AN ESTRAY FROM CIVILIZATION
They paused by the cabin door, left open by Angelique, and listened
intently. She, too, had caught the alien sound, the faint, appealing
halloo of a human voice--the rarest of all cries in that wilderness.
Even the eagle’s screeches could not drown it, but she had had enough
of anxieties for one day. Let other people look out for themselves;
her precious ones should not stir afield again--no, not for anything.
Let the evil bird devour the dead chickens, if he must, her place was
in the cabin, and she rushed back down the slope, fairly forcing the
others inward from the threshold where they hesitated.
“’Tis a loon. You should know that, I think, and that they’re always
cryin’ fit to scare the dead. Come! The supper’s waitin’ this long
time.”
With a smile that disarmed offense, Margot caught the woman’s shoulder
and lightly swung her aside out of the way.
“Eat, then, hungry one! I, too, am hungry, but--hark!”
The cry came again, prolonged, entreating, not to be confounded with
that of any forest wildling.
“It’s from the north end of our own island!”
The master’s ear was not less keen than the girl’s, and both had the
acuteness of an Indian’s, but his judgment was better.
“From the mainland, across the narrows.”
Neither delayed, and a mutual impulse sent them toward the shore, but
again Angelique interposed.
“Thoughtless child, have you no sense? With the master just out of a
faint that was nigh death itself! With nothin’ in his poor stomach
since the mornin’, and your own as empty. Wait; eat; then chase loons,
if you will.”
Mr. Dutton laughed, though he also frowned, and cast a swift, anxious
glance toward Margot. But she was intent upon nothing save answering
that far-off cry.
“Which canoe, uncle?”
“Mine.”
The devoted servant made a last protest, and caught the girl’s arm as
it pushed the light craft downward into the water.
“Ma petite, he is not fit. Believe me. Better leave others to their
fate than that he should overtax himself again, so soon.”
Margot was astonished. In all her life she had never before associated
thought of physical weakness with her stalwart guardian, and a sharp
fear of some unknown trouble shot through her heart.
“What do you mean?”
The master had reached them, and now laid his own hand upon Angelique’s
detaining one.
“There, woman, that’s enough. The storm has shaken your nerves. If
you’re afraid to stay alone, Margot shall stop with you. But let’s have
no more nonsense.”
Mother Ricord stepped back--away. She had done her best. Let come what
might, her conscience was clear.
A few seconds later the canoe pushed off over the now darkening water,
and its inmates made all speed toward that point from which the cry had
been heard, but was heard no more. However, the steersman followed a
perfectly direct course, and if he were still weak from his seizure,
his movements showed no signs of it, so that Margot’s fear for him was
lost in the interest of their present adventure. She rhymed her own
stroke to her uncle’s, and when he rested, her paddle instantly stopped.
“Halloo! hal-l-oo!” he shouted, but as no answer came, said: “Now--both
together.”
The girl’s shriller treble may have had further carrying power than the
man’s voice, for there was promptly returned to them an echoing halloo,
coming apparently from a great distance. But it was repeated at close
intervals, and each time with more distinctness.
“We’ll beach the boat just yonder, under that tamarack. Whoever it is
has heard and is coming back.”
Margot’s impatience broke bounds, and she darted forward among the
trees, shouting: “This way! this way! here we are--here!” Her peculiar
life and training had made her absolutely fearless, and she would have
been surprised by her guardian’s command to “Wait!” had she heard it,
which she did not. Also, she knew the forest as other girls know their
city streets, and the dimness was no hindrance to her nimble feet. In
a brief time she caught the crashing of boughs, as some person, less
familiar than she, blundered through the underbrush and finally came
into view where a break in the timber gave a faint light.
“Here! here! this way!”
He staggered and held out his hands, as if for aid, and Margot clasped
them firmly. They were cold and tremulous. They were, also, slender
and smooth, not at all like the hands of any men whom she was used to
seeing. At the relief of her touch, his strength left him, but she
caught his murmured “Thank God! I--had--given up--”
His voice, too, was different from any she knew, save her uncle’s. This
was somebody, then, from that outside world of which she dreamed so
much and knew so little. It was like a fairy tale come true.
“Are you ill? There; lean on me. Don’t fear. Oh! I’m strong, very
strong, and uncle is just yonder, coming this way. Uncle--uncle!”
The stranger was almost past speech. Mr. Dutton recognized that at
once and added his support to Margot’s. Between them they half led,
half carried the wanderer to the canoe and lifted him into it, where
he sank exhausted. Then they dipped their paddles and the boat shot
homeward, racing with death. Angelique was still on the beach and
still complaining of their foolhardiness, but one word from her master
silenced that.
“Lend a hand, woman! Here’s something real to worry about. Margot, go
ahead and get the lights.”
As the girl sprang from it, the housekeeper pulled the boat to a spot
above the water, and, stooping, lifted a generous share of the burden
it contained.
It had not been a loon, then. No. Well, she had known that from the
beginning, just as she had known that her beloved master was in no
condition to go man-hunting. This one he had found was, probably, dead,
any way. Of course. Somebody had to die--beyond chickens and such--had
not the broken glass so said?
Even in the twilight, Mr. Dutton could detect the grim satisfaction
on her face, and smiled, foreseeing her change of expression when this
seemingly lifeless guest should revive.
They laid him on the lounge that had been spread with blankets for
Margot, and she was already beside it, waiting to administer the herb
tea which had, also, been prepared for herself, and which she had
marveled to find so opportunely prepared.
Mr. Dutton smiled again. In her simplicity the girl did not dream that
the now bitter decoction was not a common restorative outside their
primitive life, and in all good faith forced a spoonful of it between
the closed lips.
“After all, it doesn’t matter. The poor fellow is, doubtless, used to
richer cordials, but it’s hot and strong and will do the work. You,
Angelique, make us a pot of your best coffee, and swing round that
dinner-pot. The man is almost starved, and I’m on the road to follow
him. How about you, Margot?”
“I? Oh!--I guess I’m hungry--I will be--see! He’s swallowing it--fast.
Give me that bigger spoon, Angel--quick!”
“What would you? Scald the creature’s throat? So he isn’t dead, after
all. Well, he needn’t have made a body think so, he needn’t. There,
Margot! you’ve messed him with the black stuff!”
Indignantly brushing the child aside, the woman seized the cup and
deftly administered its entire contents. The stranger had not yet
opened his eyes, but accepted the warm liquid mechanically, and his
nurse hurried to fill a bowl with the broth of the stew in the kettle.
This, in turn, was taken from her by Margot, who jealously exclaimed:
“He’s mine. I heard him first. I found him first; let me be the first
he sees. Dish up the supper, please, and set my uncle’s place.”
So, when a moment later, having been nearly choked by the more
substantial food forced into his mouth, the guest opened his eyes, they
beheld the eager face of a brown-skinned, fair-haired girl very close
to his and heard her joyous cry:
“He sees me! he sees everything! he’s getting well already!”
He had never seen anybody like her. Her hair was as abundant as a
mantle and rippled over her shoulders like spun gold. So it looked in
the lamplight. In fact, it had never been bound nor covered, and what
in a different social condition might have been much darker, had in
this outdoor life become bleached almost white. The weather which had
whitened the hair had tanned the skin to bronze, making the blue eyes
more vivid by contrast and the red lips redder. These were smiling now,
over well-kept teeth, and there was about the whole bearing of the maid
something suggestive of the woodland in which she had been reared.
Purity, honesty, freedom--all spoke in every motion and tone, and, to
this observer, at least, seemed better than any beauty. Presently, he
was able to push her too-willing hand gently away and to say:
“Not quite so fast, please.”
“Oh, uncle! hear him? He talks just as you do! Not a bit like Pierre,
or Joe, or the rest.”
Mr. Dutton came forward, smiling and remonstrating.
“My dear, our new friend will think you quite rude, if you discuss him
before his face so frankly. But, sir, I assure you she means nothing
but delight at your recovery. We are all most thankful that you are
here and safe. There, Margot; let the gentleman rest a few minutes.
Then a cup of coffee may be better than the stew. Were you long without
food, friend?”
The stranger tried to answer, but the effort tired him, and with a
beckoning nod to the young nurse, the woodlander led the way back to
the table and their own delayed supper. Both needed it and both ate it
rather hastily, much to the disgust of Angelique, who felt that her
skill was wasted; but one was anxious to be off out-of-doors to learn
the damage left by the storm, and the other to be back on her stool
beside the lounge. When Mr. Dutton rose, the housekeeper left her own
seat.
“I’ll fetch the lantern, master. But that’s the last of Snowfoot’s
good milk you’ll ever drink,” she sighed, touching the pitcher, sadly.
“What! is anything wrong with her?”
“The cow-house is in ruins; so are the poultry coops. What with falling
ill yourself just at the worst time and fetchin’ home other sick folks,
we might all go to wrack and nobody the better.”
The familiar grumbling provoked only a smile from the master, who would
readily have staked his life on the woman’s devotion to “her people,”
and knew that the apparent crossness was not that in reality.
“Fie, good Angelique! You are never so happy as when you’re miserable.
Come on; nothing must suffer if we can prevent. Take care of our guest
Margot; but give him his nourishment slowly at intervals. I’ll get some
tools, and join you at the shed, Angelique.”
He went out and the housekeeper followed with the lantern, not needed
in the moonlight, but possibly of use at the fallen cow-house.
They were long gone. The stranger dozed, waked, ate, and dozed again.
Margot, accustomed to early hours, also slept soundly, till a fearful
shriek roused her. Her patient was wildly kicking and striking at
some hideous monster which had settled on his chest and would not be
displaced.
“He’s killing me! Help--help! Oh--a--ah!”
[TO BE CONTINUED]
MARCH
With rushing winds and gloomy skies
The dark and stubborn Winter dies;
Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries,
Bidding her earliest child arise:
March!
By streams still held in icy snare,
On southern hillsides, melting bare,
O’er fields that motley colors wear,
That summons fills the changeful air:
March!
What though conflicting seasons make
Thy days their field, they woo or shake
The sleeping lids of Life awake,
And hope is stronger for thy sake,
March!
_Bayard Taylor_
WOOD-FOLK TALK
By J. ALLISON ATWOOD
THE CROW
What does the crow say? The syllable “caw” repeated several times? I
thought you would say that. A tradition is hard to break; but just
listen for yourself sometime, and you will be convinced that the crow
has been sadly misunderstood. It is “Hawk, Hawk, Hawk,” just as plainly
as one could wish.
Of course, you wonder why one bird should spend all his time calling
out the name of another. Well, that’s just what I want to tell you
about.
It was a long time ago--before any white people had invaded Birdland.
The year had been unusually mild and all the birds had returned from
the south where they spent the winter. So great was the rejoicing
because of the early season that the king had sent invitations far and
wide to a spring reception.
Then what an excitement! For weeks nothing was discussed but the
reception and new spring plumages.
When the day arrived, birds from tree-top and meadow came by the
score--waders, climbers, perchers--in fact, all kinds under the
sun. The table, which, by the way, very closely resembled the
ground, was festooned and hung with arbutus. Before each guest was a
relish--a dainty little worm, served upon an equally exquisite plate
of shellbark. But why torment ourselves with the “bill o’ fare”?
Sufficient to say that it was worthy of the occasion.
At the head of the table sat the king himself, a sturdy little fellow,
nicely dressed in black and white, and wearing a concealed crown of
gold on his head. One of the remarkable things about the king was that
he did not flaunt his royalty before his subjects. Whenever he wore his
crown he always concealed it under a cap of feathers, and trusted that
his actions would speak his worth.
Next to him sat Bob-o-link, a cheerful little dandy, but noted,
nevertheless, for a good deal of courage and common sense. He was the
king’s right-wing bird.
On the other side was Brown Thrasher, dressed in a long-tailed coat of
brown and a beautiful spotted vest. Thrasher was liked for his wit and
sauciness, but on the whole he was a good deal of an adventurer. He had
several times claimed kinship to the Thrushes, but they would have none
of him.
Among other celebrities were Mocking Bird, a great jester and
all-around wit; Quail, the famous toastmaster, and, in fact, all
civilized birds except Night Hawk and Whip-poor-will, who were
ridiculously shy of all public gatherings, and Crow, who had not been
invited.
Of course, it was a great pity that Crow did not receive an invitation,
but, somehow, the king had taken a strong dislike to him. The reason
for this, he told his subjects, was because Crow could not sing, but
it was really because he was black. The king had even hesitated about
inviting Blackbird in spite of his gorgeous rainbow lustre.
Well, to say the least, poor Crow’s feelings were greatly hurt. He was
very sad as he sat high up in a nearby tree and looked down upon the
gay tumult. Crow was a sociable fellow, and, moreover, he was very
hungry. Suddenly a thought came into his cunning black head.
Just as the party was at its merriest, he stood erect and called out in
his loudest tone, “Hawk, Hawk, Hawk!” Instantly there was a confusion.
Thrasher, quickly gathering his coat over his new vest, scurried into
the nearest thicket. Quail, greedily bolting the last of his dessert,
so far forgot his manners as to run straight across the table and hide
himself in the tall grass; while Bob-o-link, checked in the midst of
a brilliant speech, vanished among the nearby reeds. Last of all, the
king, yielding to the universal panic, took wing. In a moment there was
not a bird in sight.
Then Crow, laughing to himself, flew down to the table and made short
work of the feast to which he had not been invited. Just as he was
finishing the last mouthful, King Bird, ashamed of his hasty flight,
returned, ready to confront his deadly enemy. Instead of the expected
Hawk, however, he found only Crow, just then hopping up from the table
and carefully rubbing his bill against the side of a branch.
Oh, what a rage he was in when he saw the trick that had been played
upon them. With a snap of his bill, he flew at Crow like an arrow, and
would undoubtedly have injured him had not the rascal taken instant
flight.
From that day to this, Crow has been an outcast. If you watch him
carefully you will notice how warily he flies, for the smaller birds
have never ceased to torment and abuse him.
King Bird in particular has never forgiven the outrage, and whenever
he hears Crow’s mocking voice calling “Hawk, Hawk, Hawk,” chases madly
after him, crying out, angrily, “Cheat-thief, cheat-thief.”
Sometimes Crow, as he thinks of the feast, laughs exultantly as if to
say, “I got the best of you all that time.”
Whereupon Quail, first glancing proudly at his own sleek form with the
air of one who has not lived in vain, mounts the top of a nearby stump,
and in his clear, shrill voice answers, “Not quite! not--quite!”
[Illustration]
LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS
BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD
CHAPTER I
AN INTERRUPTED STORY
Although it was only five o’clock, and Manser Farm stood on a hill
so that its windows caught the last gleam of the sun on a pleasant
afternoon, the garret was growing dark.
“Is it five or six days it’s been raining without any stop?” inquired
Mrs. Ramsdell, as she dropped the lid of her horse-hair trunk and
turned the key in the lock.
“It’s only three days come six o’clock to-night,” said Aunty Peebles in
her cheery treble. “Don’t you recall we were just going down to supper
Monday when we heard the first drops on the tin roof? And this is only
Thursday.”
“Well, it seems like two weeks, that’s all I’ve got to say about
it,” grumbled Mrs. Ramsdell, as she rose stiffly and whisked her
black alpaca skirt back and forth till every speck of dust had flown
away from it. Most of the specks settled on Grandma Manser who sat
tranquilly knitting in her corner by the south window.
“Do you know where Polly is?” suddenly demanded Mrs. Ramsdell, bending
over the knitter and shouting fiercely in her ear. “Why isn’t she up
here this dull afternoon? The only bright thing there is in this house!
What’s your daughter-in-law keeping her downstairs for?”
“Polly?” repeated Grandma Manser, gently. She had evidently heard only
part of the gusty speech. “Polly told me she was planning to be out in
the woodshed, to help Uncle Sam Blodgett saw and split, this afternoon.
She said she’d be up to recite a piece to us before supper.”
“H’m! I should think it was high time she came, then,” said Mrs.
Ramsdell, crossly. But after a minute her wrinkled face grew still more
wrinkled with the smile that broke over it as she heard a clattering
sound on the garret stairs. A second later a rosy face about which
danced a mop of short brown curls peeped around the old bureau which
hid the stairway from the group gathered near the windows.
“You’re a naughty little piece, that’s what you are, to stay down
in the woodshed with Sam’l Blodgett, instead of coming up here
to entertain us,” cried Mrs. Ramsdell, with twinkling eyes that
contradicted the severity of her tone. “What have you been doing down
there, I’d like to know?”
“I’ve been listening to war stories,” said Polly Prentiss, coming out
from behind the bureau. “I’ve been hearing about Uncle Blodgett’s
nephew who died down South and ‘though but nineteen years of age
displayed great bravery on the field of battle.’ That’s on his
tombstone,” said Polly, seating herself on a little stool close to
Grandma Manser and reaching out her hand to pat Ebenezer, the big
Maltese cat.
“Pretty doings!” grumbled Mrs. Ramsdell, but she smiled at Polly as she
went over to the rocking chair by Aunty Peebles. “We old folks have
been taking things out of our trunks and putting ’em back again just to
keep up heart till you came, except grandma there; she’s kept to her
knitting, so’s not to disturb Ebenezer of his nap, I suppose.”
“Ebenezer’s a splendid cat, if he does like to sleep most of the time,
and looks like Mrs. Manser’s old sack that the moths got into,” said
Polly, with a laugh. “Oh, did any of you know there was a visitor
downstairs?--that Miss Pomeroy with the sharp eyes. Seemed as if
she’d look right through me last Sunday, after church. I guess she’s
pleasant, though.”
“Folks can afford to be pleasant when they own property and have good
clothes to their backs.” said Mrs. Ramsdell. “I don’t know as Hetty
Pomeroy’s disposition would be any better than some other folks’ if
’twas tried in the furnace. Her father had a high temper, I’ve heard.”
“She’s had her trials, Miss Hetty has,” said Aunty Peebles, gently.
“She’s all alone in the world now, excepting for Arctura Green that’s
always worked in the family. You know she was to have had her brother’s
little girl to adopt, and the child died of diphtheria last fall. I
understand it was a great grief to Miss Hetty.”
“What’s she here for in all this rain?” questioned Mrs. Ramsdell,
sharply.
“Why, it’s almost stopped raining,” said Polly stroking Ebenezer, who
stretched out one paw and curved it round her finger without opening
his eyes. “She drove up to the shed to ask Uncle Blodgett to put her
horse in the barn. Then I showed her the way to the sitting-room and,
she said she had an errand with Mrs. Manser, and I’d better run away
soon as I’d called her. I should have, anyway,” said Polly, nodding at
each of her old friends in turn, “for I was anxious to hurry up here,
and tell you about the things Uncle Blodgett’s been telling me.”
Polly’s quick eyes had seen a half-frightened glance exchanged between
Mrs. Ramsdell and Aunty Peebles when she spoke of Miss Hetty’s errand,
but as neither of the old ladies seemed disposed to speak when she
paused, Polly went on, thinking “it’s just one of their mysteries, I
suppose.”
“First, he recited me a poem,” said Polly; “at least, he really recited
it to himself, ‘just to keep his hand in.’ I’m not very good about
remembering poems, but this was by Dr. Goldsmith, Uncle Blodgett said,
and it was all about a Madam Blaize. I asked him the name twice, to be
sure.”
“Never heard of either of ’em,” said Mrs. Ramsdell. “Must both be
fictitious persons. I wonder Samu’l Blodgett never recites poems to us
of an evening. I must say.”
“’Twas only because I happened to be there, picking up the chips,”
exclaimed Polly; “and I don’t know whether Dr. Goldsmith and Madam
Blaize were fick--the kind of persons you said--but she was a grand
lady in the poem. It’s funny, too,” said Polly, showing her dimples;
“in one place it says ‘The king himself has followed her when she has
walked before.’ Of course, he’d have to; isn’t that funny?”
“What else did he recite?” demanded Mrs. Ramsdell.
“He didn’t recite anything else,” said Polly, releasing her fingers
from Ebenezer’s clasp, and springing to her feet, “but he told me a
very exciting adventure he had once, and I can act it all out for you.
You see, he was going home through some thick woods to his log-hut.
We’ll play the bureau is the hut, and just on the edge of the woods. If
you and Aunty Peebles will move your rocking chairs a little farther
apart you’ll make a splendid edge of the woods,” said Polly to Mrs.
Ramsdell, in a coaxing tone, “then I can come through between.”
[Illustration: I CAN ACT IT ALL OUT FOR YOU.]
“Anything to help out,” said the old lady, quickly hitching her chair
away from Aunty Peebles.
“Now I think,” said Polly, squinting up her eyes, “that Grandma Manser
is in just about the right place for the panther.”
“Mercy on us, it’s a wild beast tale,” chuckled Mrs. Ramsdell.
“Grandma Manser, can you snarl like a panther?” asked Polly, bending
over the quiet knitter, whose soft eyes had been following the little
girl’s movements. “It’s in Uncle Blodgett’s adventure, and I’m going to
act it all out, and speak so slow and clear, you’ll hear everything.”
“My yarn’s more used to snarling than I am, dear child,” said Grandma
Manser, smiling up at the earnest face, “but I’ll do my best. You let
me know the right minute, someway.”
“When I point my right arm at you with this stick in my hand, it’s a
gun that never missed,” explained Polly to her assistants, “that’ll be
the time for you to snarl, please.”
Grandma Manser nodded cheerfully, and Polly, gun in hand, ran to her
position behind Mrs. Ramsdell and Aunty Peebles.
“As I was walking slowly along,” said Polly, with her lips pouted
out in imitation of Uncle Blodgett, and the gun over her shoulder,
“suddenly off to the left, not more than a dozen rods from the house,
what should I see, but--”
“Mary!” came a querulous voice from the foot of the garret stairs.
“Mary Prentiss! Are you up there?”
“Yes’m,” answered Polly, as the gun dropped to the floor, and Grandma
Manser, fearing she had mistaken the signal, gave a very mild sound,
meant for a fierce snarl. “Yes’m, I’m here. Do you want me downstairs?”
“No, I’ll mount; I’m used to trouble, and they might as well hear the
news at once,” said the fretful voice, drawing nearer. The stairs
creaked under the slow steps; the little company in the garret waited;
disappointment was on Polly’s face, but the old people looked sad and
anxious.
Mrs. Manser’s tall, thin figure and sallow, discontented face had
a depressing effect on all of them, as she stood in her dark brown
calico, leaning against the old bureau.
“Mary Prentiss,” she said, solemnly, “your chance has come, thanks to
the way I’ve brought you up and kept you clean. Miss Hester Pomeroy,
of Pomeroy Oaks, is coming next Thursday morning to take you home with
her for a month’s trial, and if you do your best and follow all I tell
you, there’s a likelihood Miss Pomeroy will adopt you for good and
all. And now, we won’t have any talk or fuss over it, for I shall need
everybody’s help to get you fit to go in time. We’re going to have
supper early to-night, so you’d better all follow me down right off, to
be on hand.”
Then Mrs. Manser turned and creaked slowly down the stairs, while Polly
looked from the bewildered panther to the trembling edges of the wood
with something very like tears in her brown eyes, and Ebenezer, after a
thorough stretching of all his paws, disappeared around the bureau and
hurried down to his evening meal.
CHAPTER II
GETTING READY
It seemed to Polly that no days before ever flew so fast as the ones
between that rainy Thursday afternoon in April and the next Thursday
morning. To be sure, Polly was not accustomed to having new clothes
especially made for her, and the hours spent in being fitted and
re-fitted were just a waste of precious time, in her eyes.
Aunty Peebles was the best dressmaker at Manser Farm. Her fingers were
old and sometimes they trembled, but in her day she had been a famous
seamstress, and even now she could hem a ruffle much better than Mrs.
Manser.
“I don’t know just what the reason is my work looks better than some,”
said Aunty Peebles, flushing with delight, one morning when Polly had
said, “Oh, what bee-yu-tiful even, little bits of stitches you do make!”
“It’s experience, that’s all it is,” said Mrs. Manser, dejectedly,
as she sat gathering the top of a pink gingham sleeve; “if I’d been
brought up to it instead of all the education I had that’s no good to
me now, I should be thankful, I’m sure.”
“She’d never be thankful for anything,” whispered Mrs. Ramsdell, who
was ripping out bastings and constantly encountering knots which had
been “machined in” and did not soothe her temper; “’taint in her, and
you know it, Miss Peebles, well as I do.”
“Mary,” said Mrs. Manser, fretfully, “don’t sit there doing nothing.
Let me see how you’re getting on with that patchwork. My back’s
almost broken, and I’ve got chills. You go and tell Father Manser
to bring in some wood, and then you thread me up some needles, and
fill the pincushion, and I’ve got some basting for you to do. What a
looking square you’ve made of that last one! Well, I don’t
believe Miss Hetty’ll keep you more than just the month, and all this
sewing and these two nice ginghams will go for nothing.”
“I’ll try to behave so she’ll keep me,” said Polly, with a flushed face
as she hurried out to old Father Manser. She returned with him after a
moment. He was a thin little man, who had a kind word for everybody,
but spoke in a husky tone, which Mrs. Ramsdell claimed Mrs. Manser had
“frightened him into with her education when she first married him.”
However that might be, Father Manser never made a statement in his
wife’s presence without an appealing glance toward her for approval.
“Fill up the stove,” said Mrs. Manser, in her most dismal tone, “and
see if you can take the chill off this room, father. I presume, though,
it’s in my bones and won’t come out; I notice the others are warm
enough, for, of course, I’d have heard complaints if they weren’t. Then
you might as well oil the machine and get ready to run up the seams of
those aprons, if your mother ever gets them done.”
“I declare it riles me to see a man doing woman’s work,” said Mrs.
Ramsdell, tugging at a vicious knot, “and doing it all hodge-podge into
the bargain!”
Father Manser, all unconscious of her unfavorable criticism, filled up
the stove, and then set about oiling the sewing-machine. By the time he
had finished, Grandma Manser had put the last careful basting in the
last apron seam, and his work was ready for him.
“Now, don’t make your feet go so fast,” cautioned Mrs. Manser, “and
stop off carefully, so you won’t break the needles the way you did
yesterday, and do keep by the bastings, father. Are your specs on? No,
they aren’t. You put them on, this minute!”
“Yes’m,” said Father Manser, meekly, and when his spectacles were
astride his nose, he was allowed to put his feet on the treadles and
start on his first seam.
“He likes to run the machine,” said Aunty Peebles to Polly. “Seems as
if he thought he’d got his foot in the stirrups and was riding, bold
and free.”
There were many such times for Father Manser during this dressmaking
season, and he enjoyed them, though he knew how much he would miss
Polly when she had gone.
In spite of hours spent in the house instead of out in the sweet
spring weather, in spite of unwonted tasks, and many serious rebukes
from Mrs. Manser, the days flew by instead of dragging slowly along as
little Polly wished they would. “Aunty” Peebles, who had never had a
real niece; “Grandma” Manser, who had no grandchildren; even poor Mrs.
Ramsdell, with her sharp tongue, who had “known all sorts of trials and
seen better days,”--all were friends to Polly, the only friends she
had in the world beside Mrs. Manser, who had brought her up, with much
grumbling, to be sure; kind Father Manser, who sometimes gave her a
stick of candy in the dark; and Uncle Sam Blodgett, with whom she had
such exciting talks, the hero of the adventure, the tale of which was
so suddenly interrupted.
Polly’s heart was sore at the thought of leaving them all; she even
felt sorry that she must say good-bye to poor Bob Rust, the grown man
with a boy’s mind, who could not be depended on to do the simplest
errand.
“He’s scatter-witted, I know,” said Polly to herself, “but I shall miss
seeing Bob, because I’m used to him.”
Thursday morning came all too soon. Miss Pomeroy was to come for Polly
about ten o’clock. At half-past nine Polly, with anxiety written all
over her rosy face, was twirling slowly around in the middle of the
kitchen, while Mrs. Manser regarded her forlornly from her position in
the doorway, with a hand pressed against her forehead.
“I suppose you’ll have to do as you are,” she said at last, with a
heavy sigh. “My head aches so, I’m fit for nothing, or I’d see what
more I could do with that hair of yours. Is that the very flattest
you can get it, Mary? I hope you’re going to remember to answer Miss
Pomeroy when she says ‘Mary’ better than you do me, child. It’s your
rightful name, and, of course Polly’s no kind of a name for a girl to
be adopted by. Did you say you’d done the very best you could with your
hair?”
“Yes’m,” said Polly, twisting her hands together, locking and unlocking
her fingers in evident excitement. “I wet it sopping wet, and then
I patted it all down hard; but it doesn’t stay down very well, I’m
afraid.”
Polly was right; in spots her hair was still damp and sleek on her
little head, but around these satisfactory spots her short curls rose
and danced defiance to brush and water.
“Oh, Ebenezer, I wish I had fur like yours instead of hair!” cried
Polly, but Ebenezer only blinked at her, and retired hastily
behind the stove as if he feared she might attempt an exchange of
head-covering.
“Well,” said Mrs. Manser, dropping into a rocking-chair and clasping
her head with both hands, “all I’ve got to say is, you must do the best
you can by Miss Pomeroy and all of us. You know just how much depends
on Miss Pomeroy’s adopting you. You know what it’ll mean to Father
Manser and me and the old folks that I board for almost nothing to
keep them off the town, if you are adopted. And Grandma--you’re always
saying you’re so fond of her--you’d like her to have one of those new
hearing apparatuses, I should suppose.”
“Oh, yes’m,” said Polly, eagerly, “I do love Grandma Manser so, and I
want her to have the ap-apyoratus. Will it cost a great deal?”
“I don’t just know,” said Mrs. Manser; “but they say Miss Pomeroy’s
going to give five hundred dollars to whatever institution or place she
finds the child she keeps, and a present of money to the folks that
have brought her up. She didn’t mention it to me, but the butcher told
me yesterday ’twas known all about, and she’s been sent for to several
places to see children. But she never took a fancy to one till she saw
you in church with me. She thinks you’ve got a look about the eyes
that’s like Eleanor, that was her brother’s little girl who died last
fall. I guess you’re about as different from her as a child could be,
every other way.”
“I suppose Eleanor was an awful good, quiet little girl, wasn’t she?”
asked Polly, timidly. “Her name sounds kind of still. I don’t believe
she ever tore her clothes, did she?”
“I don’t suppose another such good child ever lived, according to Miss
Hetty’s ideas,” said Mrs. Manser, dismally. “She’d never been here
in town since she was a baby, and the mother’s folks brought her and
Bobby, the twin, one summer to Pomeroy Oaks. As I’ve told you, both
parents died, leastways they were destroyed in an accident, when the
twins were less than a year old.”
“And Bobby lives with his grandpa and grandma now,” said Polly, with
the air of reciting an oft-repeated lesson, “and folks say that saw
him when he was here last winter that he just sits and reads all the
time; he doesn’t care for play or being out-doors much; and he never
makes a speck of dirt or a mite of noise. And when somebody said what
a good child he was, Miss Hetty Pomeroy, she said, ‘Wait till you see
Eleanor!’ So anybody can tell what she must have been,” concluded poor
little Polly, with a gasping breath.
“And so, of course,” said Mrs. Manser, fixing a forlorn gaze on the
little figure in stiffly starched pink gingham, “if you run wild
out-doors, picking flowers and chasing round after the live stock and
wasting time with the birds the way you’ve been allowed to do here,
you’ll lose your chance, that’s all. You came of good folks: your
mother was my third cousin and your father was a well-meaning man,
though he wasn’t forehanded, and always enjoyed poor health. I’ve
brought you up the best I could for over seven years, but I expect
nothing but what Miss Hetty’ll send you back when the month’s up.”
“I’ll try real hard not to lose the chance,” said Polly, earnestly. Her
eyes shone with an odd mixture of determination and fright; there was,
moreover, a decided suggestion of tears, but Mrs. Manser, with her head
in her hands again, failed to notice it.
“It isn’t to be supposed you can take Eleanor’s place,” she groaned.
“You’re willing to fetch and carry, and you’ve got a fair disposition,
but you do hate to stay still. Your father was like that--one of these
restless folks.”
Polly’s face was overcast with doubt and trouble, but she stood her
ground. “I’ll be just as like Eleanor as ever I can,” she said, slowly.
“If I could only ask Miss Pomeroy just what Eleanor would have done
every day, I guess I could do the same. But you’ve told me I mustn’t
speak about Eleanor, because Miss Pomeroy doesn’t want anybody to.”
Polly looked wistfully at Mrs. Manser’s bowed head.
“That makes it harder,” said Polly, when there was no answer to this
half-question, save another groan, “but I guess I can manage someway.”
Her face looked as nearly stern as was possible for such a combination
of soft curves and dimples, but her eyes were misty.
Through the open door the soft air of the April morning blew in to her,
and her little body thrilled with the love of the spring, and living,
growing out-door friends. But if on her behavior depended the bestowal
of Miss Hetty’s princely sum, Manser Farm should have it. In all the
ten years of Polly’s life she had never before heard of such a large
amount of money, except in arithmetic examples, which, as everybody
knows, deal with all things in a bold way, unhampered by probability.
With a final groan, Mrs. Manser rose and went to the door. Then she
turned quickly to Polly.
“Here comes Miss Hetty now, up the road,” she said. “Go and make your
goodbyes to the folks, child, and put on your hat and jacket and then
get your bag, so as not to keep her waiting--she may be in a hurry.”
[TO BE CONTINUED]
* * * * *
Kind wishes and good deeds--they make not poor
They’ll home again, full laden, to thy door.
_Richard H. Dana_
A RAMBLE IN EARLY SPRING
By Julia McNair Wright
Going out for a walk on some March morning, we find the air soft and
warm, the skies of a summer blue, the water rippling in every little
runnel. We look about, half expecting to see a bluebird perched upon a
fence post, a robin stepping among the stubble. The stems and branches
which appeared dry and dead all the winter have now a fresh exhibition
of life. We can almost see the sap creeping up through their vessels
and distributing vigor where it goes.
Let us go to the woods, to some sunny southern slope where maples grow.
Turning over the light, soft earth, we shall find the maple seeds that
ripened last autumn and are now germinating. The seeds of the maple are
in pairs, which are called keys. They look more like little tan-colored
moths than keys; the distinctly-veined, winged husk is very like the
narrow and veined wings of many moths.
These seeds are winged in order that they may be blown abroad on the
wind and plant new forests farther afield. If they all dropped close
under the shade of the parent tree few would live beyond a year or two.
Where the wing-like husks come together there is a thickening of the
base of each into an ear-like lobe, holding a seed. The wrapping of
this seed softens, the seed enlarges as the embryo within it grows, the
husk is pushed open, and slowly comes forth the baby tree, composed
of two leaves and a stem. These two leaves, although very small, are
perfect and even green in the unopened seed.
They are soft and fleshy; in fact, they are pantries, full of food,
ready for the weak little plant to feed upon until it is strong enough
to forage and digest for itself. Everyone knows that babies must be
carefully fed on delicate food until they get their teeth. The baby
plant also needs well-prepared food.
Between the two leaves is a little white stem. The two leaves unfold,
and in a few days the air and sun have made them bright green. The
stem between them thrusts a little root into the earth; this root is
furnished with hairs. When the root is well-formed and the two seeds
have reached full size, a bud has formed in the axil between them.
This is the growing point of the new tree. This bud presently opens
into a pair of well-formed maple leaves.
As these leaves increase the seed-leaves diminish; the plant is feeding
upon them. The ascending stem presses its first pair of leaves upward,
forms between them two more, and then two more, and thus on.
Small branches are formed by the end of summer, the seed-leaves are
exhausted, and the plant is doing its own work.
Under the trees in March we find many interesting examples of
seed-growth. The feeding or seed-leaves of the young plant are called
cotyledons. All flowering plants have cotyledons; the plants whose
leaves have dividing or radiate veins, and whose stems are woody, or,
at least, not hollow, have two cotyledons; grasses, reeds, corn, and
other grains, lilies, bamboos, all plants with hollow stems and the
leaf-veins parallel have one cotyledon, while pines and trees of their
class have from three to twelve cotyledons, always set in a circle.
The seeds, the new plants, or seedlings of any variety are very
numerous. This is needful, as they are subject to many disasters. They
may be eaten by animals or birds, withered by too great dry heat,
devoured by worms, frozen or ruined by overmuch shade. If plantlets
were not very numerous the varieties of plants would presently die out.
When the March winds shake out the leaf-buds and the seeds in the
ground begin to stir with strong life, we are led to think of the
plant’s host of enemies.
These enemies of the plant will not all begin their work in March, but
they are enlisting, drilling, and furnishing their regiments for the
season’s strife.
WITH THE EDITOR
In the early days of our country the guest was always honored. Friend
or stranger, the door was thrown open to him, and the circle around the
fireplace parted willingly to receive him. After his comfort had been
assured, however, there came inevitably to the mind of the host the
natural queries--seldom expressed in words--“What is his name? What his
purpose?” Then the wayfarer, his reserve thawing before the friendly
greeting, would just as naturally open his heart and speak of himself.
Such was the old-time hospitality which Hawthorne so quaintly pictures
in “The Ambitious Guest.”
To-day, the railroad and the comparative luxury of travel have made the
wayside visitor a being of tradition, but the primitive impulses of
hospitality and curiosity still survive.
You have opened your doors to us and have welcomed us into that most
sacred of places--the family circle. You do not ask, yet we cannot
but feel, the old question in your kindly gaze. You would know our
name?--our purpose?
Until better advised, we shall call ourselves Young Folks Magazine.
Our purpose is to provide good reading for young people. By good
reading, we mean that which is interesting enough to catch and hold
the attention of the reader, and which, in the end, leaves him better
or wiser for having read it. But it must be interesting, or all its
other virtues fail. The young person, particularly the boy, looks with
distrust upon the story which comes too emphatically recommended as
useful. To him, mere utility is closely related to dullness. With this
knowledge fresh in our memory, we promise at the outset that our pages
shall not be lacking in a keen and healthy human interest.
“But,” we hear our host exclaim, “why another magazine in a time and
country already over-run with literature?”
Just think a moment. Count upon your fingers all the juvenile
periodicals which you know even by name. Compare this supply with
the demand. We are certainly understating the figures when we say
that there are twenty million young people in the United States. Even
the most widely-circulated of these periodicals does not claim half a
million subscribers. We believe it safe to say that of our whole great
nation of young people, not one in ten is yet supplied with a monthly
or weekly periodical. After all, is there not ample room for us at the
American fireside?
Finally, may we not ask of you a little lenience toward our early and
inevitable shortcomings? In return, we promise you that our own most
constant aim shall be, with each succeeding visit, better to deserve
your kindly welcome.
* * * * *
In spite of its traditional violence we always look forward to the
first month of spring. All the more do we hail it when, as in the
present case, it brings with it the Easter season. The name Easter is
supposed to have been derived from Oestre, the heathen deity of Spring,
in whose honor the ancient Teutons held their annual festival. Since
the Christian era, however, Easter has been in sole commemoration of
the Resurrection.
During the centuries following its inauguration many quaint customs
have sprung up and passed away. In parts of Ireland there is still a
belief that on Easter morning the sun dances in the sky.
The use of eggs for decoration and as playthings for children at this
season is of very early origin. Nowhere is this observance now so
common as in the capital of our own country. By immemorial custom, on
the Easter holiday, the grounds of the White House are thrown open
to the sport of children, who come from far and near to roll their
Easter eggs across its sloping lawns. It is a pleasant sight to see
the home of the nation’s chief executive so completely in the hands of
frolicking children.
EVENT AND COMMENT
The National University
Mr. Andrew Carnegie has offered the sum of ten million dollars to the
government of the United States to endow a national institution for the
promotion of the higher scientific research.
While the generosity of the donor is universally acknowledged, there
are some who question the practical value of the proposed university.
“Why,” they ask, “devote this vast sum to the special education of a
select few, while thousands of our children can only with difficulty
obtain the rudiments of a common education?”
If the endowment in question were intended merely for the present
generation, this question would be difficult to answer. In reality,
however, the very form and nature of the gift show that it is dedicated
not to the individual but to the race; and it is chiefly under the
leadership of the scientific specialist that the race advances. It is
his work rather than the influence of the common schools that has given
to mankind the steam-engine, the telegraph, and the electric light.
Heretofore, however, the development of men like Watt, Morse, Bell, and
Edison has been wholly dependent upon chance and their own phenomenal
perseverance. Who can say how many more of such men have been lost
to the public service through mere want of opportunity? It is this
opportunity that Mr. Carnegie’s gift would insure to coming generations.
As our great military school at West Point supplies the nation with
men educated for military leadership, so this institution will create
and perpetuate a corps of savants, forever at the service of the whole
people.
One cannot but feel that with this gift Mr. Carnegie has exercised an
even wiser forethought than in his many other generous benefactions.
Wireless Telegraphy
Signor Marconi, by means of his system of wireless telegraphy, has at
length succeeded in transmitting the equivalent of the letter “s” from
Europe to America. A glance at the work of the young inventor, however,
will show that his success is not yet insured.
His system--indeed, we might say all systems--of wireless telegraphy
depends upon the properties of luminiferous ether--that mysterious
medium that is supposed to exist in every known substance. The
discharge of an electric spark produces in this ether a bubble-like
wave which radiates in all directions. It is upon the reception and
recording, at Newfoundland, of this wave, produced at England, that the
success of Marconi’s experiment depends.
Even to the ordinary mind, such a proposition presents innumerable
difficulties. One of the most apparent would be the confusion arising
from two sets of signals operated in the same locality. But just as
we can throw all the rays of a search-light in one direction, Marconi
reflects these waves of ether toward his receiving station.
Perhaps one of the real drawbacks of this system would be the expense
of maintaining a current of sufficient voltage to signal long
distances. Nevertheless, we feel confident that, whether it be from
the brain of Marconi or Tesla, or the united efforts of Orling and
Armstrong, wireless telegraphy is insured to the future.
The Great Tunnel
We all remember with what wonder the public viewed the construction of
the great suspension bridge between New York and Brooklyn. Remarkable
as was that feat of engineering, a far more difficult one is now under
way. It is proposed to run a continuous tunnel under the North river,
New York City, and the East river, connecting the Pennsylvania Railroad
in New Jersey with the Long Island Railroad at Brooklyn. It is to be
eight miles long. Its chief purpose is to give trains, especially those
from the West, a direct and unimpeded entrance to New York City.
Beginning in the neighborhood of West Hoboken, the tunnel will
penetrate the hard ridge of the Palisades, and continue with a downward
incline until, under the North, or Hudson, river, it will reach a depth
of one hundred feet.
At Thirty-third street, in New York City, it will rise to within
twenty-five feet of the surface, and at this level cross beneath
Manhattan Island, where, at some central point, a large station will be
erected. Proceeding, east, the tunnel will again take a dip to pass the
East river, and come to light on the Brooklyn side in the neighborhood
of the present terminal of the Long Island Railroad.
The work of construction will begin early in the summer of 1902, and
will require a period of three or four years. Its estimated cost is not
less than $40,000,000.
Isthmian Canal
An important question which has arisen recently is the location of the
future Isthmian canal. Shall it cross at Nicaragua or Panama?
The House of Representatives, on January 9th, 1902, chose the former,
the best reasons being:
The saving of two days in the voyage between our Atlantic and Pacific
ports;
Its healthier climate, and the alleged lesser cost of construction.
The _Engineering Magazine_, on the other hand, sums up the advantages
of the already-undertaken Panama canal as follows:
It is three-fourths shorter, and could be maintained at a cost of
$1,350,000 a year less than the Nicaragua canal, is exempt from fifty
miles of dangerous river navigation, and its completion would require
but half the amount necessary to build the Nicaragua canal.
The Danish West Indies
On January 24th, 1902, the government of Denmark, through the pen of
their minister in Washington, ceded to the United States the group
of islands known as the Danish West Indies. Unsuccessful attempts to
purchase these islands were made in the years 1869 and 1877.
This last effort which, so far, promises success, was begun two years
ago. The delay has been due to a difference of price. The amount now
agreed upon is believed to be $5,000,000.
IN-DOORS
PARLOR MAGIC
By Ellis Stanyon
The first thing for the student of magic to do is to learn palming,
the art of holding small objects concealed in the hand by a slight
contraction of the palm.
Practice first with a half-dollar. Lay it in the right hand as shown
in Fig. 1. Then slightly contract the palm by pressing the ball of the
thumb inward, moving the coin about with the forefinger of the left
hand until you find it is in a favorable position to be gripped by the
fleshy portions of the hand. Continue to practice this until you can
turn the hand over without letting the coin fall.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--PALMING COIN]
When this can be accomplished with ease, lay the coin on the tips
of the second and third fingers, steadying it with the thumb, as in
Fig. 2. Then, moving the thumb aside to the right, bend the fingers,
and pass the coin up along the side of the thumb into the palm,
which should open to receive it, and where, if you have followed the
instructions carefully, you will find no difficulty in retaining it.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--PALMING COIN]
Practice this movement with the right hand in motion toward the left,
as if you really intended to place the coin in that hand. To get the
movement perfect, it is advisable to work in front of a mirror. Take
the coin in the right hand and actually place it in the left several
times; then study to execute the same movement exactly, with the
exception that you retain the coin in the right hand by palming.
The student who desires to become a finished performer should palm the
various objects with equal facility in either hand.
When you can hold a coin properly, as described, practice with other
objects of a similar size. In this case, however, owing to the greater
extent of surface, it will not be found necessary to press the object
into the palm, but simply to close the fingers round it, in the act of
apparently placing it in the left hand.
THE PASS. Second only in importance to the palming is the pass. Hold
the coin between the fingers and thumb of the left hand (Fig. 3), and
then appear to take it in the right by passing the thumb under and the
fingers over the coin.
[Illustration: Fig. 3.--THE PASS]
Under cover of the right hand the coin is allowed to fall into the
fingers of the left, where, by a slight contraction, it may be held
between the first and second joints, or it may be allowed to fall
into the palm proper. The right hand must be closed and raised as
if it really contained the coin, and be followed by the eyes of the
performer; the left falling to the side. This pass should be performed
equally well from either hand.
THE FINGER PALM.--Lay a coin on the fingers as shown in Fig. 4. Then,
in the act of apparently placing it in the left hand, raise the
forefinger slightly and clip the coin between it and the second finger.
The left hand must now close as if it contained the coin, and be
followed by the eyes of the performer, while the right hand disposes of
the coin as may be necessary.
[Illustration: Fig. 4.--THE FINGER PALM]
Following is an illustration of the way in which this sleight can be
employed with good effect.
Place a candle on the table to your left, and then execute the pass as
above described. The thumb of the right hand should now close on the
edge of the coin nearest to itself and draw it back a little; and at
the same time the candle should be taken from the candlestick between
the thumb and fingers of the same hand. (Fig. 5.) The left hand, which
is supposed to contain the coin, should now be held over the candle
and opened slowly, the effect to the spectators being that the coin is
dissolved into the flame. Both hands at this point should be shown back
and front, as the coin, owing to its peculiar position, cannot be seen
at a short distance. You now take the upper part of the candle in the
left hand, then lower the right hand to the lower end and produce the
coin from thence, the effect being that the money is passing through
the candle from one end to the other.
[Illustration: Fig. 5]
TO CHANGE A COIN.--Sometimes, in order to bring about a desired result,
it is necessary to change, or, in conjurer’s parlance, to “ring” a
borrowed or marked coin for a substitute of your own. There are many
ways of effecting this, but having once mastered the various “palms”
the student will readily invent means for himself. The following,
however, is the one generally adopted by conjurers:
Borrow a coin and have it marked. Then take it between the fingers and
thumb of the left hand, as in the pass (Fig. 3), having previously
secreted the substitute in the palm of the right. Now take the coin in
the right hand, and in so doing drop the substitute into the palm of
the left, which you immediately close, and remark, “You have all seen
me take the coin visibly from the left hand. I will now make it return
invisibly.” Saying this, you appear to throw the marked coin into the
left hand, really palming it, and showing your own, which every one
takes to be the original borrowed one. You may now proceed with the
trick in question, disposing of the marked coin as may be necessary.
Let the student practice faithfully the steps here given. He shall then
be prepared to make practical use of them, as we shall endeavor to show
in the next paper.
THE OLD TRUNK
This department we believe is destined soon to become one of the most
popular features of the magazine. Not only shall we spare no pains upon
our part, but we also earnestly ask your co-operation in providing
puzzles of all shapes and descriptions to bewilder and tangle the
most ingenious of intellects. To each of the first three persons who
shall correctly solve all the following puzzles, we will give a year’s
subscription to Young Folks Magazine, to be sent to any desired address.
ZIGZAG
1. A plant, but better known as a beverage.
2. To cross out.
3. An instrument for pounding.
4. A kind of ointment.
5. Reddish-brown.
6. To flee from danger.
7. To breathe out.
8. A planet.
When these words of six letters are correctly guessed and placed in the
order given, from 1 to 8 will spell the name of a common mineral found
in rocks.
. . . 1 . .
. . . . 2 .
. . . 3 . .
. . . . 4 .
. . . 5 . .
. . . . 6 .
. . . 7 . .
. . . . 8 .
--_Frank F. Rider_
ENIGMA
I am composed of sixteen letters:
My 2, 9, 6, 8, 16, 12, is a very small but useful household implement.
My 5, 4, 10, 11, 1, 15, is another implement, very common in the
school-room.
My 13, 14, 7, 3, is the part of a person closely in touch with both.
My whole is a building known throughout the land.
--_Samuel Baird_
BIRD PIE
Gtkinle,
Yulbeaj,
Orinb,
Rildbbake,
Rwco,
Doshwhurot.
--_J. F. Stokes_
ENIGMA
I am composed of seventeen letters:
My 4, 9, 10, 12, grows on an evergreen tree.
My 11, 1, 14, 5, is a small valley.
My 8, 15, 16, 5, is to grow less.
My 17, 3, 7, is a noise.
My 2, 1, 6, 13, is the home of a wild animal.
My whole is a book which you have all, doubtless, enjoyed.
--_E. L. Barnes_
DIAGONAL
When the following words of eight letters are guessed correctly and
placed one above the other in the order given, so as to form a square,
the diagonal from the upper left-hand corner to the lower right will
spell the name of one of the most important battles of the Revolution:
1. Reasonable.
2. Adherent.
3. Kind-hearted.
4. Ensnare.
5. Goods.
6. Resonant.
7. To barter.
8. One of Longfellow’s poems.
--_Bessie M_----
HIDING ANIMALS.
In each of the following sentences there are three hiding animals:
“It must be,” averred Caleb, earnestly, as he gazed at the new easel.
Wampum, a kind of money, used by the Indians, was made ere Cabot
terrified them by his presence.
Morse altered his plans, and accepting the offer, returned from his
foreign travel, knowing it to be for the best.
--_Margaret West_
A BUNCH OF KEYS
A JINGLE
A key to bear one up the mountain side;
A key to guard where freedom is denied.
The third, oft heard to chatter, ne’er in song.
The fourth beware! ’twill lead to gravest wrong.
This key his master serves, to ride, to work, to wait;
This one, spring-hatched, at Christmas meets his fate.
--_Caroline L_----
Transcriber’s Notes:
A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.
Archaic spellings have been retained.
Cover image is in the public domain.
The table of contents refers to a "With the Publisher" page that does
not exist in the transcribed image so does not exist in the transcription.