CHAPTER IV.

THE VERDICT.

It was all very well for the Doctor to decide to keep the boys in two

separate rooms until he should form some judgment on the case, but

toward the close of the day, after the most searching inquiries had

been instituted, he was no nearer to a final decision than when he

started, and he feared they might have to remain where they were until

Doomsday, unless he could find out something positive about the matter.

Howard and Digby were missed from their accustomed places in the

school, and by the mid-day play-time the secret had oozed out, and

great discussions were being held as to the merits of the case. There

was not a boy in the school who in his heart believed that Howard was

really guilty, although the evidence seemed clearly against him. There

was not, on the other hand, one who felt justified in thinking that

Digby had willfully accused his friend falsely, and yet there was an

uncomfortable suspicion that it might be so.

All the next day inquiries went on, and nothing of importance was the

result. The Doctor had seen the prisoners, and talked to each

separately; he had taken counsel from those of the boys upon whose

judgment he could rely, and in the evening all those who had

constituted the preliminary meeting were again called together. The

first count in the indictment, namely, that Howard had attempted to

pocket the miniature, was discussed and dismissed as a misconstruction

of motive. The second charge as to his being about in his room during

the night was not so easily got rid of. Howard pleaded that he had gone

to sleep as usual, and slept soundly, but that he was aroused by

hearing, as he thought, some one in his room. He went to sleep again,

and was aroused a second time by the stumbling of some one over a box,

as it seemed to him, which was followed by the sudden closing of a

door. He got up, went into Digby's room, listened by his bedside, and

found he was breathing hard, and then, noticing that his window was not

fast, he opened it and looked out. The nightingales were singing, and

he sat up for a long time listening to them. Then, as he grew chilly,

he closed the window and turned into bed again, and slept till Digby

called him. Beyond this he knew nothing.

The Doctor summed up. There was guilt in the heart of one boy at least,

but which one there was no evidence at present to show. That the fact

of the snuff-box being found in Howard's bed had at first sight looked

like circumstantial evidence against him could not be denied, but as

the links in the chain had been broken in several places, he considered

that the whole had fallen to pieces, and he confessed that he did not

believe for a moment, from the facts before him, that Howard was

guilty. From his knowledge of Digby he must fully exonerate him from

the charge of willfully implicating his friend in the matter, as it

seemed evident that he was justified in expressing the suspicions he

entertained, considering the circumstances of the case. For the present

the matter must be dismissed, but he could not doubt that light would

soon shine through the darkness, and the true facts of the case would

yet be known. He would still urge that if anything should transpire in

the knowledge of any one present that it was important he should know,

no selfish motive should induce him to remain silent, while at the same

time he would deprecate suspicions of each other, and would remind them

that as the law judged those to be innocent who were not proved to be

guilty, so it must be in this case. With this the Doctor dismissed the

assembly.

* * * * *

So far in our story we have confined ourselves to the characters in

whom we are immediately interested, without any reference to their

previous history or family connections. But I must pause here to take a

glance into two homesteads, a few days after the events just described.

In the breakfast-room at Ashley House Mr. Morton had laid aside his

newspaper, and was reading a letter from Dr. Brier. It was the second

or third time he had read it, and it seemed to disturb him. Mr. Morton

hated to be disturbed in any way. He was a hard man, who walked

straight through the world without hesitating or turning to the right

hand or to the left. He was a strong-minded man--at least, everybody

who got in his way had good reason to think so. But he had a rather

weak-minded wife. Poor Mrs. Morton was a flimsy woman, without much

stamina, mental or bodily. She stroked her cat, read her novel, lay

upon the sofa, or lolled in her carriage, and interested herself in

little that was really necessary to a true life. It was in such an

atmosphere as this that Ethel Morton lived and Digby had been reared.

Their mother had died when Ethel was a very little baby, and when the

new Mrs. Morton came home the children were old enough to feel that

they could not hope to find in her what they had lost in their true

mamma.

Ethel was a bright, pleasant girl, and, being left very much to

herself, she seemed to live in a world of her own. As a child she

peopled this world with dolls, and each doll had an individuality, a

history, and a set of ideas attached to it, which gave her almost a

human companionship in it. Then came the world of fairies and gnomes

and elves, amongst whom she held sway as queen, and many a plant and

shrub in the garden, and glade in the woodlands, was a part of her

fairy-land. And, now that she was nearly seventeen, a new world was

dawning upon her; human wants and human sympathies were demanding her

thought and care, and every day brought her into contact with those in

the villages round about, whose histories were educating her heart into

the true ideal of womanhood.

As Mr. Morton finished reading the letter he passed it to his wife,

merely remarking:

"You will see Digby has mixed himself up with some disagreeable piece

of business in the school. It is time he came home. I shall see Mr.

Vickers about him to-day, and write for him to return as soon as this

affair has blown over, instead of in September, in order that he may

commence his studies in the law at once."

Leaving Mrs. Morton to mourn that her anxieties and responsibilities

were to be increased by Digby's return, and Ethel to rejoice in the

fact that her brother was coming home to be again her companion, let us

now take a glance into a home in the suburbs of London.

It is a humbler home than that we have just visited, and a happier one.

The breakfast-room is elegantly furnished, but it is small; the garden

is well stocked with flowers, but the whole extent of it is not greater

than the lawn at Ashley House.

There are three people round the breakfast-table. Mrs. Pemberton, a

handsome woman, dressed in the neatest of black and lavender dresses,

and wearing a picturesque widow's-cap. Nellie, her daughter, a girl

about nine or ten years old, and Captain Arkwright, a retired naval

officer, the brother of Mrs. Pemberton.

There is anxiety on each face, and traces of recent tears mark that of

Mrs. Pemberton, as she nervously turns over and over in her hand a long

letter from Dr. Brier, and a still longer and more closely written one

from Howard.

"It is an extraordinary and distressing affair," she said, "and I am at

a loss to know what to do. What would you advise, Charles?"

"I should advise Dr. Brier to choose a lunatic asylum to go to. What a

wooden-headed old fellow he must be, to have got the affair into such a

mess. Do? I should do nothing. You certainly don't suppose Howard is

really concerned in the affair. Not he; that sort of thing isn't in his

line. It'll all come right enough by and by, so, don't fidget yourself,

my dear," he continued. "There's some vile plot laid against Howard,

but if he doesn't come clean out of it with flying colors, call me a

simpleton."

That day was spent in letter-writing, and the same post that brought to

Digby the intelligence that he was to leave school that term, and

commence work with Mr. Vickers, conveyed to Howard the loving sympathy

of true hearts, which clung to him through evil report and good report.

(_To be continued._)

THE NEWS-CARRIER.

BY CATHARINE S. BOYD.

[Illustration: "OH NO! IT IS NOT I!"]

"How do you know?" "Who told you so?"

These words you often hear;

And then it often happens, too,

This answer meets your ear:

"A little bird has told the tale,

And far it spreads o'er hill and dale."

Now let us see if this can be.

How can the birds find out so well,

And give the news to all?

Or, if they know, why need they tell?

And which among the feathered tribe

Must we to keep our secrets bribe?

The busy crow? As all well know,

He sometimes breaks the laws;

We shall regret it, when he does,

For he will give us cause.

Though slyest of the feathered tribe,

The crow would scorn to need a bribe;--

Not robin red; he holds his head

With such an honest air,

And whistles bravely at his work,

But has no time to spare.

"I mind my own concerns," says he;

"They're most important, all may see;"--

Nor birdie blue, so leal and true;

He never heeds the weather,

But in the latest winter-days

His fellows flock together;

And then, indeed, glad news they bring

Of early buds and blossoming.

Might not each one beneath the sun

Of all the race reply,

If questioned who should wear the cap,

"Oh no! it is not I?"

For there are none who, every day,

Are busier at work than they.

They chatter too, as others do;

But what it is about,

The wisest sage in all the earth

Might puzzle to make out.

But I'm as sure as I can be,

They never talk of you or me,

We hear "They say,"--oh, every day!

Are _they_ the birds, I wonder,

That have such power with words to part

The dearest friends asunder?

Or must we search the wide world through

To bring the culprits full in view?

The birds, we see, though wild and free,

Have something else to do;

And, reader, don't you think the same

Might well be said of you?

It really seems to be a shame

That _they_ should always bear the blame.

LIVING SILVER.

BY MARY H. SEYMOUR.

The ground was covered with snow, and now it had begun raining. There

was no prospect of a change in the weather, which made Fred's face

rather gloomy as he looked out of the window. Harry was turning over

the leaves of a story-book. You could see they were both disappointed

that the morning was stormy; for when they came to grandpapa's in the

winter, they expected bright days and plenty of fun.

"What shall we do?" said Fred.

"Let's go into the garret!" exclaimed Harry.

This plan evidently suited both of them, for they made a rush toward

the door; and the dog, awakening from his nap, entered into the idea,

too.

At this moment, Aunt Carrie came into the room. They wished it had been

grandmamma, for she never laid the least restriction on their sports,

but smiled on every request and allowed them to do exactly as they

pleased.

"Now, boys," said Aunt Carrie, "where are you going?"

"Only into the garret, auntie."

"Be sure to leave things exactly as you find them," she replied, with a

laugh and a little groan.

"We always do, Aunt Carrie."

Away they went, with Gyp at their heels, and every footstep resounded

through the old house until they reached the upper floor.

"It is no wonder that garret is never in order," said Aunt Carrie; "but

the children must enjoy themselves."

"Of course, they must, Carrie," replied grandma from the depths of her

heart.

First, the boys pulled out a box of old books and papers, and busied

themselves reading the queer names and advertisements of old times.

Soon they turned from these to a shelf of chemical instruments. Most of

them were in perfect order, and they knew they must keep their hands

off, for the bulbs and tubes of glass were too delicate to be touched

by unskilled fingers.

"Here is an old broken forrometer," exclaimed Harry. "Let's ask grandpa

if we can have it."

"You mean _thermometer_, don't you?" said Fred. "What can we do with

that?"

"Don't you see? There is a great deal of quicksilver in this glass

ball, and we can play with it. I'll show you how." And away they went

downstairs to find their grandfather.

"Grandpa, can we have this?"

Mr. Lenox looked up from his newspaper.

"Let me see it a moment. What do you wish to do with it?"

"We will break it and take out the quicksilver, and then I will show

you. Let me ask Ellen for a dish to catch the drops."

"Not quite so fast; wait a moment, Harry," replied Mr. Lenox. "I wish

you to notice something about it first. The top of the tube is slightly

broken, which makes it of no exact use, for to measure heat or cold the

quicksilver must be entirely protected from the air. If you had noticed

it when you first came in, you would see that the warmth of the room

has caused it to rise in the tube. This is shown by the marks on the

plate to which it is fastened. Now, if you hold it close to the stove,

the quicksilver will rise still higher. Let it stand outside the window

a moment, and it will sink."

By this time the boys were much interested.

"But what makes it do so, grandpa?" they asked.

"Quicksilver is very sensitive to heat and cold. If the weather is

warm, or if the room it is in is warm, it expands--swells out--and so

rises in the glass tube, as you have seen. The least coolness in the

air will cause it to contract, or draw itself into a smaller space;

then, of course, it sinks in the tube.

"The barometer is another instrument in which quicksilver is used. It

is intended to measure the weight of the air, therefore the quicksilver

in it must be exposed to the pressure of the air. Common barometers

have it inclosed in a small leather bag at the back of the instrument.

This we do not see, but only the tube which is connected with it. When

the weather is pleasant, the air, contrary to the general idea, being

heavier, presses against this little bag and the quicksilver rises in

the tube. When the atmosphere is damp, the pressure being less, the

metal sinks."

"Grandpa," said Harry, "when you think of it, isn't quicksilver a funny

word?"

"Yes; it was so named by people who lived many hundreds of years ago.

They called it _living silver_ also. It is the only metal found in a

liquid state; and so many strange changes did it pass through under

their experiments, that it seemed to them really a living thing. If

they tried to pick it up, it would slip out of their fingers. When

thoroughly shaken, it became a fine powder. They boasted that it had

the faculty of swallowing any other metal, while powerful heat caused

it to disappear entirely. It is now known among metals as mercury. Can

you tell me, Fred, some of the metals?"

"Oh yes, sir! There are gold, silver, iron, lead and copper."

"That is right. But, you know, all these are hard; some of them can be

chipped with a knife, but they cannot be dipped up in pails, unless

they have first been melted. Yet mercury can be frozen so hard that it

may be hammered out like lead, and sometimes it takes the form of

square crystals. Yet it can be made to boil, and then sends off a

colorless vapor."

"Grandpa." said Fred, who had scarcely listened to the last words, "if

mercury can be dipped up in pails, it must be very easy to get it. I

read somewhere that gold and silver are so mixed in with the rock that

it takes a great deal of time and money to separate them."

"That is true; but mercury is not always obtained easily. It forms part

of a soft, red rock called cinnabar, composed of mercury and sulphur.

The cinnabar is crushed and exposed to heat, when the metal, in the

form of vapor, passes into a vessel suited to the purpose, where it is

cooled. Then, being reduced to its liquid state, it is pure and fit for

use. When men working in the mines heat the rocks, the quicksilver will

sometimes roll out in drops as large as a pigeon's egg, and fall on the

ground in millions of sparkling globules. Think how very beautiful it

must be, the dark red rock glittering on every side with the living

silver, while every crack and crevice is filled with it!

"Visitors to the mines of Idria are shown an experiment that I think

would interest you boys. In large iron kettles filled with mercury are

placed huge stones, and these stones do not sink."

"Why, grandpa! how can that be?"

"Did you ever see wood floating on water?"

"Yes, sir, but that is different."

"But the principle is the same; can you tell me why?"

Both the boys looked puzzled.

"It is only because the wood does not weigh so much as water; neither

are the stones as heavy as mercury, therefore they cannot sink."

"I wish we could go into the mines. Can't you take us, sometime,

grandpa?" said Harry.

"That is asking rather too much, my child, for quicksilver is not a

common metal. There are in the world only four important localities

from which it is obtained. These are California, Peru, Austria, and

Almaden in Spain. The mines nearest us are in California. I think I

shall never go as far as that, but I hope you both may before you reach

my age.

"It is a curious story how the mines in Peru were discovered. Cinnabar,

when ground very fine, will make a beautiful red paint. The Indians

used this to ornament their bodies on grand occasions. This caused the

country where they lived to be examined, and the cinnabar was found.

The Romans used this paint hundreds of years ago in decorating their

images and in painting pictures. It is very highly valued now, and we

call it vermilion."

"Fred," continued Mr. Lenox, "you spoke of the difficulty of

separating gold and silver from the rock in which they are found. Did

you know that our wonderful mercury renders valuable aid in this? The

rock that contains the precious metal is crushed fine, sifted and

washed until as much as possible of the gold or silver is removed; then

it is placed in a vessel with the quicksilver, which seems immediately

to absorb it, thus separating it entirely from every particle of sand

or rock. If the metal to be cleansed is gold, you will see a pasty mass

or amalgam, as it is called, of a yellowish tinge. This is heated, and

the mercury flies away, leaving behind it the pure gold."

"How did people learn to do this?" asked Fred.

"They did not learn it all at once. It was only by years of patient

effort and frequent failure that they finally succeeded.

"You know there are many gold and silver mines in California,"

continued grandpa. "Near some of them large mines of quicksilver have

been discovered. You can imagine that this caused great rejoicing, for

all the quicksilver previously used was sent in ships to this part of

the world, which, of course, made it scarce and very expensive. Now, we

can send away quantities to other countries after supplying our own

wants.

"Notwithstanding that this strange metal renders such service to

mankind--for I could tell you of many other useful things it does--it

is a deadly poison. Its vapor is so dangerous that persons searching

for it often die from breathing the air where it is found. About

seventy years ago, the mines in Austria, took fire, and thirteen

hundred workmen were poisoned, and many of them died. The water that

was used to quench the fire being pumped into the river Idria, all the

fish died excepting the eels. Since that time, spiders and rats have

deserted the mines.

"Mercury is carried in sheepskin bags and cast-iron bottles. It is so

heavy that an ordinary cork would soon be forced out by it, therefore

an iron stopper must be screwed in.

"Once, some bags of mercury were stored in the hold of a foreign

vessel; unfortunately, a few of the bags were rotten and leaked. Every

person on board was poisoned, and every piece of metal connected with

the vessel received a silvery coating of mercury."

"It is dreadful! Fred, don't let us touch it," said Harry.

"Don't be frightened yet, Harry. Did you know that mercury is used as a

medicine? It is given in very small doses."

"I am sure I shall never take it," exclaimed Fred.

"Perhaps you may have done so already," replied their grandfather,

laughing. "Did you ever hear of blue-pill and calomel? They both are

preparations of mercury."

Just then the sun shone into the room so brightly that every one turned

to the windows. Such a sparkle! The evergreens were covered with

shining ice-drops, and the tall trees pointed their glistening branches

toward the few clouds that were hurrying over the blue sky.

"I am not sorry it rained, after all," said Fred. "I have enjoyed the

morning so much that I forgot the play we were going to have."

Two happy, tired boys went to sleep that night, and the next morning

they started for home. They both agreed in thinking they had never

enjoyed a more delightful visit at grandpapa's.

THE WOODS IN WINTER

There is scarcely any place so lonely as the depths of the woods in

winter. Everything is quiet, cold and solemn. Occasionally a rabbit may

go jumping over the snow, and if the woods are really wild woods, we

may sometimes get a sight of a deer. Now and then, too, some poor

person who has been picking up bits of fallen branches for firewood may

be met bending under his load, or pulling it along on a sled. In some

parts of the country, wood-cutters and hunters are sometimes seen, but

generally there are few persons who care to wander in the woods in

winter. The open roads for sleighing, and the firm ice for skating,

offer many more inducements to pleasure-seekers.

But young people who do not mind trudging through snow, and walking

where they must make their own path-way, may find among the great black

trunks of the forest trees, and under the naked branches stretching out

overhead, many phases of nature that will be both new and

interesting--especially to those whose lives have been spent in cities.

[Illustration: THE WOODS IN WINTER.]

CRUMBS FROM OLDER READING.

II.

BY JULIA E. SARGENT.

IRVING.

Washington Irving has so many things for us, and we have heard so much

that is pleasant of him, that a good time with him may be expected; and

you would not read far in Irving's books before learning that no one

believed in "good times" more than he. The name of his home on the

Hudson would tell you that. "Sunnyside" is not the name a gloomy man

would choose.

Perhaps you will like best to hear that many of you often stand where

Irving stood, and walk the streets he knew so well, for New York City

was Irving's birthplace, and there many of the seventy-six years of his

life were spent. One of his books is a funny description of his native

town in the days of its old Dutch governors. He does not call it

Irving's, but "Knickerbocker's History of New York." And as only Irving

knew anything of Diedrich Knickerbocker outside this book, we will let

him tell you that "the old gentleman died shortly after the publication

of his work." Of course, Irving can say what he chooses about

Knickerbocker's book, so he gives it as his opinion that, "To tell the

truth, it is not a whit better than it should be." But Sir Walter

Scott, in a letter to a friend, says of these funny papers of Irving's:

"I have been employed these few evenings in reading them aloud to Mrs.

S. and two ladies who are our guests, and our sides have been

absolutely sore with laughing." All Irving's histories are not

"make-believe," and some day you will read Irving's "Life of

Columbus," and "Life of Washington," completed just before his death in

1859, without thinking of them as histories. He wrote the "Life of

Columbus" in Spain. Can you tell me why that was the best place to

write it?

Would you like to know where the boy Irving might often have been seen

when he was not devouring the contents of some book of travels? "How

wistfully," he wrote, "would I wander about the pier-heads in fine

weather? and watch the parting ships, bound to distant climes!"

Not many years after, he wrote from England, "I saw the last blue line

of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon." He was then

in England, where he visited Westminster Abbey, Stratford-on-Avon, and

many other grand and famous places. Of these, and much that is neither

grand nor famous, he has written in the "Sketch-book," giving this

reason for so naming word-paintings: "As it is the fashion for modern

tourists to travel pencil in hand and bring home their portfolios

filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the

entertainment of my friends." Is it not as good as a picture to hear

this man, who had no little ones of his own, tell of "three fine,

rosy-cheeked boys," who chanced to be his companions in a stage-coach?

This is what he writes:

"They were returning home for the holidays in high glee and promising

themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic

plans of the little rogues. * * * They were full of anticipations of

the meeting with the family and household, down to the very cat and

dog, and of the joy they were to give their little sisters by the

presents with which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to

which they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with

Bantam, which I found to be a pony." When he had heard what a

remarkable animal this pony was said to be, Irving gave his attention

to other things until he heard a shout from the little travelers. Let

him tell the rest of the story.

"They had been looking out of the coach-windows for the last few miles,

recognizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now

there was a general burst of joy. 'There's John! and there's old Carlo!

and there's Bantam!' cried the happy little rogues, clapping their

hands. At the end of a lane there was an old, sober-looking servant in

livery waiting for them; he was accompanied by a superannuated pointer,

and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, with a

shaggy mane and long, rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the

roadside, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him. Off

they set at last, one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barking

before him, and the others holding John's hands, both talking at once.

* * * We stopped a few moments afterward to water the horses, and on

resuming our route a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat

country-seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two

young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades with Bantam,

Carlo, and old John trooping along the carriage-road. I leaned out of

the coach window in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove

of trees shut it from my sight."

"If ever love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be

the cottage of an English peasant," Irving thinks, and goes on to write

in his own pleasant fashion of many pleasant things in English country

life, saying: "Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to

form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. * * * Wherever he

happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere else; at the

moment when he is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to

another; and while he is paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how

he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted in the

morning."

The "Legend of Sleepy Hollow" is a genuine ghost story. It is not very

startling, but very, very funny, when you know what scared poor Ichabod

Crane on his midnight ride that last time he went courting Governor

Wouter Van Twiller's only daughter.

You must read for yourselves the famous story of Rip Van Winkle and the

nap he took. It is too long for me to give in Irving's words, and "Rip

Van Winkle" is just such a story as no one but Irving knows how to

tell.

In another of his interesting stories in the "Sketch Book," told, he

says, by a queer old traveler to as queer a company gathered in a great

inn-kitchen, Irving describes the busy making-ready for a wedding. The

bride's father, he says, "had in truth nothing exactly to do."

Do you suppose he was content to do nothing "when all the world was in

a hurry?"

This is the way in which he helped: "He worried from top to bottom of

the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; he continually called the

servants from their work to exhort them to be diligent, and buzzed

about every hall and chamber as idly restless and importunate as a

blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day." The book of Irving's that some

of you will like best of all is "The Alhambra." The Alhambra is the

ancient and romantic palace of the Moors. When he was in Spain, Irving

spent many dreamy days amid its ruined splendors, whence the last of

the Moors was long since driven into exile. We have good reason to be

glad that Irving saw the Alhambra, for this book is what came of it. We

shall all want to go where Irving went, after reading what he says of

the Alhambra by moonlight. "The garden beneath my window is gently

lighted up, the orange and citron trees are tipped with silver, the

fountain sparkles in the moonbeams, and even the blush of the rose is

faintly visible. * * * The whole edifice reminds one of the enchanted

palace of an Arabian tale."

These, you know, are only crumbs, and crumbs which show Irving's "warm

heart" more, perhaps, than his "fine brain."

To learn of his literary talent and well-deserved fame, of his rich

fancy and his wonderful ability for story-telling, you can better

afford to wait than to miss knowing how healthy, happy, and truly

lovable was this man's nature. Now, with only one of the many sober,

earnest thoughts, we must lay aside his books.

"If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a

furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a

friend and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit

that generously confided in thee, then be sure that every unkind look,

every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back

upon thy memory."

[Illustration]

THE BOY IN THE BOX.

BY HELEN C. BARNARD.

"You haven't any more ambition than a snail, Joe Somerby!" said

energetic Mrs. Somerby to her husband, as, with sleeves rolled to the

elbow, she scoured the kitchen paint.

Joe, who was smoking behind the stove, slowly removed his pipe to

reply:

"Wal, if I haint, I haint; and that's the end on 't!"

"What would become of us if I was easy, too?" continued his spicy

partner. "Why can't you have a little grit?"

Joe puffed away silently.

"Now, you pretend to carry on the rag business, you spend all your

money a-buying and a-storing of 'em away; the back room's full, the

attic's full, the barn's full,--I can't stir hand or foot for them

rags! Why on earth don't you sell 'em?"

"Waiting for 'em to rise, marm!"

"Always a-waiting!" retorted Mrs. Somerby, thrusting her

scrubbing-brush and pail into a closet, and slamming the door upon her

finger. "Before you get through, the chance goes by. Joe," in a coaxing

tone, "I've had a presentiment."

Joe evinced no interest, but removed his pipe to say:

"Now, wife, don't get uneasy. Let's be comfortable."

"Yes, I feel a presentiment about those rags;" the little woman whisked

into a chair beside her lord. "They say the paper manufacturers are

giving a big price now, husband. Why can't you take a load to the city

to-day? I've been thinking of it all the morning."

"I'll do my own thinking, marm," said Joe, with dignity. He rose,

however, and laid his pipe away.

Mrs. Somerby said no more, sure that she had roused him from his torpid

condition. She wound Joe up to the starting-point, just as she did her

kitchen-clock, and he kept upon his course as steadily as that ancient

time-piece. She was just the wife for ease-loving Joe, whom her brisk

ways never wounded, for he knew her heart was full of tenderness for

him.

An hour later Joe drove into the yard. Mrs. Somerby flew out with a

lump of sugar for a jaded-looking horse, bought by Joe to speculate

upon, and who ate everything he could get, including his bedding, and

never grew fat.

"I'll make a trotter of him in a month, and sell him to some of the

grandees!" Joe said, but his system failed or the material was

poor,--old Jack slouched along as if each step was likely to be his

last. But despite this, Jack had become very dear to the childless

couple, and they were as blind as doating parents to his defects.

"Bless his heart!" cried Mrs. Somerby, as Jack whinnied at her

approach, and thrust his ugly nose into her hand.

Mr. Somerby felt of Jack's ribs with a professional air, and said:

"I'm trying a new system with this 'ere beast; I think he's picking up

a grain."

"He'll pick up the grain, no doubt," playfully retorted his wife. "Now

then, I'll help you off. Those paper men'll have all they want if

you're not on hand. I'm glad I put you up to sorting the stuff last

week."

"You'll 'put me up' till I'm clean gone," said Joe, winking to himself,

as he followed his lively wife. "Let them bags alone, marm. You can be

putting me up a big lunch."

"It's all ready, under the wagon-seat. By good rights, Joe, you'd ought

to have a boy to help you."

"It isn't a woman's work, I know," said he, kindly. "You just sit here

and look on."

Joe swung her up on a bale as if she had been a child. Inspired by her

bright eyes he worked with a will. The wagon was soon loaded. Mrs. Joe

ran for his overcoat and best hat, gave him a wifely kiss, and watched

him depart from the low brown door-way.

"She's the best bargain I ever made," thought Joe, as he jogged toward

the city. "I'm not quite up to her time, I know," continued he, and

there was a tender look in his sleepy eyes. "Howsomedever, I'll make a

lucky hit yet!"

The prospect was so cheering that Joe actually snapped the whip at the

"trotter" who was meditating with his head between his knees. Jack,

however, did not increase his gait, but plodded on. It was bitter cold,

and Joe had to exercise himself to keep warm. It was afternoon when the

laden cart entered the city. Hungry Jack had stopped twice, and gazed

around at his master in dumb reproach. Joe was hungry, too; so he

hurried into a square, in the business part of the city, covered his

pet with an old quilt, and giving him his food, went to dispose of his

cargo. But Joe's purchasers had gone to dinner, so he returned, mounted

the cart, and began upon his own lunch.

"Now, if they don't want my stuff, my wife's 'presentiment' 's gone

up," said the elegant Joe, "and I've had this cold trip for nothing."

Just here a remarkable event occurred. Jack suddenly threw up his

meditative head, shied, and stood upon his hind-legs.

[Illustration: "THE BOY WAS ON HIS KNEES."]

"Hey there!" cried his master, delighted at this token of life. "Yer a

trotter, after all?"

"Yer old nag scart, mister?" asked several small boys, who hovered

about.

"He's a leetle lively!" said Joe, proudly. "Keep clear of his heels,

boys."

Jack subsided, but eyed a pile of boxes in a court on the left.

"What ails ye, Jack?"

"It's the hermit ails him!" cried one, pointing toward a huge box from

one side of which somebody's head and shoulders protruded.

"Quit scaring my horse!" cried Joe.

The face was startlingly pale, and the eyes had a troubled, eager

look--the look of anxious care; but Joe knew their owner was a boy,

although he quickly disappeared in the box. Mr. Somerby resumed his

lunch, but kept the reins in case Jack should be startled when the boy

came out. But he did not appear; there was no sign of life in the box.

Joe thought he was either up to some more mischief or afraid; the

latter seemed most likely, as he recalled the white, still face.

Joe got down from his cart and quietly peeped in. He was somewhat

astonished at first, for the boy was on his knees. The sight stirred

his sympathies strangely. The pallid lips were moving; soon, low words

came forth:

"I don't know how to speak to you, dear Lord; but please help me.

Mother prayed to you, and you helped her. Oh! help me, I pray, for

Jesus' sake. Amen."

The listener drew back to brush the tears from his eyes.

"'Minds me o' Parson Willoughby's sermon--'Help, Lord, or I perish!' I

wish my wife was here. I declare I do. The little chap must be in

trouble!"

Joe peeped in again. The boy did not see him as he was partly turned

from the opening. He threaded a rusty needle, and proceeded to patch

his coat. Joe could see the anxious puckers in his face as he bent over

the task.

"I do wish she was here!" Joe cried, aloud.

The boy turned quickly.

"Why don't you go home, lad? You'll freeze to death here."

"This is my home."

"Sho! Do you mean to say you _live_ here?"

"Yes." The lad hesitated, then asked, "Are you from the country, sir?"

"Wal, yes, I be. Though folks don't generally mistrust it when I'm

slicked up. But I don't stand no quizzing."

The boy appeared surprised at this sudden outburst, and said, with a

frank, manly air that appeased Joe:

"I thought if you lived a long way off I wouldn't mind answering your

questions. I'm English, and my name's John Harper. I don't mix with the

street boys, so they call me the hermit!"

"Don't you 'mix' with your own folks, neither!"

"They were lost at sea in our passage to this country," was the low

reply. "Sometimes I wish I'd died with them, and not been saved for

such a miserable life. Can't get work, though I've tried hard enough,

and I'd rather starve than beg. I can't beg!" he cried, despairingly.

"I'm ordered off for a vagrant if I warm myself in the depots, and I

don't suppose the city o' Boston'll let me stay here long."

"Don't get down at the mouth--don't!" said honest Joe, in a choking

voice, as the extent of this misery dawned upon him.

"There, you know all," said the boy, bitterly. "I scared your horse, or

I wouldn't tell so much. Besides, you look kinder than the men I meet.

Perhaps they're not so hard on such as me where you live?"

But Joe had gone, his face twitching with suppressed emotion.

"I'll take the hunger out o' them eyes, anyhow!" He grasped the

six-quart lunch pail, and, hastening back, cried, as he brandished it

about the lad's head, "Just you help a feller eat that, old chap. My

wife 'ud rave at me if I brought any of it home. Help ye'self!"

Hunger got the better of John Harper's pride. He ate gladly. There

wasn't a crumb left when he returned the pail. The light of hope began

to dawn in his sad eyes,--who could be brave while famishing!

Meantime, Joe had been puzzling his wits and wishing his wife was there

to devise some plan for the wayfarer.

"I wonder if you'd mind my horse a spell, while I go about my

business?"

So the pale hermit crept out of his box, and mounted the wagon, well

protected by an extra coat that comfort-loving Joe always carried.

"He'll think he's earned it, if I give him money," was Joe's kind

thought. "He's proud, and don't want no favors. I'll give the lad a

lift, and then--"

After "the lift," what was before the homeless boy? Somehow he had

crept into Joe's sympathies wonderfully. He couldn't bear to look

forward to the hour when Jack and he must leave him to his fate. A

chance word from the paper manufacturer put a new idea into Joe's

brain. He bought all the cargo at a good price, and engaged the stock

at home.

"I'll bring it in soon," said Joe, putting his purse in a safe place.

"I don't keep no help to sort my stuff, or I'd be on hand to-morrow."

"Ah," said the bland dealer, little thinking what a train of events he

was starting. "You are doing a good business; why don't you keep a boy?

I know one who is faithful and needy!"

"Yes, yes, he's in my cart, done up in my coat!" cried Joe, suddenly.

He beamed upon the bewildered dealer, and rushed for the door, almost

crazy with the new idea.

"My wife said I'd ought to have a boy, too," he thought, almost running

toward the spot where he had left the cart, Jack, and the solitary

figure in the great coat. Joe grasped the boy. "I've got a plan for

you, John Harper. I want a boy to help me; the dealer says so, my wife

says so, and I say so. You must go home with me to-night. We'll carry

this load to the store-house; then pitch in your baggage and start for

a better place than this, my lad!"

It was, indeed, "a better place" for "the boy in the box,"--a place

where he found rest and food and shelter. After a little, he grew into

the hearts of the childless couple that they called him their own.

John went to school winters, and helped Mr. Somerby summers, and got

ahead so fast in his happy surroundings that ambitious Mrs. Somerby had

him educated. He is now a prosperous merchant, and a text for old Joe

to enlarge upon when his wife gets too spicy.

"You wan't nowheres around when I found our John," he often says, "and

he's the best bargain I ever made, next to you!"

THE COCK AND THE SUN.

BY J.P.B.

[Illustration]

A cock sees the sun as he climbs up the east;

"Good-morning, Sir Sun, it's high time you appear;

I've been calling you up for an hour at least;

I'm ashamed of your slowness at this time of year!"

The sun, as he quietly rose into view,

Looked down on the cock with a show of fine scorn;

"You may not be aware, my young friend, but it's true,

That I rose once or twice before you, sir, were born!"

[Illustration: "GRUN-SEL, GRUN-SEL, GRUN-SEL!"]

THE LONDON CHICK-WEED MAN.

BY ALEXANDER WAINWRIGHT.

Birds and flowers do much to enliven the dusky house-windows of the

London streets, and both are attended to with great care. The birds are

treated to some luxuries which our American pets scarcely know of at

all, in their domestic state, and among these are two small plants

called chick-weed and groundsel, which grow abundantly along the hedges

and in the fields on the outskirts of the smoky city. Both chick-weed

and groundsel are insignificant little things, but the epicurean lark,

canary, or goldfinch finds in it a most agreeable and beneficial

article of diet, quite as much superior to other green stuff as--in the

minds of some boys and girls--ice-cream and sponge-cake are superior to

roast-beef and potatoes.

On Sunday afternoons and holidays, the lanes where the groundsel and

chick-weed grow are frequented by the citizens of the laboring class,

who, although the city is quite near and its smoke blackens the leaves,

call this the country and enjoy it as such. It is a pretty sight to see

them, when they are well behaved; and should one notice the boys and

girls, many of them would be found hunting under the hawthorn

hedge-rows for chick-weed and groundsel to be taken home for the pet

birds.

But all the birds of London do not depend on the industry of their

owners for these luxuries. Some men make a trade of gathering and

selling the plants, and the picture which is opposite this page will

give the reader a good idea of how they look. Their business has one

decided advantage. It needs no capital or tools, and a strong pair of

legs and a knife are all that its followers really want. Perhaps it is

on this account that the groundsel and chick-weed sellers are all very

poor, and the raggedness of some is pitiable in the extreme, as the

picture shows. Their shoes are shockingly dilapidated, owing to their

long daily marches into the country, and the rest of their clothes are

nearly as bad.

The one that we have illustrated is a fair example, but despite his

poverty-stricken appearance, his torn, loose sleeves and useless boots,

he is not at all repulsive. His face tells of want and toil; he has

slung a shabby old basket over his shoulders, in which he carries his

load, and, with a bunch in his hand, he saunters along the street,

proclaiming his trade, "Grun-sel, grun-sel, grun-sel!" Besides the

groundsel and the chick-weed, he has small pieces of turf for sale, of

which larks are very fond.

The birds in their cages at the open windows chirp and put their pretty

little heads aside when they hear him coming; they know perfectly well

who he is and what he brings, and their twitter shapes itself into a

greeting. The old raven perched on the edge of the basket feels like a

superior being, and wonders why other birds make such a fuss over a

little green stuff, but that is only because he has coarser tastes.

JOHNNY.

BY SARGENT FLINT.

Johnny was in disgrace. "Drandma" had set him down uncomfortably hard

in his little wooden chair by the fire-place, and told him not to move

one inch right or left till she came back; she also told him to think

over how naughty he had been all day; but some way it seemed easier

just then to think of his grandma's short-comings.

He looked through his tears at the candle in the tall silver

candlestick, and by half shutting his eyes he could make three candles,

and by blinking a little he could see pretty colors; but amusement

tends to dry tears, and Johnny wanted to cry.

He caught the old cat and watched his tears slide off her smooth fur,

but when he held her head on one side and let a large round tear run

into her ear, she left him in indignation. Then he looked out of the

window. The snow was falling fast, as it had been all day.

"Drandma!" he called, but the old lady was busy in the next room, and

could not, or would not hear him, so he walked to the door and said:

"Drandma, may I sweep a path for drandpa?"

This time "drandma" did hear and see him too. He was brought back and

reseated, with marks of flour here and there on his little checked

apron.

We must not blame grandma too much; it was a very long time since she

was a child, and Johnny, to use her own words, "had almost worn her

soul out of her."

When Johnny's mother died, his home was in New York, and while Johnny

sat in his little chair by the fire-place, he was thinking of New York,

wondering if he ever should see it again,--the great stores with their

bright windows,--and, above all, hear the never-ending bustle and hum

that would drown the noise of twenty great clocks like grandpa's. Then

he thought how he had been deluded in coming to Plowfield; stories of

bright green fields, butterflies, hay-carts piled high with hay, and

'way up on the top a little boy named Johnny.

A horse would be there, a cow (wrongly supposed by city people to mean

always a plentiful supply of milk), and a blue checked apron; but no

one mentioned the apron, and no one said that winter came in Plowfield;

not that they meant to deceive Johnny--they couldn't remember

everything, but it came all the same, and the bright green fields were

brown and bare; then Johnny didn't like them at all, and when the snow

came, grandma said if he went out he'd have the croup.

The butterflies forgot Johnny.

He did have _one_ ride on the hay, but grandpa didn't have much hay.

The horse was not such a great comfort after all; he never drove except

taking hold of what reins grandpa didn't use, and the cow--yes, Johnny

did like the cow--she was a very good cow, but, if Johnny could have

expressed himself, he would have said that she was a little

_monotonous_.

Johnny couldn't remember his mother, which was fortunate then, or he

would have cried for her. He saw his father only once a month; he was

making money very fast in the dingy little office away down town in New

York, and spending it almost as fast in a house away up town for

Johnny's new mamma, and, with Plowfield so far away, it was no wonder

Johnny's father was always on the move. He ought to have been there

that very day; the heavy snow perhaps had prevented; that was one

reason why Johnny had been so naughty.

He sat quite still after he was brought back. He was too indignant to

cry; he felt as if there was no such thing as justice or generosity in

grandmothers.

After a while he felt that he had thought of something that would do

justice to his feelings.

"Drandma," he cried, "I wish I'd smashed the bowl to-day when I spilt

the cream!"

Grandma didn't say anything for fear Johnny would know she was

laughing.

He grew more and more indignant; he never in his life had felt so

naughty. He thought of all the rebellious things he had ever heard of,

and making a few choice selections, mentioned them to his grandmother,

and she, laughing, stored them away, to tell grandpa, consoling herself

with the idea that if he was bad he wasn't stupid.

Suddenly, among other brilliant ideas, came the thought that sometimes

boys ran away; Mike's boy Jerry ran away (Mike was the man who worked

for grandpa), and he didn't have any money, and Johnny had fifteen

cents; besides, when he got on the cars he could tell the conductor to

charge it to his father; of course, he knew his father; he came from

New York every month.

He listened till he heard grandma go to the shed for wood, and before

she came back her small grandson was some distance from the house in

the deep snow, putting on his coat and tying his comforter over his

ears.

As he looked back and saw the shadow of grandma as she put down the

wood, he said: "I guess I'll make _her_ cry pretty soon."

After the wood, grandma seemed to find quite a number of things either

to take up or put down, so for a little while Johnny was forgotten. Did

you ever notice that grandmothers, and mothers too, are always begging

for a little quiet, yet, if they ever get a bit, nothing seems to make

them more uneasy?

Grandma thought Johnny was unusually still--she thought, "and is asleep

on the lounge." So she was not alarmed when she saw the little empty

chair, but when no Johnny appeared on the lounge or anywhere in the

room, she felt worried.

"Johnny!" she called all through the house and wood-shed. Then she

missed the little coat, cap, and comforter.

"If he has gone to meet his grandpa, he'll freeze to death. Oh, why

didn't I amuse him till his grandpa came," she thought. She opened the

door and tried to call, but a cloud of snow beat her back. Wrapping

herself comfortably, she started down the white road she thought Johnny

had taken.

She called and called his name, and in her excitement expected every

moment to find him frozen. She promised the wind and snow that, if they

would only spare her Johnny, her dead daughter's baby, that in place of

his impatient old grandma there should be one as patient as Job!

She had nearly reached the depot. She heard the evening train, she saw

the glare of the great lamp on the engine though the glass that covered

it was half hidden by the blinding snow. She heard a sleigh coming

toward her, and said to herself, "No matter who it is, I will stop him,

and he shall help me." The bells came nearer and nearer, and the sleigh

stopped. "Where are you going, my good woman? It is a rough night,

isn't it, for a woman to be out?"

Any other time, how grandma would have laughed!--grandpa didn't know

his own wife!

"Take her in, father," said another voice. Poor grandma! It was

Johnny's father who spoke.

[Illustration: JOHNNY STARTS TO RUN AWAY.]

"Oh, Johnny's lost!" she cried, as she tottered into the sleigh. "He

will freeze before we can find him."

The old lady was taken home, and grandpa and Johnny's father started

off, quite naturally in the wrong direction, for Johnny.

* * * * *

For a while, Johnny went on manfully; but soon his little fingers and

toes began to beg him to go back. He refused to notice their petition,

and wished grandma could see him, as the wind whirled him round and

round and almost buried him in the snow. He thought he had gone about

ten miles, when he heard bells. He turned to one side for the sleigh to

pass, when he heard a voice he knew.

"Oh, Jerry," he cried, "please take me in!"

Jerry stopped, and asked, "Who are ye?"

"I'm Johnny," said our small hero, quite meekly.

"And where may ye be bound to, Johnny?" said Jerry.

"To the depot. I'm going to New York," said Johnny, who thought this a

mild way to tell Jerry he was running away.

"This road niver took any one to the depot, Jacky. If I hadn't come

this way, yer'd been froze stiff in the mornin'."

Here Jerry rolled his eyes in a dreadful manner, and trembled like one

terribly frightened. Johnny would have cried hard, but he remembered

how brave Jerry was when he ran away, so he winked hard to keep back

the tears, and said:

"Do you think I shall 'froze' now, Jerry?"

Jerry thought not, if he minded him. So he lifted him into the sleigh,

and they drove on.

"Is this the depot?" asked Johnny, when they stopped.

"Ye be hard on the depot. This is my house." said Jerry.

As he opened the door, his mother said, "I've looked afther yez since

the dark, and what have ye there?" as she saw Johnny.

Mike, Jerry's father, sat by the stove, and there was a baby on the

floor. Johnny thought he never had seen such a funny place.

He liked the baby best, although its yellow flannel night-dress was

dirty; but it wasn't quite his idea of a baby.

"What shall we do wid him, Mike?" said the lady of the house, as she

saw Johnny's head bobbing and his eyes closing.

"I thought ye'd kape him here till the next train for New York," said

Jerry, laughing.

Mike laid down his pipe, and began to put on his coat.

"Is it to go out again that yez will, this arful night, Mike?" said

Maggie.

"Lay him out on the bed; lave him to slape here to-night, Maggie. I'll

go and make it aisy wid the old folks," said Mike.

He found grandma sitting before the fire-place. Bottles of all sizes

stood on the table, and blankets hung on chairs by the fire. The old

lady's face was pale, and Mike afterward told Maggie, "The hands of her

shook like a lafe, and she had the same look on her that she had when

they tould her Johnny's mother was dead. And when I tould her the boy

was safe wid yez here--Ah, Maggie, she's a leddy!" said Mike, lowering

his voice.

"Well, what did she say?" said Maggie.

"She said I betther sit down an' ate some supper, to warm meself," said

Mike.

Poor grandma! She declared afterward she didn't know Mike was such a

good-looking man, and so kind-hearted, too. But she didn't keep him

long to praise him, but hurried him off to find grandpa.

Mike found the brilliant pair, going over and over the same ground. You

need not laugh, little reader; that's just what your father would do,

if you were lost.

Five minutes after they had learned where Johnny was, they were

standing over him in Mike's house--standing over him, and the baby in

the yellow flannel night-dress, for they were both in one bed, and

Johnny's father saw them about as clearly as Johnny had seen the

candle.

The family were thanked individually and collectively, from Mike down

to the baby, who, when Johnny left, was covered with sweetmeats and

toys, brought from New York to Johnny.

The next morning, at breakfast, Johnny learned many things, among them

that it was very wrong to run away, and he must be punished, and

grandma should decide how severely.

"I will punish him myself," said grandma, "by removing all temptation

to do so again."

Johnny is too young now to appreciate his pleasant sentence, but in

after years, when his sins are heavier, he will miss his gentle judge.

He was to leave Plowfield the next day for New York; but he was to come

back again with the summer, and many were the promises he made of good

behavior.

When the time came for him to go, he clung so to his grandma that his

father said:

"You need not go, Johnny, if you would rather stay."

"No," said Johnny, "I want to go; but why don't they have drandmas and

fathers live in the same house?"

At last, he was all tucked in the sleigh, and grandpa had started.

"Stop! wait!" said Johnny, "I forgot something."

He jumped out of the sleigh, ran back to grandma, clasped his arms

around her neck, and whispered in her ear:

"I'm sorry, drandma, 'cause I spilt the cream, and I'm awfil glad I

didn't smash the bowl."

A MONUMENT WITH A STORY.

BY FANNIE ROPER FEUDGE.

Many times have I heard English people say, as if they really pitied

us: "Your country has no monuments yet; but then she is so young--only

two hundred years old--and, of course, cannot be expected to have

either monuments or a history." Yet we have some monuments, and a

chapter or two of history, that the mother-country does not too fondly

or frequently remember. But I am not going to write now of the Bunker

Hill Monument, nor of the achievement at New Orleans, nor of the

surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown. I want to tell of another

land nearer its infancy than ours, with a history scarcely

three-quarters of a century old, but with one monument, at least, that

is well worth seeing, and that cannot be thought of without emotions of

loving admiration and reverence. The memorial is of bronze, and tells a

story of privation and suffering, but of glorious heroism, and victory

even in death.

Everybody knows something of the great island, Australia, the largest

in the world, reckoned by some geographers as the fifth continent. I

might almost have said its age is less than one-quarter of a century,

instead of three. It was visited by the great adventurer, William

Dampier, about the year 1690, and again, eighty years after, by Cook,

on his first voyage around the world. It is only within the present

generation that we have come to know it well. England's penal colony

there, and Cook's stories of the marvelous beauty and fertility of the

land, were never wholly forgotten; but almost nothing was done in the

way of exploration, especially of the interior, and the world remained

ignorant of both its extent and its resources until 1860, in August of

which year two brave-hearted young men, by name Burke and Wills,

determined to find out all that they could of the unknown central

regions. It is in memory of these men that Australia's first monument

has been erected. Let me tell you their story.

Burke was in the prime of life, a strong, brave man, who delighted in

daring and even dangerous exploits. Wills, an astronomer, was younger,

and not so ardent, but prudent, wise, sagacious, and thus well fitted

to be the companion of the adventurous Burke. Their object was to trace

a course from south to north of Australia, and explore the interior,

where hitherto no European had set foot.

Fifteen hardy adventurers were induced to form the little company;

twenty-seven camels were imported from India, for carrying the tents,

provisions and implements needed upon such a journey, a fifteen-months'

supply of provisions was laid in, and large vessels were provided for

holding ample stores of water, whenever the route should lie through

arid regions.

Thus burdened with baggage and equipments, the explorers started out.

Their progress was necessarily slow, but the greatest difficulty with

which the leaders had to contend was a spirit of envy and discontent

among their followers. This led to an entire change in Burke's plans,

and perhaps also to the sad catastrophe which ended them.

Instead of keeping his men together, as at first intended, he divided

the company into three squads. Assigning the command of two of these to

Lieutenants Wright and Brahe, and leaving them behind at an early stage

of the journey, together with most of the baggage and provisions, Burke

took Wills, with two others of the most resolute of his company, and

pushed boldly forward, determined to reach the northern coast if

possible, but, at any rate, not to return unless the want of water and

provisions should compel him.

A place called Cooper's Creek, about the center of the Australian

continent, was to serve as a rendezvous for the entire company; one of

the squads was directed to remain at this point for three months, and

longer if practicable; another squad was told to rest a while at

Menindie, and then join the first; while Burke, Wills, Gray and King

were to prosecute their journey northward, do their utmost to

accomplish the main object of the expedition, and return to Cooper's

Creek. Had this plan been faithfully executed, all might have gone

well. But hardly had Burke taken his departure when quarrels for

pre-eminence broke out among the men he had left behind; then sickness

and death thinned the ranks and disheartened the survivors, and they

failed to carry out the programme Burke had laid down. Wright stayed at

Menindie until the last of January before setting out for the

rendezvous; while Brahe, who had charge of most of the provisions,

instead of remaining for three months at Cooper's Creek, deserted that

post long before the time arranged, and left behind neither water nor

provisions.

In two months Burke and his companions reached the borders of the Gulf

of Carpentaria, at the extreme north of the continent, having solved

the problem, and found a pathway to the North Pacific. Then, worn and

weary, they set out to return. Their forward march had been

exhausting, as the frequent attacks of bands of savage natives and the

many deadly serpents had made it dangerous to halt for rest either by

day or night. The heat, too, was excessive, and sometimes for days

together the travelers were almost without water, while but sparing use

could be made of the few provisions they had been able to carry.

Feeling sure of relief at Cooper's Creek, however, and jubilant at

their success, the four almost starving men turned about and pressed

bravely on, but they arrived only to find the post deserted, and

neither water nor provisions left to fill their pressing need.

In utter dismay, they sat down to consider what could be done, when one

of the party happened to see the word "dig" cut on the bark of a tree,

and digging below it, they found a casket containing a letter from

Brahe, which showed that he had left the post that very morning, and

that our travelers had arrived just _seven hours too late_!

Imagine, if you can, how terribly tantalizing was this news, and how

hard it must have seemed to these heroic men, after having suffered so

much, braved so many dangers, and tasted the first sweets of success,

to die of starvation just at the time when they had hoped relief would

be at hand--to be so nearly saved, and to miss the certainty of rescue

by only a few hours! Eagerly they searched in every direction for some

trace of their comrades, and called loudly their names, but the echo of

their own voices was the only answer. As a last effort for relief, they

attempted to reach Mount Despair, a cattle station one hundred and

fifty leagues away, but they finally gave up in complete

discouragement, when one more day's march might have brought them to

the summit and saved their lives.

For several weeks these brave fellows fought off their terrible fate,

sometimes hoping, oftener despairing, and at last, one after another,

they lay down far apart in the dreary solitude of the wilderness, to

die of starvation.

All this and more was learned by Captain Howitt, who commanded an

expedition of search sent out from Melbourne, some nine months after

the departure of Burke and his company, not a word of news having been

received concerning them, and many fears being felt for the safety of

the little band. On Howitt's arrival at Cooper's Creek he, too, found

the word "dig," where the four despairing men had seen it; and beneath

the tree was buried, not only the paper left by Brahe, but Burke's

journal, giving the details of the journey to the coast, discoveries

made, and the terrible last scenes.

At every step of Burke's pathway new objects of interest had elicited

his surprise and admiration. Not only were there fertile plains and

beautiful, flower-dotted prairies, but lagoons of salt water, hills of

red sand, and vast mounds that seemed to tell of a time when the region

was thickly populated, though now it was all but untrod by man. A range

of lofty mountains, discovered by Burke in the north, he called the

Standish Mountains, and a lovely valley outspread at their foot he

named the Land of Promise.

But alas! Great portions of Burke's journey had to be made through

rugged and barren regions, destitute of water, and with nothing that

could serve as food for man or beast. Driven to extremities by hunger,

the pioneers devoured the venomous reptiles they killed, and on one

occasion Burke came near dying from the poison of a snake he had eaten.

All their horses were killed for food, and all their camels but two.

Perhaps these also went at a later day, for toward the last the records

in the journal became short, and were written at long intervals.

Once the party was obliged to halt with poor Gray, and wait till he had

breathed his last, when the three mourning survivors went on in silence

without their comrade.

A letter from young Wills, addressed to his father, is dated June 29th.

The words are few, but they are full of meaning.

"My death here, within a few hours, is certain, but my soul is calm,"

he wrote.

The next day he died, as was supposed by the last record; though the

precise time could not be known, as he had gone forth alone to make one

more search for relief, and had met his solitary fate calmly, as a hero

should. Howitt, after long search, found the remains of his friend

stretched on the sand, and nearly covered with leaves.

The closing sentence in Burke's journal is dated one day earlier than

young Wills's letter. It runs:

"We have gained the shores of the ocean, but we have been aband--"

It is not, of course, known why the last word was never finished. It

may have been that he felt too keenly the cruelty of his companions'

desertion of him to bring himself to write the word; or perhaps the

death agony overtook him before he could finish it. At any rate, it

speaks a whole crushing world of reproach to those whose disregard of

duty cost their noble leader's life. It has its lessons for us all.

Burke's skeleton also was found, covered with leaves and boughs that

had been placed there, it is supposed, by the pitying natives, who

found the dead hero where, in bitter loneliness, he heaved his dying

sigh, unflinching to the last.

Howitt wrapped the remains in the flag of his country, and left them in

their resting-place. Then he returned to Melbourne, and made

preparations for their removal and subsequent burial. They rest now in

that beautiful city near the sea, beneath the great bronze monument.

There are two figures, rather larger than life, Burke standing, Wills

in a sitting posture. On the pedestal are three bass-reliefs, one

showing the return to Cooper's Creek, another the death of Burke, and

the third the finding of his remains. This is a fitting tribute to the

memory of the brave explorers, but a far nobler and more enduring

memorial exists in the rapid growth and present prosperous condition of

that vast island, results that are largely the fruit of their labors

and devotion.

King survived, but he was wasted almost to a skeleton, and it was

months before he could tell the story of suffering he alone knew.

TWO WAYS.

BY MARY C. BARTLETT.

"If I had a fortune," quoth bright little Win,

"I'd spend it in Sunday-schools. Then, don't you see,

Wicked boys would be taught that to steal is a sin,

And would leave all our apples for you and for me."

"If _I_ had a fortune," quoth twin-brother Will,

"I'd spend it in fruit-orchards. Then, don't you see,

Wicked boys should all pick till they'd eaten their fill,

And they wouldn't _want_ apples from you or from me."

A HORSE AT SEA.

[SEE FRONTISPIECE.]

His name is Charley. A common name for a horse, and yet he was a most

uncommon horse, of a sweet and cheerful disposition, and celebrated for

his travels over the sea. This is his portrait, taken the day before he

left America, for the benefit of sorrowing friends. He looks as if he

thought he was going abroad. There is something in his eye and the

expressive flirt of his tail that seems to suggest strange doings.

Charley is going to Scotland, over the sea, and he is having his feet

cared for by the Doctor. He stands very steady now, even on three legs.

When he afterward went aboard the good steamship "California" it was as

much as he could do to keep steady on all four.

[Illustration]

Poor Charley! He was dreadfully sick on the voyage. He had a fine

state-room, but the motion of the ship was too much for his nerves, and

he was very ill. So they had to bring him, bed and all, on deck. The

steamer was rolling from side to side, for the waves ran high, and the

tall masts swayed this way and that with a slow and solemn motion. Poor

Charley didn't appreciate the beauty of the sea, and thought the whole

voyage a most unhappy experience. Then he had to be hoisted out of the

hatchway in a most undignified manner. The frontispiece shows you how

this was done. They put him in his box and put a rope round it and

fastened the rope to the donkey engine, a little steam-engine which is

used for hoisting and such purposes. How humiliating for a horse to be

dragged aloft by a donkey engine! The captain stood near to give the

signal when the steamer rested for a moment on a level keel. The donkey

engine puffed, and the sailors stood ready to steer the patient upward,

just as you see in the picture.

Charley grew very serious as he rose higher and higher, but a man held

him by the head and whispered comfort in his ear. At last, he reached

the deck in safety, and they gave him a place in a breezy nook beside

some other four-footed passengers, and he immediately recovered.

TIDY AND VIOLET; OR, THE TWO DONKEYS.

There was once a little boy who was not very strong, and it was thought

right that he should be a great deal in the open air, and therefore it

was also thought right that he should have a donkey.

The plan was for this little boy to take long rides, and for his mamma

to ride on another donkey, and for his papa to walk by the side of

both.

The two donkeys that were procured for this purpose had belonged to

poor people, and had lived hard lives lately, out upon the common,

because the poor people had no employment for them, and so could get no

money to give the donkeys better food. They were glad, therefore, when

the gentleman said that he wanted to buy a donkey for his little boy,

and that he would try these two for a time, and then take the one he

liked best.

So the gentleman and the lady and the boy took their excursion day

after day with the two donkeys.

Now, one of these was a thin-looking white donkey, and the other was a

stout black donkey; and one was called "Violet" and the other "Tidy."

The little boy liked the black donkey best, because he was bigger and

handsomer, "I like Tidy," he said; "dear papa, I like Tidy."

"Stop!" said his papa. "Let us wait a bit; let us try them a little

longer."

The party did not go out every day; sometimes the gentleman and lady

were engaged, and the donkeys remained idly in the gentleman's field.

And then, when they had done eating, they used sometimes to talk.

"Is not this happiness?" said the meek white donkey. "Instead of the

dry grass of the common, to have this rich, green, juicy grass, and

this clear stream of water, and these shady trees; and then, instead of

doing hard work and being beaten, to go out only now and then with a

kind lady and gentleman, and a dear little boy, for a quiet walk:--is

it not a happy change, Tidy?"

"Yes," said Tidy, flinging his hind-legs high in the air.

"Oh!" said Violet, "I hope you will not do that when the young

gentleman is on your back."

"Why not?" said Tidy.

"Because," said Violet, "you may throw him off, and perhaps kill him;

and consider how cruel that would be, after all his kindness to us."

"Oh," said Tidy, "people always call us donkeys stupid and lazy and

slow, and they praise the horse for being spirited and lively; and so

the horses get corn and hay and everything that is good, and we get

nothing but grass. But I intend to be lively and spirited and get

corn."

"Take care what you do, Tidy," said Violet. "The gentleman wishes to

buy a quiet donkey, to carry his little boy gently. If we do not behave

ourselves well, he surely will send us back to the common."

But Tidy was foolish and proud, and, the next time he went out, he

began to frisk about very gayly.

"I fear," said the gentleman, "that the good grass has spoiled Tidy."

[Illustration]

Tidy heard this, but, like other young and foolish things, he would not

learn. Soon, the little dog Grip passed by, and Tidy laid his ears back

on his neck and rushed at Grip to bite him.

"Really," said the gentleman, "Tidy is getting quite vicious. When we

get home, we will send Tidy away, and we will keep Violet."

Tidy, as you may believe, was sorry enough then. But it was too late.

He was sent away to the bare common. But Violet still lives in the

gentleman's field, eats nice grass, goes easy journeys, and is plump

and happy.

[Illustration]

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Poets have a great deal to answer for, and they should be careful what

they say, for they've no idea what an influence they have. Now, I'm

told that about one hundred and fifty years ago, one by the name of

Thomson (Thomson without a _p_) sang:

"Hail, gentle Spring! Ethereal mildness, hail!"

and made no end of trouble, of course. March being the first spring

month, was the first to hear the command, and so, ever since, she has

been trying her best to hail. Failing in this, as she nearly always

does, her only recourse is to blow; and blow she does, with a will. So

don't blame her, my chicks, if she deals roughly with you this year,

blows your hair into your eyes, and nearly takes you off your feet.

It's all the fault of that poet Thomson.

I suppose if he had sung to our great American cataract, he would have

told it to trickle, or drip, or something of that sort; and then what

would have become of all the wedding tours? Mrs. Sigourney, my birds

tell me, was a poet of the right sort. She sang, "Roll on,

Niagara!"--and it has rolled on ever since.

Talking of fluids, here's a letter telling

HOW CHERRY PLAYED WITH WATER.

A good friend sends Jack this true horse-story:

At my summer home, the very coolest and pleasantest spot to be

found on a hot day is a grassy knoll, shaded by a great tree. Close

by is the horse-trough, which is supplied with water from the well

a few rods off. One sultry day, my little boy and I went to play

under the shade of this tree. The trough was full of clean,

sparkling water, and I lingered there even after the two horses,

"Cherry" and "Dash," had been brought out and tied to the tree; for

they, too, had found their house uncomfortable, and had begged with

their expressive eyes to be taken out-of-doors.

Now, the water in the trough looked very tempting, and soon my boy

Willy put his little hand in, and then rolling up his sleeve,

plunged in his arm and began to splash the water, throwing it

around, wetting us all, horses included. We left the tree, and were

going into the house, when we heard a loud thumping, and splashing;

turning round, we saw Cherry, with his fore-leg in the trough,

knocking his great iron shoe against the side of it, sending the

water flying in all directions, and making the water in the trough

all black and muddy. Now, these horses had drunk from this trough

three times a day for two months, and spent many a morning under

that very tree, and it had never occurred to either of them to play

such a trick until they had seen Willy do it.

Willy was so much pleased that he gave Cherry several lumps of

sugar to reward him for his naughtiness; but James, the coachman,

took a different view, and gave him a sound scolding, and I am

afraid whipped him; although I protested that Willy was more to

blame than poor Cherry, who had only imitated his little master.

C.C.B.

THREE SPIDERS.

Another enemy to my friends the birds! This time it's a spider. He

lives near the Amazon River, they tell me, builds a strong web across a

deep hole in a tree, and waits at the back of the hole until a bird or

a lizard is caught in the meshes. Then out he pounces, and kills his

prey by poison. And yet this dreadful creature has a body only an inch

and a half in length!

Then there's a spider named Kara-Kurt, who lives in Turkestan; and,

though he is no bigger than a finger-nail, he can jump several feet. He

hides in the grass, and his bite is poisonous; but I'm glad to say he

doesn't kill birds.

In the same country is a long-legged spider, who has long hair and a

body as big as a hen's egg. When he walks he seems as large as a man's

double fists. What a fellow to meet on a narrow pathway! I think most

people would be polite enough to let him have the whole of the walk.

Little Miss Muffett would have been scared out of her senses if such a

huge spider had "sat down beside her."

SPECIAL DISPATCH.

The Little Schoolma'am says Thomson didn't say "_Hail_, gentle Spring!"

He said, "Come, gentle Spring!" Dear, dear! I beg his pardon. But, like

as not, some other poet said it, if Thomson didn't. Or perhaps they've

sung so much about Spring that March, taking it all to herself, thinks

she may as well blow her own trumpet, too.

Poor March! In old times she used to be the first month of the

year,--and now she is only the third. May be, that is what troubles

her. Nobody likes to be put back in that way.

ABOUT PARROTS.

Deacon Green was talking about parrots the other day. He said he once

knew a parrot that was not as polite as "Pippity," the one mentioned in

a story called "Tower-Mountain." The parrot that he knew would swear

whenever he opened his bill. It had been taught by the sailors on board

the ship in which it had come from South America. When the deacon knew

it, it belonged to the widow of a very strict minister. It had been

brought to her by her nephew, a midshipman, as a Christmas present. It

was lucky for him, just then, that the old lady was stone deaf. She was

very cross with the neighbors when they told her what wicked words the

bird used. It was a great pet, and she would not believe anything bad

about it. But at last it swore at a visitor who was a bishop, and soon

after, it was no more.

Since the Deacon told that story I have had a paragram about another

parrot; one that lived in Edinburgh, Scotland, five years ago. This one

could laugh, weep, sing songs, make a noise like "smacking the lips,"

and talk. His talking was not merely by rote; he would speak at the

right times, and say what was just right to be said then and there. He

spoke the words plainly, bowed, nodded, shook his head, winked, rolled

from side to side, or made other motions suited to the sense of what he

was saying. His voice was full and clear, and he could pitch it high or

low, and make it seem joyful or sad. Many curious tales, are told of

him, but the most remarkable thing about him is that he actually lived

and really did the things named.

That's what the paragram says. Stop--let me think a moment. May be that

parrot himself sent it? But no; he wasn't smart enough for _that_; I

remember, now, the signature was "Chambers."

THE WRITING OF THE PULSE.

Did you ever hear of a sphygmograph? Of course not. Well, in its

present improved state, it is something new and very wonderful. It

takes its name from two Greek words, _sphugmos_, the pulse, and

_grapho_, I describe. It is an implement to be used by physicians, and

forces the patient's pulse to tell its own story, or, in other words,

make a full confession of all its ups and downs and irregularities. Not

only make a confession, my beloveds, but actually _write_ it down in

plain black and white!

So you see that a man's pulse in Maine may write a letter to a

physician in Mexico, telling him just what it's about, and precisely in

what manner its owner's heart beats--how fast or slow, and, in fact,

ever so much more.

Now, isn't that queer? Should you like to see some specimens of

pulse-writing? Here they are:

[Illustration: 1.]

[Illustration: 2.]

[Illustration: 3.]

[Illustration: 4.]

No. 1, according to the doctors, writes that he is the pulse of a

strong, healthy boy, and that his owner is getting on admirably. No. 2

writes that his proprietor has trouble with his heart. No. 3 tells a

sad story of typhoid fever; and No. 4 says that his owner is dying.

I am only a Jack-in-the-Pulpit, you know, quite dependent upon what

the birds and other bipeds tell me, so you cannot expect a full

description and explanation of the sphygmograph here. Ask your papas

and friends about it.

There's a great deal going on in the world that you and I know very

little about; but such things as the sphygmograph give us a hint of the

achievements of science in its efforts to help God's children out of

their many ills and pains.

The deacon says that, wonderful as the sphygmograph is, the pulse

itself is more wonderful still--a fact which no good ST. NICHOLAS child

will deny.

A PERUVIAN BONANZA.

You've heard, I suppose, that they expect soon to open up a new and

wonderfully rich deposit of silver in the mines of Peru? No! Well,

then, it's high time you were warned about it. Take your Jack's advice,

my youngsters, and be very careful about things. Why, if they go on

finding big bonanzas in this reckless way, silver will be too cheap for

use as money! And then what will they do? They'll have to use something

in place of it, of course; but there's no telling what it will be. Only

think, they might choose double-almonds, or something of that kind!

But don't allow yourselves to be cast down about it, my dears. Try to

keep up your spirits, and remember that, if the worst comes to the

worst, good children will never be so plenty that people will cease to

appreciate a good child. That's a bit of solid comfort for you, any

way.

LUMBER AND TIMBER.

Which of you can state the exact distinction, if there is any, between

lumber and timber, without consulting the dictionary?

QUEER NAMES FOR TOWNS.

Now, what am I to do with this? If the Little Schoolma'am sees it, she

may want to give the boys and girls of the Red School-house a new sort

of geography lesson, or perhaps a spelling task to her dictation. That

would be a little hard on them: so perhaps I'd better turn over the

letter to you just as it is, my chicks.

Washington, D.C.

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Here are the names of some towns in the

United States. They are so funny that I send them to you, and I

hope you will like it. Do you think the Little Schoolma'am would

know where all these places are?

Toby Guzzle, Ouray, Kickapoo, T.B., Ono, O.Z., Doe Gully Run, Omio,

Nippenose, Eau Gallie, Need More, Kandiyohi, Nobob, Cob Moo Sa, We

Wo Ka, Ty Ty, Osakis, Why Not, Happy Jack, U Bet, Choptack,

Fussville, Good Thunder's Ford, Apopka, Burnt Ordinary, Crum Elbow,

Busti, Cheektowaga, Yuba Dam, Dycusburgh, Chuckatuck, Ni Wot, Buck

Snort, What Cheer, Forks of Little Sandy, Towash, Sopchoppy, Thiry

Daems, Vicar's Switch, Omph Ghent, Peculiar.

I have found a great many more, but these are the queerest I could

pick out.--Yours truly,

WILLIAM B.

ANSWERS TO RIDDLES.

Here are two answers, out of the three, to the riddles I gave you last

month: TOBACCO, and CARES (Caress). The archbishop's puzzle has been

too much for you, I'm afraid, my dears. I'll give you until next month.

Then we'll see.

THE LETTER-BOX.

Washington, D.C.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Not long ago I read in your delightful magazine

a poem, entitled "Red Riding Hood," by John G. Whittier. It

recalled to me some visits which I made to the great and good poet,

my friend of many years.

My acquaintance with him began when I was a school-girl in Salem.

Then he lived in Amesbury, on the "shining Merrimack," as he calls

it, with his sister, a most beautiful and lovable person.

I remember distinctly my first visit to them. The little white

house, with green blinds, on Friend street, looked very quiet and

home-like, and when I received the warm welcome of the poet and his

sister I felt that peace dwelt there. At one side of the house

there was a little vine-wreathed porch, upon which opened the

glass-door of the "garden room," the poet's favorite sitting room,

the windows of which looked out upon a pleasant, old-fashioned

garden. Against the walls were books and some pictures, among which

were "Whittier's Birthplace in Haverhill," and "The Barefoot Boy,"

the latter illustrating the sweet little poem of that name.

In the parlor hung a picture of the loved and cherished mother, who

had died some years before, a lovely, aged face, full of strength

and sweet repose. In a case were some specimens of the bird

referred to in "The Cry of a Lost Soul," a poem which so pleased

the Emperor of Brazil that he sent these birds to the poet.

At the head of the staircase hung a pictured cluster of pansies,

painted by a lady, a friend of the poet. He called my attention to

their wonderful resemblance to human faces. In the chamber assigned

to me hung a large portrait of Whittier, painted in his youth. It

was just as I had heard him described in my childhood. There were

the clustering curls, the smooth brow, the brilliant dark eyes, the

firm, resolute mouth.

We spent a very pleasant evening in the little garden room, in

quiet, cheerful conversation. The poet and his sister talked of

their life on the old farm, which Whittier has described in "Snow

Bound," and he showed me a quaint old book written by Thomas

Elwood, a friend of Milton. It was the only book of poetry that

Whittier had been able to get to read when a boy.

Like all distinguished writers, Whittier has a large number of

letters from persons whom he does not know, and many strangers go

to see him. Miss Whittier said that one evening the bell rang, and

Whittier went to the door. A young man in officer's uniform stood

there. "Is this Mr. Whittier?" he asked. "Yes," was the answer. "I

only wanted to shake hands with you, sir," and grasping the poet's

hand he shook it warmly, and hastened away.

Some years after my first visit a great sorrow befell Whittier in

the loss of his sister. After that, a niece kept house for him. She

is now married, and he spends most of his time with some cousins at

"Oak Knoll," a delightful place near Danvers. It was there that I

last had the pleasure of seeing him, one golden day in October. The

house is situated on an eminence, surrounded by fine trees, which

were then clad in their richest robes of crimson and bronze and

gold. Through the glowing leaves we caught glimpses of the deep

blue sky and the distant hills. We had a pleasant walk through the

orchard, in which lay heaps of rosy apples, and across fields and

meadows, where we gathered grasses and wild flowers. And we saw the

pigs and cows and horses, and had the company of three splendid

dogs, great favorites of the host. We had also for a companion a

dear, bright little girl, a cousin of the poet. She is the "little

lass," the "Red Riding Hood" of his poem.

After a most enjoyable day I came away reluctantly, but happy at

leaving my friend in such a pleasant home, and among the charming

and refreshing country scenes that he loves so well.--Yours truly,

C.L.F.

* * * * *

AGNES'S MOTHER, whose letter was printed in the "Letter-Box" for

January last, will oblige the Editors by sending them Agnes's address.

* * * * *

Uxbridge, Mass.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Last summer, we stayed a week on Prudence

Island, in Narragansett Bay, where the blackberries sprinkle

thickly the ground, and mosquitoes, in some parts of the island,

sprinkle thickly the air. Prudence, Patience, Hope, and Despair are

four islands near together; they were named by the owner after his

daughters. Prudence has some twelve or fifteen houses; but in

Revolutionary times there were, it is said, seventy families on the

island. The British set fire to everything, and the island was

devastated. One old hornbeam-tree is pointed out as the only tree

that escaped destruction. The wood of this kind of tree is so hard

that it does not burn easily. This tree is sometimes called "iron

wood," and "lever wood," as the wood is used to make levers. This

old tree has all its branches at the top, umbrella-wise, as if the

lower branches had been destroyed in some way, for it is not the

nature of the tree to grow in this fashion. I could barely reach

one little twig of pale, discolored leaves, to bring home as a

memento. Prudence is the largest of the four islands, Patience,

next in size, lies a little north of it. Hope, on the west side, is

a picturesque mass of rock; and Despair lies just north of Hope, a

solid rock, nearly or quite covered at high tide.

ADDY L. FARNUM.

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have a question to ask you, and if you will

answer it you will greatly oblige me. This is the question: May

leaves be of any size to make a folio or quarto?--Yours truly, K.

A sheet of paper of any size, folded in two equal parts, makes two

leaves of folio size; folded evenly once more, four leaves of quarto

size. But book-publishers use these words arbitrarily. With them a

sheet about 19 by 24 inches is supposed to be the proper size, unless

otherwise specified. A folio leaf is, consequently, about 12 by 19

inches; a quarto leaf, about 9 by 12 inches: an octavo leaf, about 6 by

9 inches.

* * * * *

Fordham, N. Y.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have a Polish rooster, I wonder if you have

ever seen one? If not, I will describe it. It has a very large

top-knot, very much larger than a duck's, although it is not at all

like it.

WILLIE A. RICHARDSON.

* * * * *

Here is a letter that was sent to Santa Claus, last Christmas:

MR. SANTA CLAUSES,

NEW YORK CITY.

I don't know your number, but I gest you will get it.

MY DEAR OLD SANTA CLAUSES: I know you are awful poor for Mama sed

so but I do want so Many things and when I Commence to Writting to

you I feel like crying. Cause you know my papa is dead and mama is

auful poor to but I do want a Dolly so bad not like they give of

the Christmas tree but a real Dolly that open and shut it eyes but

O I want so many other things but I wont ask for them for you will

Think I am auful selfage and want to Take evythink from others

little Girls but when you ben all around if you have one picture

Book left pleas send it to me. Dear Santa Clauses plese don't

forget me because I live in Perth Amboy.

From

GRACE L.T.

* * * * *

New York City.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am reading a history of the late Civil War,

and often come across names of different parts of an army. I would

like to ask you two questions:

1. How many men usually are there in a corps, division, brigade,

and company?

2. How many guns are there in a field-battery?

If you will answer these, you will greatly oblige your friend and

reader,

GRANT SQUIRES.

In the United States service, the "company," in time of war, contains

98 non-commissioned officers and privates, and 3 officers; total, 101.

The regiment consists of ten companies. A brigade usually consists of

four regiments, and, if the ranks are full, should contain about 4,000

men. It sometimes happens that five or six regiments may be comprised

in one brigade. A division contains usually three, sometimes four,

brigades, and with full ranks would number from 12,000 to 15,000 men. A

corps contains three divisions, and should number, say, 45,000 men. In

actual conflict, these figures will, of course, widely vary; regiments

being reduced by losses to, perhaps, an average of 300 men each, and

the brigades, divisions, etc., to numbers correspondingly smaller. A

field-battery has either four or six guns, in the United States service

usually the latter number, and from 150 to 250 men. The English and

French Armies are not very dissimilar from our own in the matter of

organization; but in the German army the company contains 250 men, and

the regiment 3,000, and they have but two regiments in a brigade.

* * * * *

Pittsburg, Pa.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you What a nice time I had on

vacation. I enjoyed the holidays so much that it makes me happy to

tell everybody. Our Sunday-school gave a treat on Christmas night,

and the church was very handsomely decorated. Above the center, in

amongst the evergreen wreaths, was a shining star made by jets of

gas. The pastor, Mr. Vincent, said this was to represent the Star

of Bethlehem. Then the large Christmas-tree was loaded with gifts,

and when lighted up I pretty near thought I was going to see

Aladdin's wonderful lamp and Cinderella from fairy-land. I am sure

every one felt happy, and we sang the Christmas carols louder than

ever, so loudly that the church trembled. But may be it was the

organ made it tremble.

LILLIE S.

* * * * *

MR. EDWIN HODDER, the author of the new serial, "Drifted into Port,"

which begins in this number, is an English gentleman, and he wrote this

story, not only to tell the adventures of his heroes and his heroines,

but to give American boys and girls an idea of life at an English

school. We think that the doings of Howard, Digby, Madelaine, and the

rest, will be greatly interesting to our readers, especially as these

young people leave the school after a while, and have adventures of a

novel kind in some romantic, sea-girt islands.

* * * * *

BESSIE G.--Your letter is not such a one as we are apt to answer in the

"Letter-Box." But the best possible message we can send you, and one

that you will understand, and apply to your own case, is a beautiful

little poem which will interest all readers. We shall give it to you

entire. We take it from a treasured old newspaper slip, and regret that

we do not know the author's name.

THE SINGING-LESSON.

A nightingale made a mistake;

She sang a few notes out of tune,

Her heart was ready to break,

And she hid from the moon.

She wrung her claws, poor thing,

But was far too proud to speak.

She tucked her head under her wing,

And pretended to be asleep.

A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush,

Came sauntering up to the place;

The nightingale felt herself blush,

Though feathers hid her face.

She knew they had heard her song,

She FELT them snicker and sneer,

She thought this life was too long,

And wished she could skip a year.

"O nightingale!" cooed a dove,

"O nightingale, what's the use,

You bird of beauty and love,

Why behave like a goose?

Don't skulk away from our sight,

Like a common, contemptible fowl:

You bird of joy and delight,

Why behave like an owl?

"Only think of all you have done;

Only think of all you can do;

A false note is really fun,

From such a bird as you!

Lift up your proud little crest;

Open your musical beak;

Other birds have to do their best,

You need only SPEAK."

The nightingale shyly took

Her head from under her wing,

And, giving the dove a look,

Straightway began to sing.

There was never a bird could pass;

The night was divinely calm;

And the people stood on the grass

To hear that wonderful psalm!

The nightingale did not care,

She only sang to the skies;

Her song ascended there,

And there she fixed her eyes.

The people that stood below

She knew but little about;

And this story's a moral, I know,

If you'll try to find it out!

* * * * *

Northern Vermont.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: "Little Joanna" is only three years and a half

old, but her father and mother take the ST. NICHOLAS for her; and

although she is so very young, she enjoys it as much as the older

ones. She liked the little poem called "Cricket on the Hearth," and

has learned to repeat some of it. In the December number she liked

the poem about the tea-kettle; she cries every time she hears

about poor "Little Tweet," and laughs at the "Magician and his

Bee," and at Polly's stopping the horses with the big green

umbrella. But she laughs the hardest at the picture of the little

girl who was so afraid of the turtle, and Edna, the kitchen-girl,

told her if the turtle should get hold of the little girl's toe, he

wouldn't let go till it thundered. After "Little Joanna" has seen

the pictures and heard the stories she can understand, her mamma

sends the ST. NICHOLAS to some little cousins in Massachusetts, who

in their turn forward it to some more cousins in far away Iowa. So

we all feel the ST. NICHOLAS merits the heartiest welcome of any

magazine.--Yours,

"LITTLE JOANNA'S" AUNTIE.

* * * * *

Dayton, O.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I like your "Letter-Box" so much, and I always

read it first. My brother and I fight which shall read ST. NICHOLAS

first. He always speaks for it the month before. Then sister reads

it out loud to keep us quiet. I wish we had had more of the

Pattikins. I liked them real well.

The biggest thing in Dayton is the Soldiers' Home, three miles from

town. It is the largest of all the Homes, though they have a small

one at Milwaukee, Wis., and several others. They have three

thousand disabled soldiers here, and a big hospital, a church built

of stone, barracks, stores, dining-room, library, and everything

just like a little town. Then lovely lawns, gardens, lakes,

fountains, rustic bridges, etc. Lots of people say it is much

prettier than Central Park, and I think so, too. The soldiers have

most all of them lost their legs or arms, and some both. Lots of

blind ones lost their sight in battle, from the powder. They get

tipsy, too,--I guess because they get tired and feel sick. Nobody

cares, only they get locked up and fined. Papa says he don't

believe blue ribbon will keep them sober. Everybody wears blue

ribbon here, but I don't, because I don't want to get tipsy anyhow.

General Butler is the big boss of the Home. He comes every fall,

and walks around. They always have an arch for him. Colonel Brown

is Governor. He only has one arm, and was in Libby Prison. I wish

the boys and girls could all come and spend the day here. They have

a big deer-park, and lots of animals of all kinds, as good as a

show, and a splendid band that gives concerts, and they have dress

parades by the Brown Guards. I asked Papa how much it cost to run

it a year, and he wrote down for me, so I would not forget,

$360,740.81, last year. Hope you will find room to publish this.

Harry says you wont. Harry is my brother.--Your friend,

CLARENCE SNYDER.

* * * * *

Trenton, N.J.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have read a great many letters in your ST.

NICHOLAS, and I always like to read them, for they are so funny. So

I thought I would write you a letter and tell you about my poor

little cat. It was given me when two weeks old, and I only had it a

month before it died--and, do you believe, I saw it die! It was

taken sick, and I cried awful. I don't know what was the matter

with it, but I think it had the colic, for it lay as quiet as a

mouse; and then it died. Oh, how sorry I was! My friend got a

little box and buried it right under my window, so I could often

think of it. So I hope you will all wish me better luck with my

cats. Be sure and give my love to Jack.--From your little friend,

JENNIE H.

* * * * *

San Francisco, Cal.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have often read in the "Letter-Box" some other

little stories which boys and girls have written.

I will now write about the wire-cable railroads of this city. The

first one constructed was on Clay street, between Kearney street

and Leavenworth street. The road has now been continued out to Van

Ness avenue.

The second was constructed by the Sutter Street R.R. Company from

Sansom street to Larkin street, a distance of one mile.

The best of all the railroads in the city is on California street,

between Kearney and Fillmore streets, a distance of two miles. It

is considered the best built wire-cable road in the United States,

and is owned by the great railroad king of California, Leland

Stanford.

I have a little railroad track seven and a half feet long, with

fifteen feet of string, which I call a cable. The invention of the

gripping attachment is my own.

R.H. BASFORD.

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Will you please, for a few moments, imagine

yourself blind, deaf and dumb, so that you may have a fair idea of

the boy about whom I want to tell you?

His name is James Caton. He is fifteen years old and lives in the

Deaf Mute Institution, on the Hudson River, near New York. He was

born deaf and dumb, and two years ago a severe sickness left him

blind. Before this he had learned to read and write, and talk with

his fingers. He uses a pencil and his fingers to ask for what he

wants, and tell you how he feels. People can talk to him by

spelling words with their fingers against the palm of his hand, and

he is so bright and quick that they cannot spell too fast for him.

He is fond of his lessons, but sometimes, in adding a long column

of figures, he makes mistakes that vex him sadly. Only think how

hard it must be to add twenty or thirty large numbers that you

cannot see! But when James finds his temper rising he puts it right

down, calls back his patience, and goes to work more strenuously

than ever. One day, his teacher, a lady, told him the Bible story

of Cain, who killed his brother and became a wanderer. Some time

after, she asked him "Who was Cain?" and he answered, "Cain was a

tramp!" She takes pains to tell him about the great events of the

day, such as the dreadful war between Russia and Turkey, and he

understands this so well that he can describe it with wonderful

effect. He stands out on the floor like an orator, and with the

most graceful, animated and expressive signs and gestures, gives

the positions of the armies, their meeting, the beating of the

drums, the waving of the flags, and the firing of the cannon.

Watching him, one can see the battle-field and all its pomp and

horror.

James was in the country during the summer, and there he lay on the

soft grass, smelled the sweet flowers, and tried to remember their

forms and colors. He leaned against the strong tree trunks and

measured them with his arms, and the sweet, cool breezes from the

river came to refresh and strengthen him.

James has a chum, Charles McCormick, who is almost as badly off as

himself--perhaps you will think him worse off. He was born deaf and

dumb, and when three years old he fell on the railroad track and

the cars cut off both his arms! These two boys love each other

dearly. They go into the woods together to gather flowers. Charles

goes first because he has the eyes, and when he finds the flowers

he stoops down and touches them with the stump of his arm, while

James passes his hand down his friend's shoulder and picks them! So

they do together what neither could do alone, and both are as happy

as birds!--Your friend,

E.S. MILLER.

* * * * *

Hampstead, England.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am eleven years old, and this is the first

time I have ever written to you, so I am going to tell you about my

dear little squirrel, "Bob." He is beautifully soft, and his back

and head are gray, but his legs and tail are red; he has four long

teeth, and he bites very much, if we vex him. He eats nuts and

fruit, and he is very fond of bread and milk. When we had him

first, he used to run up the curtains and bite them all into holes.

Every Sunday he would be brought downstairs while we were at

dinner, and papa would give him nuts; but he got so cross that papa

would not let him come down again. In the summer, we brought out

his cage into the garden; but one Sunday papa opened the cage door,

and out jumped Bob. He ran to the wall (which was all covered with

ivy), and began to climb it; but papa caught him by his hind-leg

and stopped him, and he gave papa such a bite on his hand. So I

would not let him go out again. Last summer, mamma took us all down

to Wales; but it was too far to take Bob, so we left him to my

governess, who took him home with her. But one unlucky day she let

him out in the conservatory, and did not shut the window; so he got

a chance and ran away out into the road, and he did not come back.

She offered a reward, and two days afterward he was found outside

the window of an empty house. Soon after that we all came home,

and I was very glad to see Bob again, naughty as he was. There is a

very funny thing which I ought to have told about first; it is that

my Bob was brought up by a cat, and not in the woods at all. I do

not think there is anything more to tell you about him.--I am your

little reader,

LAURA B. LEWIS.

* * * * *

HOW TO MAKE A FAIRY FOREST.

In the first place, you must live in the country, where you can

find that early spring flower, the blood-root or _sanguinaria_.

Wherever it grows it generally is seen in great

abundance--flowering in the Middle States about the first of April.

The roots are tuberous, resembling Madeira vines, and they do not

penetrate very deeply into the earth. Therefore, when the ground is

not frozen on its surface, these tubers can be quite easily

procured. In the latter part of March, after removing a layer of

dead leaves, or a light covering of leaf mold, the plants may be

found, and, at that time will have large brown or greenish brown

buds in great abundance, all very neatly wrapped up in conical

rolls. A basket should be carefully filled with these tubers,

without shaking all the earth from them, and some of the flakiest

and greenest pieces of moss that can be found adhering to the rocks

must also be put into the basket.

When you reach home, take a large dish or pan and dispose these

tubers upon it, first having sprinkled it ever so lightly with the

earth found in the bottom of the basket. Place the roots quite

close together, taking care to keep the large, pointed,

live-looking buds on the top, pack them closely; side by side,

until the dish is full, then lay your bits of moss daintily over

them, or between them when the beds are large, set them in the

sweet spring sunshine, in a south or east window, sprinkle them

daily with slightly tepid water, and on some fine morning you will

find a little bed of pure white flowers, that will tell you a tale

of the woods which will charm your young souls.

Sanguinaria treated in this way will generally so far anticipate

its natural time of flowering as to present you the smiling,

perfumed faces of its blossoms while the fields may yet be covered

with snow.

But this is not the end. After these snowy blossoms have performed

their mission of beauty, they will drop off upon the carpet of

moss, and, in a short time, will be succeeded by the leaves of the

plant, which are large and irregular, but very beautiful, and each

leaf is supported by a stem which comes directly from the ground,

giving the impression of a miniature tree. A large dish of these

little trees springing from the moss makes the Fairy Forest, and an

imaginative girl, or possibly boy, well steeped in fairy lore, may

imagine many wonderful things to happen herein.

If you have little friends; or relatives who live in the city and

cannot go into the woods to look for the sanguinaria, you can

easily pack a pasteboard box full of the roots and moss, and send

it to them by express, or, if it is not too heavy, by mail.

GRANDMOTHER GREY.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

A COMMON ADAGE.

[Illustration.]

LITERARY ENIGMA.

1. MY 26 39 66 55 40 48 44 11 12 is a poet of ancient Greece.

2. My 25 24 33 8 42 is a poet of ancient Italy.

3. My 69 36 14 50 18 3 41 is a poet of England.

4. My 22 58 65 37 9 by 59 21 53 23 47 28 is a German poem.

5. My 47 62 64 38 is a historian of England.

6. My 30 46 54 48 15 32 is a popular American writer.

7. My 34 7 46 57 41 50 70 is a Scottish writer.

8. My 6 13 67 16 1 17 68 63 5 52 is an English poet.

9. My 47 24 2 23 10 68 63 43 4 is an American writer of fiction.

10. My 49 41 19 56 35 is an eminent geologist.

11. My 16 24 27 41 is a scientist of England.

12. My 45 61 60 67 37 13 31 is one of America's living writers.

13. My 61 7 20 29 is another American writer.

The whole is an extract of two lines (seventy letters) from a noted

English poem.

F.H.R.

TRANSPOSITIONS.

In each of the following sentences fill the blank or blanks in the

first part with words whose letters, when transposed, will suitably

fill the remaining blank or blanks.

1. ---- ---- ---- words with a man in a ----. 2. Did you see the

tiger ---- on me with his ---- eyes? 3. McDonald said: "---- ----

ragged ---- remind you of Scotland." 4. The knots may be ----

more easily than ----. 5. ---- ---- told me an ---- which amused

all in his tent. 6. I hung the ---- on the ---- round of the rack.

7. The witness is of small value if he can ---- ---- information

that is more ---- than this. 8. The ---- ---- as they look over

the precipices in their steep ----.

EASY REVERSALS.

1. Reverse a color, and give a poet. 2. Reverse a musical pipe, and

give an animal. 3. Reverse an entrance, and give a measure of surface.

4. Reverse an inclosure, and give a vehicle. 5. Reverse part of a ship,

and give an edible plant. 6. Reverse a noose, and give a small pond.

7. Reverse a kind of rail, and give a place of public sale. 8. Reverse

sentence passed, and give temper of mind. 9. Reverse a portion, and

give an igneous rock. 10. Reverse an apartment, and give an upland.

ISOLA.

DOUBLE DIAMOND.

The first and ninth words, together, make vegetables that grow in the

second upon the third in the fourth; the eighth, a girl, after

performing the fifth upon the first and ninth in the fourth, pulling

the second the while, did the sixth to get them into the house; here

the eighth soon had them upon the seventh, cooking for dinner.

Perpendicular, heavy; horizontal, picking.

G.L.C.

CURTAILMENTS AND BEHEADINGS.

To the name of a gifted man,

Affix a letter, if you can,

And find his avocation.

Curtail a piece of work he did,

You'll find a word that now is hid,--

A madman's occupation.

Behead another, you will find

Measures of a certain kind

Used by the English nation.

G.L.C.

EASY NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

The whole, composed of fourteen letters, names the hero of a well-known

book. The 1 7 3 4 8 is a singing-bird of America. The 9 10 2 6 12 is a

religious emblem. The 13 11 5 9 14 is an Oriental animal.

ISOLA.

PICTORIAL ANAGRAM PROVERB-PUZZLE.

[Illustration]

The answer is a proverb of five words. Each numeral beneath the

pictures represents a letter in the word of the proverb indicated by

that numeral,--4 showing that the letter it designates belongs to the

fourth word of the proverb, 3 to the third word, and so on.

Find a word that describes each picture and contains as many letters as

there are numerals beneath the picture itself. This is the first

process.

Then put down, some distance apart, the figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, to

correspond with the words of the proverb. Group beneath figure 4 all

the letters designated by the numeral 4 in the numbering beneath the

pictures (since, as already stated, all the letters there designated by

the numeral 4 belong to the fourth word of the proverb). You will thus

have in a group all the letters that the fourth word contains, and you

then will have only to transpose those letters in order to form the

word itself. Follow the same process of grouping and transposition in

forming each of the remaining words of the proverb. Of course, the

transposition need not be begun until all the letters are set apart in

their proper groups.

J.B.

AN OLD MAXIM.

BEHEADED AND CURTAILED.

--IGH-- --are-- --pea--. --rea-- --ne-- --r-- --um--.

C.D.

EASY UNIONS.

1. Join ease and an ornament, by a vowel, and make recovering--thus:

rest-o-ring (restoring). 2. Join pleasant to the taste to a boy's

nickname, by a vowel, and make honeyed. 3. Join to bury to a bite of an

insect, by a vowel, and make what pleasant stories are.

C.D.

RHOMBOID PUZZLE.

ACROSS: 1. Portion of an ode. 2. A musical drama. 3. Soon. 4. Marked.

5. Flowers.

DOWN: 1. In a cave. 2. A river. 3. To unclose. 4. The second dignitary

of a diocese. 5. A mistake. 6. High. 7. An affirmative. 8. A prefix.

9. In a shop.

CYRIL DEANE.

DOUBLE CROSS-WORD ACROSTIC.

THE WHOLE.

Brothers are we, alike in form and mien,

Sometimes apart, but oft together seen.

One labors on, and toils beneath his load;

The other idly follows on the road.

One parts the sleeping infant's rosy lips;

The other veils the sun in dark eclipse.

One rises on the breath of morn, with scent

Of leaf and flower in fragrant incense blent;

The other's wavering aspiration dies

And falls where still the murky shadow lies.

At hospitable boards my first attends,

And greets well pleased the social group of friends;

But if my second his grim face shall show,

How dire the maledictions sent below!

Yet there are those who deem his presence blest,

A fitting joy to crown the social feast,

And make for him a quiet, calm retreat,

Where friends with friends in loving concourse meet.

CROSS-WORDS.

1. Two brothers ever keeping side by side,

The closer they are pressed the more do they divide

2. Brothers again unite their ponderous strength,

Toiling all day throughout its tedious length.

3. I never met my sister; while she flies

I can but follow, calling out replies.

4. A casket fair, whose closely covered lid

A mother's hope, a nation's promise, hid.

5. A plant once used to drive sharp pain away,

Not valued greatly in this later day,

Except by those who fly when they are ill

To test the virtues of a patent pill.

S.A.B.

EASY DIAMOND PUZZLE.

In fruit, but not in flower; a period of time, a fresh-water fish; a

sea-bird; in strength, but not in power.

ISOLA.

MALTESE-CROSS PUZZLE.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * E * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

The middle letter, E, is given in the diagram. The centrals form two

words, and are read from top to bottom and from side to side, including

the middle letter. The words that form the limbs of the cross are read

from the outside toward the center, those forming the top and bottom

limbs being read horizontally, and those that form the arms, downward.

CENTRAL PERPENDICULAR: Perfume.

CENTRAL HORIZONTAL: Strained.

TOP LIMB: 1. New. 2. A boy's name. 3. A consonant.

BOTTOM LIMB: 1. Plain. 2. A deed. 3. A consonant.

LEFT ARM: 1. Existence. 2. A tavern. 3. A consonant.

RIGHT ARM: 1. Unready. 2. A tree. 3. A consonant.

A.C. CRETT.

POETICAL REBUS.

The answer is a couplet in Sir Walter Scott's poem "Marmion."

[Illustration]

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

The whole, eleven letters, is a songster. The 1 2 3 4 is adjacent.

The 5 6 7 is a metal. The 8 9 10 11 is a current of air.

ISOLA.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

1. What wood is sometimes called. 2. A character in "Hamlet."

3. Customary. 4. An underling of Satan's. 5. A common shrub. 6. A boy's

name meaning "manly." 7. An animal. 8. A place of security. 9. A body

of water. 10. A large bird of the vulture family. 11. The home of the

gods in Greek mythology. 12. A preposition. 13. A spelled number.

The initials name a female author, and the finals a male author.

S.M.P.

WORD SYNCOPATIONS.

1. Take a bird from a saint's name, and leave something ladies wear.

2. Take the present from understanding, and leave a chief. 3. Take part

of a fish from explained, and leave a will. 4. Take a forfeit from

cultivated, and leave a color. 5. Take an insect from needed, and leave

joined. 6. Take a vessel from to supply, and leave to angle.

CYRIL DEANE.

CHARADE.

My first may be made of my last,

And carries mechanical force.

My last both lives and dyes for man,

May often be seen as a horse,

And serves him by day and by night

In ways very widely apart.

My whole is the name, well renowned,

Of a chief in the potter's art.

L.W.H.

ABBREVIATIONS.

1. Syncopate and curtail a greenish mineral, and leave a Turkish

officer. 2. Syncopate and curtail a royal ornament, and leave a

domestic animal. 3. Syncopate and curtail a fabled spirit, and leave a

coniferous tree. 4. Syncopate and curtail a small fruit, and leave an

opening. 5. Syncopate and curtail a motive power, and leave a body of

water. 6. Syncopate and curtail colorless, and leave a humorous man.

7. Syncopate and curtail stops, and leave a head-covering. 8. Syncopate

and curtail a sweet substance, and leave an agricultural implement.

9. Syncopate and curtail a carpenter's tool, and leave an insect.

10. Syncopate and curtail coins, and leave an inclosure.

I.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN FEBRUARY NUMBER.

EASY DOUBLE CROSS-WORD ACROSTIC.--Initials, Birch; finals, Maple;

horizontals, BeaM, IdA, RomP, CorraL, HousE.

SQUARE-WORD.--Ruler, Unite, Lithe, Ethel, Reels.

NUMERICAL PUZZLE.--Vivid.

HIDDEN ACROSTIC.--Minnehaha.

EASY DECAPITATIONS.--1. Foil, oil. 2. Spear, pear. 3. Feel, eel.

4. Sledge, ledge. 5. Stag, tag. 6. Mace, ace. 7. Goats, oats.

8. Draw, raw. 9. Galley, alley.

TRANSPOSITIONS.--1. Subtle, bustle. 2. Shah, hash. 3. Shearer, hearers.

4. Sharper, harpers. 5. Resorted, restored. 6. Negus, genus.

CHARADE.--Manhattan (Man-hat-tan).

GEOGRAPHICAL PUZZLE.--Queen Charlotte (1) went to Cork (2) to attend a

ball. She there met Three Sisters (3), named as follows; Alexandria

(4), Augusta (5), and Adelaide (6), in whom she was much interested.

Her dress was Cashmere (7), and though elegantly trimmed with Brussels

(8), it was, unfortunately, Toulon and Toulouse [too long and too

loose] (9). As she felt chilly [Chili] (10), she wore around her

shoulders a Paisley (11) shawl. Her jewelry was exclusively a Diamond

(12). Her shoes were of Morocco (13), and her handkerchief was perfumed

with Cologne (14). Being a Superior (15) dancer, she had distinguished

partners, whose names were Washington (16), Columbus (17), Madison

(18), Montgomery (19), Jackson (20), and Raleigh (21). Having boldly

said that she was hungry [Hungary] (22), she was escorted by La Fayette

(23) to a Table (24), where she freely partook of Salmon (25), some

Sandwich[es] (26), Orange (27), Champagne (28), and some Madeira (29).

After passing a Pleasant (30) evening, she bade Farewell (31) to her

hostess and was escorted home by Prince Edward (32).

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.--Chinamen (chin-amen).

ILLUSTRATED PUZZLE.--1. Hare (hair). 2. Beholder (bee-holder, the

hive). 3. Ear. 4. Clause (claws). 5. Wings. 6. Comb (honeycomb on the

ground). 7. Branch. 8. Leaves. 9 and 10. B I (bee-eye). 11. Tongue.

12. Pause (paws).

CURTAILMENTS.--1. Teasel, tease, teas. 2. Planet, plane, plan.

3. Marsh, Mars, mar, ma. 4. Panel, pane, pan, pa.

COMPLETE DIAGONAL.--Diagonals from left to right downward:

1. L. 2. Ed. 3. Sir. 4. Aver, 5. Eager. 6. Dale. 7. Law. 8. Po.

9. L. Horizontals: E A S E L

D A V I D

L A G E R

P A L E R

L O W E R

EASY NUMERICAL ENIGMA.--Helen's Babies.

SQUARE-WORD.--Czar, Zero, Arms, Rose.

ANAGRAM DOUBLE-DIAMOND AND CONCEALED DOUBLE-SQUARE.

Double Diamond: S

A T E

S P A R E

E R A

E

Concealed Square: A T E

P A R

E R A

PICTORIAL PROVERB PUZZLE.--"Let Hercules himself do what he may, The

cat will mew, the dog will have his day."

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES in the January number were received, before January

18, from Jas. J. Ormsbee, Fred M. Pease, Morris H. Turk, Susie

Hermance, M.W. Collet, Eddie Vultee, A.B.C., "M'sieur B.M.", Alice and

Mamie Taylor, Constance Grandpierre and Sadie Duffield, Winnie

Brookline, Charlie and Carrie Moyses, O.A.D., Baron P. Smith, F.U.,

Mary B. Smith, Milly E. Adams and Perry Adams, W.H.C, Anita O. Ball,

"Bessie and her Cousin," Georgie Law, K.L. McD., Mary Wharton

Wadsworth, Nessie E. Stevens, Inez Okey, Nellie Baker, E. Farnham Todd,

Daisy Breaux, Lillie B. Dear, Mary C. Warren, Georgietta N. Congdon,

"King Wompster," Nellie Emerson; 255 Indiana street, Chicago; Bessie

Cary, Henry D. Todd, Jr., Finda Lippen, Jennie Beach, Mary Todd, Anna

E. Mathewson, Nellie Kellogg, Lucy E. Johnson, Charles Behrens, Clara

H. Hollis, Nellie Dennis, E.S.P., Bessie and Houghton Gilman, May C.

Woodruff, George Herbert White, H. Howell, Lizzie B. Clark; Bessie T.B.

Benedict, of Ventnor, Isle of Wight, England; B.M., and Jennie Wilson.

"Oriole" answered all the puzzles in the January number.