'

"They went right on talking, though I sang my very best, without paying

the slightest attention to me; and when I stopped, I caught the words

'So sweet' from my mistress, and then I sang again: 'Sweet, sweet,

sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet is the clover--sweet is the

rose--sweet the song of the bird--sweet the bird--sweet the

clover--sweet the rose--the rose--the clover--the bird--yes, yes,

yes--sweet, sweet, sweet!' And as I paused to take breath, I heard some

one say, 'What a noise that bird makes! how loudly he sings!' 'How

loudly he sings!' repeated I, 'how loudly he sings!--the bird, the

bird, the beautiful bird--sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet----' But suddenly

my song ended, for my mistress got up, unhooked my cage, saying,

'Canary, you're a chatterbox; you talk too much,' and brought me in

here.

"And really, mouse, as you must see, I didn't say more than a dozen or

so words. What do you think about it?"

"Well," said the mouse, stroking her whiskers and speaking slowly, "you

_didn't say_ much, but it strikes me you talked a great deal."

"Oh!" said the canary, putting his head on one side and looking

thoughtfully at her out of his right, bright, black, round eye. But

just then the mouse heard an approaching footstep, and, without even

saying "good-bye," she hurried away to the hole behind the book-case.

A NIGHT WITH A BEAR.

BY JANE G. AUSTIN.

"Tell you what, Roxie, I wish father and Jake had some of those hot

nut-cakes for their dinner; they didn't carry much of anything, and

these are proper nice."

Mrs. Beamish set her left hand upon her hip, leaned against the corner

of the dresser, and meditatively selected another nut-cake, dough-nut

or cruller, as you may call them, from the great brown pan piled up

with these dainties, and Roxie, who was curled up in a little heap on

the corner of the settle, knitting a blue woolen stocking, looked

brightly up and said:

"Let me go and carry them some, Ma. It's just as warm and nice as can

be out-of-doors, real springy, and I know the way to the wood lot. I'd

just love to go."

"Let's see--ten o'clock," said Mrs. Beamish, putting the last bit of

cake into her mouth, and wiping her fingers upon her apron. "It's a

matter of four miles there by the bridge, Jake says, though if you

cross the ford it takes off a mile or more. You'd better go round by

the bridge, anyway."

"Oh no, Ma; that isn't worth while, for Pa said only last night that

the ice was strong enough yet to sled over all the wood he'd been

cutting," said Roxie, earnestly, for the additional mile rather

terrified her.

"Did he? Well, if that's so, it is all right," replied her mother, in a

tone of relief, and then she filled a tin pail with nut-cakes, laid a

clean, brown napkin over them, and then shut in the cover and set it on

the dresser, saying:

"There, they've got cheese with them, and you'll reach camp before they

eat their noon lunch. Now, get on your leggin's and thick shoes, and

your coat and cap and mittens, and eat some cakes before you start, so

as not to take theirs when you get there."

"I wouldn't do that, neither; not if I never had any," replied Roxie, a

little resentfully, and then she pulled her squirrel-skin cap well over

her ears, tied her pretty scarlet tippet around her neck, and held up

her face for a good-bye kiss. The mother gave it with unusual fervor,

and said, kindly:

"Good-bye to you, little girl. Take good care of yourself, and come

safe home to mother."

"Yes, Ma. But I may wait and come with them, mayn't I? They'll let me

ride on old Rob, you know."

"Why, yes, you might as well, I suppose, though I'll be lonesome

without you all day, baby. But it would be better for you to ride home,

so stay."

It was a lovely day in the latter part of March, and although the

ground was covered with snow, and the brooks and rivers were still fast

bound in ice, there was something in the air that told of

spring,--something that set the sap in the maple-trees mounting through

its million little channels toward the buds, already beginning to

redden for their blooming, and sent the blood in little Roxie's veins

dancing upward too, until it blossomed in her cheeks and lips fairer

than in any maple-tree.

"How pleasant it is to be alive!" said the little girl aloud, while a

squirrel running up the old oak-tree overhead stopped, and curling his

bushy tail a little higher upon his back, chattered the same idea in

his own language. Roxie stopped to listen and laugh aloud, at which

sound the squirrel frisked away to his hole, and the little girl,

singing merrily, went on her way, crossed the river on the ice, and on

the other bank stopped and looked wistfully down a side path leading

into the denser forest away from her direct road.

"I really believe the checkerberries must have started, it is so

springy," she thought; "I've a mind to go down and look in what Jake

calls 'Bear-berry Pasture,' though I told him they were not

bear-berries, but real checkerberries." So, saying to herself Roxie ran

a few steps down the little path, stopped, stood still for a minute,

then slowly turned back, saying:

"No, I wont, either, for may be I wouldn't get to the camp with the

nut-cakes before noon, and then they would have eaten all their cheese.

No, I'll go right on, and not stay there any time at all, but come back

and get the checkerberries; besides, mother said she'd be lonesome

without me, so I'd better not stay, any way."

So Roxie, flattering herself like many an older person with the fancy

that she was giving up her selfish pleasure for that of another, while

really she was carrying out her own fancy, went singing on her way, and

reached the camp just as her father struck his ax deep into the log

where he meant to leave it for an hour, and Jake, her handsome elder

brother, took off his cap, pushed the curls back from his heated brow,

and shook out the hay and grain before old Rob, whose whinny had

already proclaimed dinner-time.

"Why, if here isn't sis with a tin kettle, and I'll be bound some of

ma'am's nut-cakes in it!" exclaimed Jake, who had rather mourned at the

said cakes not being ready before he left home, and then he caught the

little girl up in his arms, kissed her heartily, and put her on Rob's

back, whence she slid down, saying gravely:

"Jake, Ma says I'm getting too old for rough play. I'll be twelve years

old next June."

"All right, old lady; I'll get you a pair of specs and a new cap or two

for a birthday present," laughed Jake, uncovering the tin kettle, while

his father said:

"We wont have you an old woman before you're a young one, will we, Tib?

Come, sit down by me and have some dinner. You're good to bring us the

nut-cakes and get here in such good season."

The three were very happy and merry over their dinner, although Roxie

declined to eat anything except out of her own pocket, and the time

passed swiftly until Mr. Beamish glanced up at the sun, rose, took his

ax out of the cleft in the log, and, swinging it over his head, said:

"Come, Jake, nooning is over. Get to work."

"All right, sir. You can sit still as long as you like, sis, and by and

by I'll take you home on Rob."

"I'm going now, Jake," said Roxie, hesitating a little, and finally

concluding not to mention the checkerberries, lest her father or

brother should object to her going alone into the wilder part of the

forest. "Ma said she'd be lonesome," added she hurriedly, and then her

cheeks began to burn as if she had really told a lie instead of

suggesting one.

"Well, you're a right down good girl to come so far and then to think

of Ma instead of yourself, and next day we're working about home I'll

give you a good ride to pay for it."

And Jake kissed his little sister tenderly, her father nodded good-bye

with some pleasant word of thanks, and Roxie with the empty tin pail in

her hand set out upon her homeward journey, a little excitement in her

heart as she thought of her contemplated excursion, a little sting in

her conscience as she reflected that she had not been quite honest

about any part of it.

Did you ever notice, when a little troubled and agitated, how quickly

you seemed to pass over the ground, and how speedily you arrived at the

point whither you had not fairly decided to go?

It was so with Roxie, and while she was still considering whether after

all she would go straight home, she was already at the entrance of the

sunny southern glade where lay the patch of bright red berries whose

faint, wholesome perfume told of their vicinity even before they could

be seen. Throwing herself upon her knees, the little girl pushed aside

the glossy dark-green leaves, and with a low cry of delight stooped

down and kissed the clusters of fragrant berries as they lay fresh and

bright before her.

"O you dear, darling little things!" cried she, "how I love to see you

again, and know that all the rest of the pretty things are coming right

along!"

Then she began to pluck, and put them sometimes in her mouth, sometimes

in her pail, and so long did she linger over her pleasant task that the

sun was already in the tops of the pine-trees, when, returning from a

little excursion into the woods to get a sprig from a "shad-bush,"

Roxie halted just within the border of the little glade, and stood for

a moment transfixed with horror. Beside the pail she had left brim-full

of berries, sat a bear-cub, scooping out the treasure with his paw, and

greedily devouring it, apparently quite delighted that some one had

saved him the trouble of gathering his favorite berries for himself.

One moment of dumb terror, and then a feeling of anger and reckless

courage filled the heart of the woodsman's child, and, darting forward,

she made a snatch at her pail, at the same time dealing the young

robber a sharp blow over the face and eyes with the branch of shad-bush

in her hand, and exclaiming:

"You great, horrid thing! Every single berry is gone now, for I wont

eat them after you. So now!"

But, so far from being penitent or frightened, the bear took this

interference, and especially the blow, in very bad part, and after a

moment of blinking astonishment, he sat up on his haunches, growled a

little, showed his teeth, and intimated very plainly that unless that

pail of berries was restored at once, there would be trouble for some

one. But this was not the first bear-cub that Roxie had seen, and her

temper was up as well as the bear's. So, firmly grasping the pail, she

began to retreat backward, at first slowly, but as the bear dropped on

his feet and seemed inclined to follow her, or rather the pail of

berries, she lost courage, and turning, began to run, not caring or

noting in what direction, and still mechanically grasping the pail of

berries.

Suddenly, through the close crowding pines which had so nearly shut out

the daylight, appeared an open space, and Roxie hailed it with delight,

for it was the river, and once across the river she felt as if she

would be safe. Even in the brief glance she threw around as she burst

from the edge of the wood, she saw that here was neither the bridge nor

the ford which she had crossed in the morning; a point altogether

strange and new to her, and, as she judged, further down the river,

since the space from shore to shore was considerably wider. But the

bear was close behind, and neither time nor courage for deliberation

was at hand, and Roxie, after her moment's pause, sprung forward upon

the snowy ice, closely followed by the clumsy little beast.

At that very moment, a mile further up stream, Mr. Beamish and his son

Jake were cautiously driving Rob across the frozen ford, and the old

man was saying:

"I'm afraid we'll have to go round by the bridge after this, Jake. I

shouldn't wonder if the river broke up this very night. See that

crack."

[Illustration: THE RESCUE.]

"It wouldn't do for Roxie to come over here alone again," said Jake,

probing the ice-crack with his stick.

And Roxie,--poor little Roxie,--whom Jake was so glad to think of as

safe at home, was at that very moment stepping over a wide crack

between two great masses of ice, and staring forlornly about her, for a

little way in advance appeared another great gap, and the bear close

behind was whimpering with terror as he clung to the edge of the

floating mass upon which Roxie had only just leaped, and which he had

failed to jump upon. Shaking with cold and fright, the little girl

staggered forward across the ice until at its further edge she came

upon a narrow, swiftly rolling tide, increasing in width at every

moment--the current of the river suddenly set free from its winter's

bondage, and rapidly dashing away its chains.

Roxie turned back, but the crack that she had stepped over was already

far too wide for her to attempt to repass, and a gentle shaking

movement under her feet told that the block on which she stood was

already in motion, and that no escape was possible without more

strength and courage than a little girl could be expected to possess.

The bear had climbed up, and now crouched timidly to the edge of the

ice, moaning with fear, and seeming to take so little notice of Roxie

that she forgot all her fear of him, and these two, crouching upon the

rocking and slippery floor of their strange prison, went floating down

the turbulent stream.

The twilight deepened into dark, the stars came out bright and cold,

and so far away from human need and woe! Little Roxie ceased her

useless tears, and kneeling upon the ice put her hands together and

prayed, adding to the petition she had learned at her mother's knee

some simple words of her own great need.

A yet more piteous whine from the bear showed his terror as the

ice-block gave a sickening whirl, and crawling upon his stomach he

crept close up to the little girl, his whole air saying as plainly as

words could have spoken:

"Oh, I am so scared, little girl, aren't you? Let us protect each other

somehow, or at least, you protect me."

And Roxie, with a strange, light-hearted sense of security and peace

replacing her terror and doubt, let the shaggy creature creep close to

her side, and nestling down into his thick fur, warmed her freezing

fingers against his skin, and with a smile upon her lips went

peacefully to sleep.

She was awakened by a tremendous shock, and a struggle, and a fall into

the water, and before she could see or know what had happened to her,

two strong arms were round her, and she was drawn again upon the

ice-cake, and her brother was bending close above her, and he was

saying:

"Oh, Roxie! are you hurt?"

"No, Jake, I--I believe not. Why, why, what is it all? Where is this,

and--oh, I know. Oh, Jake, Jake, I was so frightened!" And, turning

suddenly, she hid her face in her brother's coat and burst into a

passion of tears. But Jake, with one hurried embrace and kiss, put her

away, saying:

"Wait just a minute, sis, till we finish the bear; father will shoot

him."

"No, no, no!" screamed Roxie, her tears dried as if by magic. "Don't

kill the bear, father! Jake, don't you touch the bear; he's my friend,

and we were both so scared last night, and then I prayed that he

wouldn't eat me, and he didn't, and you mustn't hurt him."

"Well, I'm beat now!" remarked Mr. Beamish, as with both hands buried

in the coarse hair by which he had dragged the bear to the surface,

for it had gone under when the ice-cake had been broken against the jam

of logs which had stopped it, he looked up at his little daughter's

pale face.

"You and the bear made friends, and said your prayers together, and he

can't be hurt, you say?"

"Yes, father. Oh, please don't hurt him!"

"We might take him home and keep him chained up for a sort of a pet, if

he will behave decent," suggested Jake, a little doubtfully.

"Well!--I suppose we could," replied the father, very slowly and

reluctantly. "He seems peaceable enough now."

"And see how good he is to me," said Roxie, eagerly, as she patted the

head of her strange new friend, who blinked amicably in reply. "Oh,

Jake, do go and get Rob and the sled, and carry him home, wont you?"

"Why, yes, if father says so, and the critter will let me tie his

legs."

The ox-sled was close at hand, for the father and brother had brought

it to the river before they began their weary search up and down its

banks, not knowing what mournful burden they might have to carry home

to the almost frantic mother.

And Bruin, a most intelligent beast, seemed to understand so well that

the handling, and ride, were all for his own good, that he bore the

humiliation of having his legs tied with considerable equanimity, and

in a short time developed so gentle and gentlemanly a character as to

become a valued and honored member of the family, remaining with it for

about a year, when, wishing, probably, to set up housekeeping on his

own account, he quietly snapped his chain one day and walked off into

the woods, where he was occasionally seen for several years, generally

near the checkerberry patch.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

BY CHARLES W. SQUIRES.

I have no doubt that most of the readers of ST. NICHOLAS have heard of

the grand old Abbey of Westminster, in London, and that they would be

glad to visit this famous historical place. I had often been there in

my thoughts and dreams, and had often wished that I might really walk

through its quiet aisles and chapels, when, at last, I should make a

trip to Europe. And my wish was granted.

It was on a November morning--one of those dark, gloomy mornings,

peculiar to London, that I started from my lodgings to walk to the

Abbey. As I said before, I had often been there in my imagination, and,

as I walked slowly along, I could hardly realize that I was actually

about to visit it in person. After a while I came in sight of

Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament, and then, on my right,

I noticed two tall towers, and without the help of my guide-book I knew

that they must belong to the Abbey; so I quickened my steps until I

had gained the entrance door. What a change I experienced as I stepped

from the busy, crowded streets, into this old sepulcher, so celebrated

for its relics of the dead! It almost made me shudder, for the interior

of the building was dark and gloomy, and I saw many cold, white figures

towering high above me. The original Abbey was built many, many years

ago, and has been restored from time to time by the succeeding kings

and queens of England, until we find it in its present condition, safe

and sound, and one of the greatest, if not the greatest object of

interest in the city of London.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]

[Illustration: SHRINE OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR.]

Westminster Abbey may certainly be called a tomb, for we could spend a

whole day in simply counting its monuments. There were so many of these

that I hardly knew which to look at first, but I thought it best to

follow my own inclinations, and so, instead of procuring a guide (men

with long gowns, who take visitors around and point out the objects of

greatest interest), I roamed about at my will. The first monument that

attracted my attention was the venerable shrine of Edward the

Confessor, in the chapel of St. Edward, once the glory of the Abbey,

but which has been much defaced by persons who were desirous of

obtaining a bit of stone from this famous tomb. In this chapel I saw

also the old coronation chairs, in which all the reigning sovereigns of

England, since Edward I. have been crowned. They are queer,

old-fashioned chairs, made of wood, and not very comfortable, I

imagine. The older of the two chairs was built to inclose the stone

(which they call Jacob's pillar) brought from Scotland by Edward, and

placed in this chapel. Many other interesting tombs are to be seen

here, and the floor of the chapel is six hundred and fourteen years

old!

[Illustration: TOMB OF HANDEL.]

I next visited the chapel of Islip, built by the old Abbot of Islip,

who dedicated it to St. John the Baptist. One very interesting monument

there was to the memory of General Wolfe, who fell, you remember, at

the battle of Quebec. His monument is a very beautiful piece of art. It

represents him falling into the arms of one of his own soldiers, who is

pointing to Glory, which comes in the shape of an angel from the

clouds, holding a wreath with which to crown the hero. A Highland

sergeant looks sorrowfully on the dying warrior, while two lions sleep

at his feet. The inscription reads as follows: "To the memory of James

Wolfe, Major-General and Commander-in-Chief of the British land forces

on an expedition against Quebec, who, after surmounting, by ability and

valor, all obstacles of art and nature, was slain in the moment of

victory, on the 13th of September, 1759, the King and Parliament of

Great Britain dedicate this monument."

I now walked on to the north transept, and the first monument I noticed

was one erected to Sir Robert Peel, the great orator and statesman. I

seated myself on an old stone bench to rest, and looking around, saw a

magnificent statue of the great William Pitt, who, you may remember,

was also a great statesman, and accomplished more for the glory and

prosperity of England than any other statesman who ever lived. In this

transept there is a beautiful window, which represents our Savior, the

twelve apostles, and four evangelists. As I was sitting quietly in this

secluded spot, looking up at the window, strains of solemn music

reached my ear, which sounded as if they came from one of the gloomy

vaults around me. I walked on to discover, if possible, whence this

music came, and I saw, in the nave of the Abbey, the Dean of

Westminster conducting a service, assisted by his choir boys. I seated

myself until the ceremonies were over, and I thought it was a very odd

place to hold church--among so many graves.

After the Dean and his choir boys had disappeared I commenced my walk

again, and saw many fine old monuments. One of these was in memory of

Sir Isaac Newton, and I am sure I need not tell you who he was.

Prominent among the monuments in this part of the Abbey is that to

Major André, the fine young officer who was executed during our

Revolutionary War.

I next visited the south transept, better known as the "Poet's Corner,"

which I think is the most interesting part of Westminster. A hundred,

and more, monuments to the memory of great men can be seen here; but I

can only tell you of a few of the most important. The one I thought

most of is erected to the memory of William Shakspeare, although his

bones repose far away, in the little church at Stratford-on-Avon. Then

I saw the tombs of David Garrick, the great actor and delineator of

Shakspeare's characters; George Frederick Handel, the eminent composer,

the author of that beautiful anthem, "I know that my Redeemer liveth;"

the great Milton; rare old Ben Jonson; Edmund Spenser, author of the

"Faëry Queene;" and those of Southey, Dryden, Addison, Gray, Campbell,

and other well-known English poets.

Then, among the names of the dead of our own day, I saw those of

Dickens, Bulwer, Macaulay, and Dr. Livingstone.

Kings, queens, statesmen, soldiers, clergymen, authors and poets here

have equal station. Some may lie under richer tombs than others, but

all rest beneath the vaulted roof of Westminster Abbey, the place of

highest honor that England can offer her departed sons.

CRIP'S GARRET-DAY

BY SARAH J. PRICHARD.

Crip was having a dismal--a very dismal time of it. Crip was eleven, it

was his birthday, and Crip was in disgrace--in a garret.

Wasn't it dreadful?

It happened thus: Crip's father was a shoemaker. The bench where he

worked and the little bit of a shop, about eight feet every way, in

which he worked, stood on a street leading down to the town dock, and

the name of the town we will say was Barkhampstead, on Cape Cod Bay.

Now and then--that is, once or twice in the year--a whaling vessel set

sail from the dock, and sometimes, not always, the same vessels

returned to the dock.

The going and the coming of a "whaler" made Crip's father, Mr. John

Allen, glad. It was his busy season, for when the seamen went, they

always wanted stout new boots and shoes, and, when they came, they

always needed new coverings on their feet to go home in.

Two years before this dismal time that Crip was having, the ship "Sweet

Home" went away, and it had not been spoken or signaled or heard from

in any way, since four months from the time it left the dock at

Barkhampstead.

The fathers and mothers and wives and little children of the men who

went in the "Sweet Home" kept on hoping, and fearing, and feeling

terribly bad about everybody on board whom they loved, when, without

any warning whatever, right in the midst of a raging snow storm, the

"Sweet Home," all covered in ice from mast-head to prow, sailed, stiff

and cold, into Barkhampstead harbor.

Oh! wasn't there a great gladness over all the old town then! They rang

the meeting-house bell. It was a hoarse, creaking old bell, but there

was music in it that time, as it throbbed against the falling snow, and

made a most delicious concert of joy and gratitude in every house

within a mile and more of the dock.

Mr. John Allen rushed down to the "Sweet Home," as soon as ever it came

in. He hadn't anybody on board to care very particularly about, but how

he did rub his hands together as he went, letting the snow gather fast

on his long beard, as he thought of the thirty or forty pairs of feet

that _must_ have shoes!

Crip, you know, was to be eleven the next day, and his mother, in the

big red house next door to the little shop, had made him a cake for the

day, and, beside, plum-pudding was to be for dinner.

Before Crip's father had gone down to the dock he had said to Crip:

"Now, you must stay right here in the shop and not go near the dock,

until I come back;" and Crip had said "Yes, sir," although every bit of

his throbbing boy body wanted to take itself off to the "Sweet Home."

The snow kept on falling, and it began to grow dark in the little shop.

Crip had just lighted a candle, when the shop door opened, and a boy,

not much bigger than Crip himself, came in and shut the door behind

him.

Crip jumped up from the bench and said:

"What----?"

"You don't know me, Crip Allen," said the boy.

"Who be you?" questioned Crip.

"Don't wonder!" said the other, "for we've all come right out of the

jaws of ice and death. I'm Jo Jay."

"Jo Jay,--looking so!" said Crip.

"Never mind! Only give me a pair of shoes--old ones will do--to get

home in. It's three miles to go, and it's five months since I've had

shoes on my feet. Oh, Crip! we've had a _bad_ time on board, and no

cargo to speak of to bring home."

"You wont pay for the shoes?" asked Crip.

"No money," said Jo, thrusting forth a tied-up foot, wrapped in

sail-rags. "But, Crip, do hurry! I must get home to mother, if she's

alive."

"She's alive--saw her to meeting," said Crip, fumbling in a wooden box

to get forth a pair of half-worn shoes he remembered about.

He produced them. Jo Jay seized the shoes eagerly, and, taking off his

wrappings, quickly thrust his feet, that had so long been shoeless,

into them: and, with a "Bless you, Crip! I'll make it all right some

day." hobbled off, making tracks in the snow, just before Crip's father

came up from the dock.

Mr. John Allen returned in a despondent mood. There was not oil enough

on board the "Sweet Home" to buy shoes for the men.

"Who's been here, Crip? Socks in and shoes out, I see."

"Jo Jay, father."

"Where's the money, Crip?" and Mr. Allen turned his big, searching blue

eyes on Crip, and held forth his hand.

"Why, father," said Crip, "he hadn't any, and he wanted to go home.

It's three miles, you know, and snowing."

"Crip Allen! Do you know what you've done? You've _stolen_ a pair of

shoes."

"Oh, I haven't, father," cried Crip, "and 't was only the old,

half-worn shoes that you mended for George Hine, that he couldn't

wear."

"Christopher!" thundered forth Mr. Allen, in a voice that made the lad

shake in his boots, "go into the house and right upstairs to bed. You

have stolen a pair of shoes from your own father. You _knew_ they were

not yours to give away."

Poor Crip! Now he couldn't get a sight of the "Sweet Home" to-night,

even through the darkness and the snow.

His upper lip began to tremble and give way, but he went into the big

red house, up the front staircase to his own room, and, in the cold,

crept under the blankets into a big feather bed, and thought of Jo

plodding his way home.

About eight of the clock, when Crip was fast asleep, the door opened,

somebody walked in, and a hand touched the boy, and left a bit of cake

on his pillow; then the hand and the somebody went away, and Crip was

left alone until morning. He went down to breakfast when called. His

father's face was more stern than it had been the night before. Crip

could scarcely swallow the needful food. When breakfast was over, Mr.

Allen said:

"Christopher. Go into the garret and stay till I call you. I'll teach

you not to take what doesn't belong to you, even to give away."

"Father!" beseechingly said Crip's mother, "it is the boy's birthday."

"Go to the garret!" said Mr. Allen.

Crip went, and he was having the dismal time of it referred to in the

beginning of this story. Poor little chap! He stayed up there all the

morning, his mother's heart bleeding for him, and his sisters saying in

their hearts, "Father's awful cruel." It did seem so, but Mr.

Christopher Allen, the nation-known shipping merchant, said, fifty

years later, when relating the story to a party of friends on board one

of his fine steamships:

"That severe punishment was the greatest kindness my father ever

bestowed on my boyhood. Why, a hundred times in my life, when under the

power of a great temptation to use money in my hands that did not

belong to me, even for the best and highest uses, and when I _knew_

that I could replace it, I have been saved by the power of the stern,

hard words, the cold, flashing eyes, and the day in the garret. Yes,

yes, father was right. I ought to have taken off _my own shoes, and

gone without any_, to give to Jo Jay. That was his idea of giving."

[Illustration]

WHAT HAPPENED.

BY HOWELL FOSTER.

A very respectable Kangaroo

Died week before last in Timbuctoo;

A remarkable accident happened to him:

He was hung head down from a banyan-limb.

The Royal Lion made proclamation

For a day of fasting and lamentation,

Which led to a curious demonstration:

The Elephant acted as if he were drunk--

He stood on his head, he trod on his trunk;

An over-sensitive she-Gorilla

Declared that the shock would surely kill her;

A frisky, gay and frolicsome Ape

Tied up his tail with a yard of crape;

The Donkey wiped his eyes with his ears;

The Crocodile shed a bucket of tears;

The Rhinoceros gored a young Giraffe

Who had the very bad taste to laugh;

The Hippopotamus puffed and blew,

To show his respect for the Kangaroo;

And a sad but indignant Chimpanzee

Gnawed all the bark from the banyan-tree.

DRIFTED INTO PORT.

BY EDWIN HODDER.

CHAPTER I.

THE BOYS OF BLACKROCK SCHOOL.

Dr. Brier considered himself the principal of Blackrock School, but the

boys in that establishment often used to say to each other that Mrs.

Brier was really the master.

Not that she intruded into any sphere which did not belong to her, but

she took such a deep interest in the school that she had the welfare of

every boy at heart, and Dr. Brier was one of those amiable men who

never act except in concert with their wives, and he had, moreover,

good sense enough to see that oftentimes her judgment was better than

his own.

At the time our story opens, the school was in a very flourishing

condition. It contained about eighty boys, the tutors were men of

unquestionable ability, and so successful had the Doctor been in

turning out good scholars that he had applications from various parts

of England, in which country our story is located, for the admission of

many more boys than he could possibly receive.

Among the institutions of the school was a weekly reception in the

Doctor's private drawing-room, when twenty boys at a time were invited

to tea, and to spend the evening hours in social enjoyment.

It was a very good thing, for it gave Mrs. Brier an opportunity of

becoming acquainted with the boys, and it enabled them to see the

Doctor, not in his professional character of principal, but as a kind

and gentle host.

At some schools, where a plan of this kind has been adopted, boys have

been inclined to look upon it as a great bore, and have dreaded the

return of the so-called social evening, when they would have to be, for

some hours, in a state of nervous anxiety, lest they should be

catechised in a corner, or be betrayed into something that they would

be sorry for afterward.

But, with one exception, this was not the case with the Blackrock boys;

the Tuesday reception was always a red-letter day with them, and if

ever, through misbehavior, an invitation was withheld, it was regarded

as one of the severest punishments inflicted in the school.

Several boys were one day standing in a group under the elms which

inclosed the play-ground, putting on their jackets to return to the

school-room, as the recreation hour was nearly over.

"Who's going to the house on Tuesday?" asked Howard Pemberton.

"I am," said Martin Venables.

"And I," added Alick Fraser.

"And I too, worse luck," said Digby Morton.

"Why worse luck?" asked Martin.

"Oh, it wouldn't do for me to enter into particulars with you," replied

Digby, rather testily. "You're the Doctor's nephew, and we all know

that we've got to be careful of what we say about the house before you.

The wind might carry it around."

Martin turned as red as a poppy, as he flashed up in honest anger that

such paltry meanness should be charged on him.

"I tell you what it is, Digby," he said, trying to keep himself cool,

"I can stand a joke as well as anybody, but there is no joking about

your ill-natured speeches. I tell you now, once for all, that I never

did and never shall blow upon any boy in this school. You know as well

as I do that the Doctor treats me as a scholar here, and not as a spy

or a relative, and if ever you charge me again with tale-bearing, I'll

answer you with my fists."

"Good!" cried several voices at once, while some of the small boys who

had gathered round seemed delighted at the rebuke administered to

Digby, who was by no means a favorite with them.

"And now let's drop it," said Howard, the boy who had asked the

question as to the invitations for Tuesday. "If Digby doesn't like the

receptions, it's a pity he doesn't stay away. I don't know another boy

in the school who would think with him."

"Nor I, and I can't make out why any one should," said Alick; "to my

mind they are the jolliest evenings we have."

"Oh yes, I should think they would just suit _you_" answered Digby,

with his accustomed sneer, "but they don't suit me. They are precious

slow affairs, and I don't care much for the society of Mrs. B. She

pries into the school affairs a sight too much as it is, and----"

What other objections Digby might have advanced will forever remain

unknown. He had committed high treason in speaking lightly of a name

dear to the heart of every boy there, and a storm of hissing and

hooting greeted his unfinished sentence.

He saw that he had trespassed on ground which was too dangerous for him

to tread any further, and so, with a defiant "Bah!" he threw his

jacket over his shoulder and walked sullenly away.

Many of the boys in Blackrock school would have found a difficulty in

stating the exact grounds of their regard for Mrs. Brier. To some of

them she was a comparative stranger; they could not trace one direct

act in which they were indebted to her. Perhaps the merest commonplaces

in conversation had passed between them, and yet they felt there was a

something in her presence which threw sunshine around them; they felt

that they were thought about, cared for and loved, and in any little

scrape into which, boy-like, they might get, they felt satisfied that

if the matter only came to her knowledge they would get an impartial

judgment on the case, and the best construction that could be put upon

their conduct would be sure to be suggested by her. But out of eighty

boys it would not be reasonable to suppose that all should share this

feeling alike,--we have seen already one exception; yet the disaffected

were in a very small minority, and the majority was so overwhelming,

and had amongst it all the best acknowledged strength and power of the

school, that no one dared to say above his breath one word against Mrs.

Brier, if he cared for a whole skin.

While Digby was returning to the school by one road, Howard and Martin

strolled leisurely along by another path under the trees.

"I can't understand Digby," said Martin; "he has altered so very much

lately that he hardly seems the same fellow he was. Have you noticed

that he cuts all his old chums now? What's happened to him?"

"I'm sure I don't know," answered Howard, "but he certainly has altered

very much. I wish we could be as friendly as we used to be, but it is

months since we have been on really good terms together."

"Two or three years ago we used to be the best of friends," said

Martin.

"Yes, but all that has been gradually altering. He seems to have taken

a dislike to me. I can't help thinking that Digby has some secret that

worries him."

"I shouldn't be surprised if he has," answered Martin; "and it will get

him into trouble, whatever it is. He has several times been 'out of

bounds' for a long time at a stretch, and if it hadn't been for Alick

Fraser and one or two others who have screened him, he would have come

to grief. Can you guess at all what is wrong with him?"

"No," replied Howard, hesitatingly; "the only thing I can think of is

that his father has told him that when he leaves school in September he

is to be articled to a lawyer, and I know he has made up his mind to go

to sea. He is crazy about pirates, and whale-hunts, and desolate

islands, and all that sort of stuff. And yet, sometimes, if you talk to

him about them he shuts you up so very sharply that you feel as if you

were prying into his secrets. Perhaps--"

And here Howard stopped.

"Well, perhaps what?" asked Martin.

"I don't know that it is right to talk about a mere notion that may not

have any truth in it at all, so let what I say be kept close between

us; but I have noticed him bring things home after he has been out of

bounds, and carefully put them in his big box, which he always keeps

locked, and I have sometimes thought--but mind, it is only a passing

thought, so don't let it go any further--that perhaps he has made up

his mind to run away to sea!"

"Howard, I have had this same thought in my mind many a time," said

Martin, "and I believe the reason why Digby dislikes me so much is

because something occurred about a month ago, which I would rather not

mention, but it led me to say to him that I hoped he would not be so

foolish as to think of throwing up all his prospects in life for the

sake of a mania about the sea, and he flashed up so angrily that I was

convinced I had touched him on a sore point."

Just then the school-bell rang. There was no time for further talk, and

it was not for many days that the subject was renewed.