CHAPTER XIX_Youth, Vol. I, No. 7, September 1902: An Illustrated Monthly Journal for Boys & Girls

THE LETTER

From the moment of his entrance to the sick room, old Joe assumed all

charge of it, and with scant courtesy banished from it both Angelique

and Margot.

“But he is mine, my own precious uncle. Joe has no right to keep me

out!” protested Margot, vehemently.

Angelique was wiser. “In his own way, among his own folks, that Indian

good doctor. Leave him be. Yes. If my master can be save’, Joe Wills’ll

save him. That’s as God plans; but if I hadn’t broke--”

“Angelique! Don’t you ever, ever let me hear that dreadful talk again.

I can’t bear it. I don’t believe it. I won’t hear it. I will not. Do

you suppose that our dear Lord is--will--”

She could not finish her sentence and Angelique was frightened by the

intensity of the girl’s excitement. Was she, too, growing feverish

and ill? But Margot’s outburst had worked off some of her own

uncomprehended terror, and she grew calm again. Though it had not been

put into so many words, she knew both from Angelique’s and Joseph’s

manner that they anticipated but one end to her guardian’s illness. She

had never seen death, except among the birds and beasts of the forest,

and even then it had been horrible to her; and that this should come

into her own happy home was unbearable.

Then she reflected. Hugh Dutton’s example had been her instruction, and

she had never seen him idle. At times when he seemed most so, sitting

among his books, or gazing silently into the fire, his brain had been

active over some problem that perplexed or interested him. “Never

hasting, never wasting” time, nor thought, nor any energy of life. That

was his rule, and she would make it hers.

“I can, at least, make things more comfortable out-of-doors. Angelique

has let even Snowfoot suffer, sometimes, for want of the grooming and

care she’s always had. The poultry, too, and the poor garden. I’m glad

I’m strong enough to rake and hoe, even if I couldn’t lift Uncle as Joe

does.”

Her industry brought its own reward. Things outside the house took on a

more natural aspect. The weeds were cleared away, and both vegetables

and flowers lifted their heads more cheerfully. Snowfoot showed the

benefit of the attention she received, and the forgotten family in the

Hollow chattered and gamboled in delight at the reappearance among them

of their indulgent mistress. Margot herself grew lighter of heart and

more positive that, after all, things would end well.

“You see, Angelique dismal, we might as well take that broken glass

sign to mean good things as evil; that uncle will soon be up and

around again, Pierre be at home; and the ‘specimen’ from the old cave

prove copper or something just as rich, and--everybody be as happy as a

king.”

Angelique grunted her disbelief, but was thankful for the other’s

lighter mood.

“Well, then, if you’ve so much time and strength to spare, go yonder

and redde up the room that Adrian left so untidy. Where he never should

have been, had I my own way, but one never has that in this world; hey,

no. Indeed, no. Ever’thin’ goes contrary, else I’d have cleared away

all trace long sin’. Yes, indeed, yes.”

“Well, he is gone. There’s no need to abuse him, even if he did not

have the decency to say good-by. Though, I suppose it was my uncle put

a stop to that. What Uncle has to do he does at once. There’s never any

hesitation about Uncle. But I wish--I wish--Angelique Ricord, do you

know something? Do you know all the history of this family?”

“Why should I not, eh?” demanded the woman, indignantly. “Is it not my

own family, yes? What is Pierre but one son? I love him, oh, yes! But--”

[Illustration: “WHERE IS MY FATHER?”]

“You adore him, bad and trying as he is. But there is something you

must tell me, if you know it. Maybe you do not. I did not, till that

awful morning when he was taken ill. But that very minute he told me

what I had never dreamed. I was angry; for a moment I almost hated him

because he had deceived me, though afterward I knew that he had done

it for the best and would tell me why when he could. So I’ve tried to

trust him just the same and be patient. But--he may never be able--and

I must know. Angelique, where is my father?”

The housekeeper was so startled that she dropped the plate she was

wiping and broke it. Yet even at that fresh omen of disaster she could

not remove her gaze from the girl’s face nor banish the dismay of her

own.

“He told--you--that--that--”

“That my father is still alive. He would, I think, have told me more;

all that there may be yet to tell, if he had not so suddenly been

stricken. Where is my father?”

“Oh, child, child! Don’t ask me. It is not for me--”

“If Uncle cannot and you can, and there is no other person,

Angelique--you must!”

“This much, then. It is in a far, far away city, or town, or place, he

lives. I know not, I. This much I know: he is good, a ver’ good man.

And he have enemies. Yes. They have done him much harm. Some day, in

many years, maybe, when you have grown a woman, old like me, he will

come to Peace Island and forget. That is why we wait. That is why the

master goes, once each summer, on the long, long trip. When Joseph

comes, and the bad Pierre to stay. I, too, wait to see him, though I

never have. And when he comes, we must be ver’ tender, me and you, for

people who have been done wrong to, they--they--pouf! ’Twas anger I was

that the master could put the evil-come into that room, yes.”

“Angelique! Is that my father’s room? Is it? Is that why there are the

very best things in it? And that wonderful picture? And the fresh suits

and clothing? Is it?”

Angelique slowly nodded. She had been amazed to find that Margot knew

thus much of a long-withheld history, and saw no harm in adding these

few facts. The real secret, the heart of the matter--that was not yet.

Meanwhile, let the child accustom herself to the new ideas, and so be

prepared for what she must certainly and further learn, should the

master’s illness be a fatal one.

“Oh, then, hear me. That room shall always now be mine to care for. I

haven’t liked the housewifery, not at all. But if I have a father and

I can do things for him--that alters everything. Oh! you can’t mean

that it will be so long before he comes. You must have been jesting. If

he knew Uncle was ill he would come at once, wouldn’t he? He would, I

know.”

Poor Angelique turned her face away to hide its curious expression, but

in her new interest concerning the “friend’s room,” as it had always

been called, Margot did not notice this. She was all eagerness and

loving excitement.

“To think that I have a father who may come, at any minute, for he

might, Angelique, you know that, and not be ready for him. Your best

and newest broom, please, and the softest dusters. That room shall,

indeed, be ‘redded’--though uncle says nobody but a few people like you

ever use that word, nowadays--better than anybody else could do it.

Just hurry, please, I must begin. I must begin right away.”

She trembled so that she could hardly braid and pin up her long hair

out of the way, and her face had regained more than its old-time color.

She was content to let all that was still a mystery remain for the

present. She had enough to think about and enjoy.

Angelique brought the things that would be needed and, for once,

forebore advice. Let love teach the child--she had nought to say. In

any case, she could not have seen the dust, herself, for her dark eyes

were misty with tears, and her thoughts on matters wholly foreign to

household cares.

Margot opened the windows and began to dust the various articles which

could be set out in the wide passage, and did not come round to the

heavy dresser for some moments. As she did so finally, her glance flew

instantly to a bulky parcel, wrapped in sheets of white birch bark, and

bearing her own name, in Adrian’s handwriting.

“Why, he did remember me, then!” she cried, delightedly, tearing the

package open. “Pictures! the very ones I liked the best. Xanthippé

and Socrates, and oh! that’s Reynard. Reynard, ready to speak. The

splendid, beautiful creature; and the splendid, generous boy, to have

given it. He called it his ‘masterpiece,’ and, indeed, it was by far

the best he ever did here. Harmony Hollow--but that’s not so fine.

However, he meant to make it like, and--why, here’s a note! Why didn’t

I come in here before? Why didn’t I think he would do something like

this? Forgive me, Adrian, wherever you are, for misjudging you so. I’m

sorry Uncle didn’t like you, and sorry--for lots of things. But I’m

glad--glad you weren’t so rude and mean as I believed. If I ever see

you, I’ll tell you so. Now, I’ll put these in my own room and then get

to work again. This room you left so messed shall be as spotless as a

snowflake before I’ve done with it.”

For hours she labored there--brushing, renovating, polishing; and when

all was finished she called Angelique to see and criticise--if she

could. But she could not; and she, too, had something now of vital

importance to impart.

“It is beautiful’ done, yes, yes. I couldn’t do it more clean myself,

I, Angelique, no. But, ma p’tite I hear, hear, and be calm! The master

is himself! The master has awoke, yes, and is askin’ for his child.

True, true. Old Joe, he says, ‘Come! quick, soft, no cry, no laugh,

just listen.’ Yes. Oh, now all will be well!”

Margot almost hushed her very breathing. Her uncle awake, sane, asking

for her. Her face was radiant, flushed, eager, a face to brighten the

gloom of any sick room, however dark.

But this one was not dark. Joe knew his patient’s fancies. He had

forgotten none. One of them was the sunshine and fresh air; and though

in his heart he believed that these two things did a world of harm,

and that the ill-ventilated and ill-lighted cabins of his own people

were more conducive to recovery, he opposed nothing which the master

desired. He had experimented, at first, but finding a close room

aggravated Mr. Dutton’s fever, reasoned that it was too late to break

up the foolish habits of a man’s lifetime; and as the woodlander had

lived in the sunlight, so he would better die in it, and easier.

If she had been a trained nurse, Margot could not have entered her

uncle’s presence more quietly, though it seemed to her that he must

hear the happy beating of her heart and how her breath came fast and

short. He was almost too weak to speak at all, but there was all the

old love, and more, in his whispered greeting.

“My precious child!”

“Yes, Uncle. And such a happy child because you are better.”

She caught his hand and covered it with kisses, but softly, oh! so

softly, and he smiled the rare, sweet smile that she had feared she’d

never see again. Then he looked past her to Angelique, in the doorway,

and his eyes roved toward his desk in the corner. A little fanciful

desk that held only his most sacred belongings and had been Margot’s

mother’s. It was to be hers, some day, but not till he had done with

it, and she had never cared to own it, since doing so meant that he

could no longer use it. Now she watched him and Angelique wonderingly.

For the woman knew exactly what was required. Without question or

hesitation, she answered the command of his eyes by crossing to the

desk and opening it with a key she took from her own pocket. Then she

lifted a letter from an inner drawer and gave it into his thin fingers.

“Well done, good Angelique. Margot--the letter--is yours.”

“Mine? I am to read it? Now? Here?”

“No, no. No, no, indeed! Would you tire the master with the rustlin’

of paper? Take it, else. Not here, where ever’thin’ must be still as

still.”

Mr. Dutton’s eyes closed. Angelique knew that she had spoken for him,

and that the disclosure which that letter would make should be faced in

solitude.

“Is she right, Uncle, dearest? Shall I take it away to read?”

His eyes assented, and the tender, reassuring pressure of his hand.

“Then I’m going to your own mountain top with it. To think of having a

letter from you, right here, at home! Why, I can hardly wait! I’m so

thankful to you for it, and so thankful to God that you are getting

well. That you will be soon; and then--why, then--we’ll go a-fishing!”

A spasm of pain crossed the sick man’s wasted features, and poor

Angelique fled the place, forgetful of her own caution to “be still as

still,” and with her own dark face convulsed with grief for the grief

which the letter would bring to her idolized Margot.

But the girl had already gone away up the slope, faster and faster.

Surely, a letter from nobody but her uncle, and at such a solemn time,

must concern but one subject--her father. Now she would know all, and

her happiness should have no limit.

But it was nightfall when she, at last, came down from the mountain,

and though there were no signs of tears upon her face, neither was

there any happiness in it.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

The heights by great men reached and kept

Were not attained by sudden flight;

But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night.

--_Longfellow._

STATE FLOWERS

The following are the “State flowers,” as adopted by the several

States. In Maine, Michigan, and Oklahoma Territory the decision was

made by the Legislature, in the other cases by the votes of the

scholars in the public schools.

Alabama, goldenrod; Arkansas, aster; California, California poppy;

Colorado, columbine; Delaware, peach blossom; Idaho, syringa; Iowa,

wild rose; Maine, pine cone and tassel; Michigan, apple blossom;

Minnesota, moccasin flower; Missouri, goldenrod; Montana, bitterroot;

Nebraska, goldenrod; New Jersey (State tree, maple); New York, rose

(State tree, maple); North Dakota, goldenrod; Oklahoma Territory,

mistletoe; Oregon, Oregon grape; Rhode Island, violet; Vermont, red

clover; Washington, rhododendron. In Kansas, the sunflower is usually

known as the State flower.

* * * * *

The largest bell in the world is the great bell at Moscow, at the foot

of the Kremlin. Its circumference is nearly 68 feet, and its height

more than 21 feet. It is 23 inches thick in its stoutest part, and

weighs 433,722 pounds. It has never been hung.

THE FLOWERLESS PLANTS

By JULIA McNAIR WRIGHT

The year around and the world around, journey the plant pilgrims. Among

those perennials which are found in all latitudes and seasons are the

lichens and fungi. In September, while we wait for fruits and seeds to

finish ripening, let us make small studies in these related groups in

the vegetable sub-kingdom called the thallogens.

This sub-kingdom, one of the chief divisions of the vegetable kingdom,

is known as the class thallophytes. It contains the simplest forms of

vegetable life. Its chief groups are the fungi and algæ, the lichens

being related to both, as if algæ and fungi had united in one plant,

dividing and somewhat changing the characteristic of each.

At any period of the year you can find lichens in abundance. They

cover ragged rocks, dress up old roofs, walls, fence rails and dead

stumps, especially delighting in the north side of trees. If we examine

them through a magnifying glass, we shall see that they are made up

of cells, laid side by side like little chains of beads, or of cells

expanded into short tubes or threads lying like heaps of tiny fagots.

Instead of seeds, lichens have a fine dust, called spores, from which

they develop.

Lichens are exceedingly long-lived and excessively slow of growth.

The lily attains its lovely maturity in a few months; the oaks, elms,

pines, become great trees in twenty or thirty years; the humble lichen

often lives forty or fifty years before it is old enough to complete

its growth by producing spores. Botanists say that the life of a lichen

is fitful and strange, and is practically indefinite as to duration.

Lichens simply live on and on.

Some lichens have been known to live nearly fifty years without seeming

to grow; they appear to dry up, and nearly vanish; then, suddenly,

from some cause there is a revival of growth--they expand again. Small

and insignificant as these lichens are, they often outlive those

longest-lived of trees, the cedar of Lebanon and the California redwood.

The condition of lichen existence is water, for from moisture alone,

in dew or rain, they secure their food. The carbon, oxygen, ammonia,

hydrogen, in air and rain, afford them their nourishment. The lichen

generally refuses to grow in foul air laden with noxious gases. In the

impure air of cities few appear, but they abound in the open country.

They absorb by all the surface, except the base by which they are

fastened to their place of dwelling. They have no roots, and simply

adhere to bare rocks, sapless wood, even to naked glass, from which

they can receive no nutriment whatever.

In comparison with what is known of plants in general, our knowledge

of lichens is yet very limited. They seem to be made chiefly of a kind

of gelatin which exists in lichens only. Humble as they appear, they

have always been of large importance in arts and manufactures. They

produce exquisite dyes--a rich, costly purple, a valuable scarlet, many

shades of brown, and particularly splendid hues of blue and yellow are

obtained from these common little growths, which in themselves display

chiefly shades of black, gray green, varied with pink, red, and orange

cups, balls, and edges.

FUNGI

While not so abundant as lichens, the fungi are well known everywhere.

We cannot claim, as for the lichens, that they are harmless, for many

are a virulent poison: others have a disgusting odor, and nearly all

are dangerous in their decay. On the other hand, many of them are

a useful, delicious food, and nearly all are beautiful when first

developed. Their variety, also, is very fascinating.

[Illustration: THE FLOWERLESS PLANTS]

In a walk of less than two miles in a wet summer, may be found twenty

different kinds of fungi--some no larger than a pea, some eight inches

in diameter. They may be round, oval, flat, cup-shaped, horn-shaped,

cushion-shaped, saucer-shaped; they are snow-white, gray, tan, yellow,

lavender, orange, dark brown, pink, crimson, purple, and variously

mottled, scaly or smooth as with varnish. Placed on a large platter

among dark green mosses, they will be, for one day, a magnificent

collection.

One large, egg-shaped variety, growing in pairs, is of a purple shade,

very solid, and when broken open seems filled with glittering matter

like iron or steel filings. Another tan-colored, plum-shaped fungus,

firm and smooth, is of a nearly royal purple within.

September is a good month for the study of fungi, especially after

the early fall rains, when the woods and pastures will be found

well-filled, not only with brilliant, useless, or poisonous varieties,

but with delicious edible kinds. Popularly, people call the edible

specimens “mushrooms,” and the rest “toadstools,” the number of

poisonous or of edible instances so named depending rather upon the

amount of knowledge of the collector than upon the real qualities of

the fungi, for many denominate as “toadstools” what others know to be

an excellent food.

Many varieties not usually eaten are wholesome, and many which human

beings reject, other animals thrive upon. One large, brown “toadstool”

of the woods is, at this season of the year, the chief food of that

epicure, the wood-tortoise.

In general a fungus may be defined as a thallophyte without any

chlorophyl or leaf-green in its composition. Among the brilliant colors

displayed by fungi no green or blue can be found.

The most popular and most useful fungus is the table mushroom. This

rarely ever grows in the woods, in shade, on wet lands, or on decaying

stumps. It prefers the open, breezy, well-sunned pastures, where the

grass is kept short by the grazing of sheep or cattle. Early in the

morning or shortly before sunset, the dainty white or cream-colored

buttons, borne on snow-white stalks, push up through the soil and

gradually expand until the discs are flat or slightly convex. From two

to six inches is the diameter, seldom more than three.

Varieties of the pasture mushroom are few and can readily be learned.

The mushroom is composed of stem and cap; the stem is finger-shaped,

with the roundish end in the earth. About half way up is usually a

ring of the covering skin, where, in the button shape, the veil of the

mushroom was attached.

This veil extends over the cap and is left at the edge of a little

frill; it can be easily stripped off. Under the veil the flesh is

ivory-white, and is smooth and firm.

The under side of the cap is laid in plaits, called gills, from their

resemblance to fish gills. They never grow fast to, or down upon, the

stem, usually stopping short off, about one-tenth of an inch from its

juncture with the cap. Mushrooms are cultivated in gardens or cellars.

They grow from spores or little finger-like lengths, called spawn,

which are produced by the spores. Mushrooms turn black or purplish

after the first twenty hours of growth. When the gills have taken this

dark hue, the mushroom is unfit to eat.

Some fungi grow in very wet places; the woods are likely to be full of

them after a few rainy days. They are all short-lived.

INDEPENDENCE

Although not new to some of our readers, we think the following

anecdote, illustrating one phase of Benjamin Franklin’s character, will

bear repeating:

Not long after he began editing his newspaper, Franklin’s free manner

of criticism called forth the disapprobation of many of his patrons.

One of them in particular felt so greatly moved as to make it his duty

to tell him so. “The doctor listened with patience to the reproof, and

begged the favor of his friend’s company at supper on an evening which

he named; at the same time requesting that the other gentlemen who were

dissatisfied with him should attend.

“When the guests arrived, the doctor received them cordially, and his

opinions were thoroughly criticised and much advice given. Supper

was at last announced and the guests invited into an adjoining room.

The doctor begged the party to be seated, and urged them to help

themselves: but the table was only supplied with two puddings and a

stone pitcher of water. Each guest had a plate, a spoon, and a bowl.

They were all helped, but none of them could eat. The doctor took

freely of the pudding, and urged the others to do the same; but it was

out of the question. They tasted and tried in vain. Upon inquiry, they

learned that the pudding was made of sawdust.

“When the facetious host had made sure that they could not eat, he

rose and addressed them thus: ‘My friends, anyone who can subsist upon

sawdust pudding, as I can, needs no man’s patronage.’”

The doctor’s life has proved his statement. The person who can adapt

himself to all circumstances and deny himself when necessary can attain

true independence.

WHIP-POOR-WILL

When the ev’ning shadows lengthen

Down the hill and ’cross the vale,

And the trees are imaged darkly

Where the river glimmers pale;

Then I love to sit and listen,

While the air is warm and still,

To a voice from out the poplars,

Crying softly, “Whip-poor-will!”

Slowly, slowly creeps the twilight

From the east unto the west,

Till it fills the peaceful valley,

Sends the forest folk to rest;

All except a noisy fellow

In the poplars near the mill,

Whose demands are most insistent

For the punishment of “Will.”

Soon the vale is dark and lonely,

Closed in sleep each drowsy eye;

Through the clouds the stars are peeping

For their watch tower in the sky;

Only winds that whisper softly,

In the poplars by the mill,

Listen to the night-bird calling,

Till the daybreak, “Whip-poor-will.”

--_Geo. E. Winkler._

LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS

BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD

CHAPTER XVI

IN THE BARN

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

Polly Prentiss is an orphan who, for the greater part of her

life, has lived with a distant relative, Mrs. Manser, the

mistress of Manser Farm. Miss Hetty Pomeroy, a maiden lady

of middle age, has, ever since the death of her favorite

niece, been on the lookout for a little girl whom she might

adopt. She is attracted by Polly’s appearance and quaint

manners, and finally decides to take her home and keep her

for a month’s trial. In the foregoing chapters, Polly has

arrived at her new home, and the great difference between

the way of living at Pomeroy Oaks and her past life affords

her much food for wonderment. In the meantime Miss Pomeroy

has inwardly decided that she will keep Polly with her,

but as yet she has not spoken to the little girl of her

intentions.

While the old people at Manser Farm were reading Polly’s letter, the

little girl herself was listening with a sober face to a piece of news

which had come to Miss Pomeroy. It was eight o’clock--past Polly’s

bed-time--but she was so anxious to finish the wonderful story of the

Snow Queen that Miss Hetty had offered to read the last pages aloud.

She had reached the end only a moment before Hiram brought the mail.

“Bobby--my little nephew--is coming here to spend Sunday on his way to

see another aunt, his mother’s sister,” said Miss Pomeroy, looking up

from her letter to Polly, who stood waiting to say good-night. “I’m

very glad, Mary, for I am sure you two children will enjoy each other,

you are both so quiet and fond of books. Perhaps we can persuade Bobby

to make us a longer visit on the way home.”

That night and the next morning Polly stretched in Ebenezer’s fashion

until her little arms and legs ached. She made up her mind that she

would lose no opportunity for the next three days of performing this

gymnastic exercise or of hurrying on her growing likeness to Eleanor in

other ways.

She sat for hours with Miss Pomeroy, sewing patchwork and listening to

stories of the old curiosities in the Indian cabinet that stood in the

parlor. They were interesting stories, but the room was kept very warm

because of Miss Hetty’s rheumatism which was troublesome just then, and

Polly’s head grew hot and tired as she sat quietly in the little chair

at Miss Pomeroy’s side. She ate as much as she possibly could at every

meal, and she did not speak of going out to walk in the afternoons

after her hour on the bed.

“I shall be glad when I get over this stiffness, so we may have our

walks together again,” said Miss Pomeroy, when Friday night came. “I’m

afraid if it were not for me, Mary, you would not have enough outdoor

air. But I am glad you are so contented in the house, for it is very

pleasant to have a little companion while I am obliged to keep still so

much of the time.”

Polly smiled affectionately at her, but the little girl’s heart was

heavy. She was listless in her movements except when under some one’s

eye, and felt a strange indifference to the things which had always

delighted her.

“I guess I’m getting just exactly like Eleanor in some ways,” she

said to herself many times a day. “The brook calls and calls me just

the way it did at first, but my legs feel so queer and my head is so

funny. I don’t seem to care so much about paddling in the water now.

Miss Arctura says it is too cold in the woods yet, anyway. She says

her brother John’s wife caught her death once, neglecting to use her

judgment when a cold spell came in April. Oh, dear. I wish Bobby had

been here and gone away! S’posing he doesn’t ’prove of me. Wouldn’t

that be dreadful!”

Hiram was Polly’s stay and comfort in this trying time. Arctura--the

truth must be told--had suffered more or less from a grumbling

toothache ever since her afternoon in the woods. Arctura objected to

going to the dentist “on principle,” she said, though Miss Pomeroy had

never been able to understand just what she meant by that. Hiram was

the only person who ventured to brook the subject to his sister, and

his advice was sharply scorned.

“Don’t you think you’d ought to have that tooth pulled, ’Tura?” Hiram

had mildly asked as he washed his hands at the noon hour on Thursday,

and Miss Green had turned upon him with swift contempt.

“Better have my legs removed next time they get a mite overtired and

ache a little, hadn’t I?” she said, severely. “Go and have all your own

teeth out whenever you want, but just leave mine alone, if you please!”

Polly had overheard this dialogue as she entered the kitchen on an

errand, and she could hardly believe her ears.

“But, ’Tura’ll be all right soon as the weather warms up again,” Hiram

had explained to Polly in the barn at milking-time. “She ain’t been

quite herself the last day or two; toothache appears to upset her more

than anything else in this world. I saw her grinding her jaws together

yesterday morning, and I knew ’twas that old left-hand wisdom of hers

at it again. She’s got a roasted raisin in it now, I know by the way

she mumbled at me when I went in for the milk-pail, but I dursn’t refer

to it. We’ll just step kind of easy for the next twenty-four hours and

it’ll be all clear weather again. She hasn’t got any real malice in

her, ’Tura hasn’t.”

“I think she’s just as kind as she can be,” said Polly, warmly. But

it was a sober little face at which Hiram smiled broadly down when he

arose from the milking stool.

“You stay here while I take this in,” he said, cheerily, “and I’ll

fetch out a lantern so we can run through ‘On Linden’ far as we’ve

gone. You said old Marm Hackett was with Miss Hetty, I believe?”

“Yes,” said Polly, “and she told me to run out for a while as she

had something to lay before Miss Pomeroy. Do you think she’s a very

pleasant old lady, Mr. Hiram?”

“Well, now, let’s see if I’ve ever heard anybody speak of her that

way,” said Hiram, cautiously. “I guess I’d better consider it while I’m

carrying off the milk.”

Polly knew that his opinion agreed with hers, and she gave a little

laugh as he swung out of the barn with the pail of milk. When he

returned with the lantern she was standing in the middle of the barn

floor and made a sweeping courtesy to him as he entered.

“That’s good,” said Hiram, setting down the lantern and seating himself

on the lowest stair of the flight that led up to the loft. “That’s

first-rate. How would it be if you should make two of ’em--one to the

left and one to the right? In case folks were seated promiscuous--that

is here and there,” explained Hiram, “it would be fair to all parties.

That’s it--that’s the way to do it!” and he clapped his hands as Polly

greeted an imaginary audience. “Nobody’s going to feel left out with

that beginning. Now for it.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Polly, with a wide sweep of her arms, “the

piece that I am about to speak to you is ‘Hohenlinden,’ by Mr. Thomas

Campbell.”

“Little louder, if you please,” said Hiram, in a disguised voice,

“there’s a couple of old ladies at the rear that don’t want to miss a

word.”

“‘On Linden, when the sun was low.’”

said Polly, in a clear, loud voice--and as she spoke, she stooped and

indicated the position of the sun with her right hand--

“‘All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,

And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.’”

The rapidity of Iser’s flow was shown by Polly’s two little arms, which

swung back and forth from her shoulders as fast as she could possibly

move them.

“That’s prime!” said Hiram, approvingly. “Seems as if I could see old

Iser right before me. Now, the next verse.”

“‘But Linden saw another sight,’”

said Polly, flushed with pleasure, shielding her eyes with her hand and

gazing anxiously about the barn.

“First-rate!” cried her instructor. “I tell you, little Mary, you’ve

got the real spirit for reciting! Now that gesture had never come into

my mind, and yet there ’tis, fitting in complete. I make no doubt

Linden folks were out looking just that way, bound to see, yet scared

of what would meet ’em. Now for the drums!”

“‘When the drum beat at dead of night,’”

said Polly, valiantly belaboring her right palm with the clenched

fingers of her left hand.

“‘Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.’”

“There’s not a bit of fault to be found with that,” said Hiram, as he

received the lantern from the hands of his pupil, who had seized it

and swung it wildly about when the “fires of death” were lighting. “Of

course, the lantern will be behind you the night of the entertainment,

ready for use.”

“Of course,” said Polly. “Now comes the best verse of all, I think, Mr.

Hiram:

“‘By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,’

I shall have a candle and the tin horn that night, you know--

“‘Each horseman drew his battle-blade--’”

Uncle Blodgett’s gift was drawn with a fierce flourish--

“‘And, furious, every charger neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.’”

The verse ended with an indescribable sound, and Hiram drew his hand

across his mouth before he spoke in answer to Polly’s questioning eyes.

“I call that a pretty fair neigh,” he said, encouragingly. “I don’t

know as I’d go so far as to say ’twould deceive anybody into thinking

there was a horse right on the spot, but it’s improving in its quality

all the time, I notice.”

“I’m so glad,” said Polly, “because, you see, I can’t make the roars

and other noises for the ‘dreadful revelry’ the way you can, and I

wanted to do something.”

The next two verses finished Polly’s recitation for that evening.

Hiram had promised to assist with “the hills with thunder riven” and

the “red artillery.” The thunder was to be made with a pair of wooden

dumb-bells, and the “red artillery” was a little old lantern with a red

glass front which would dart about Polly’s figure in Mr. Green’s hand.

“That was an extra good rehearsal,” said he, as the little girl sat

down beside him on the stairs. “Now, we’ll learn the next verse, shall

we, and call it we’ve finished for the night?”

When the next lines, with their “furious Frank and fiery Hun,” were

pronounced perfect, Polly begged for a story.

“Just a little bit of a short one, Mr. Hiram, before I go to bed,” she

said, coaxingly, “and I don’t care whether it is true or not.”

“That being the case,” said Hiram, soberly, as they sat close together

with the lantern at their feet, “I’ll relate a little circumstance

that a man once told me. It’ll give you something to think about, but

I shouldn’t want to say how true ’tis, for it seems a mite improbable.

This man said that a friend of his out West somewhere had always had

trouble with the chimney in his parlor--I would say with the draught of

it up from the fireplace. He had it tinkered off an’ on for years, and

finally he decided he’d have the old contraption torn down and a bran’

new chimney put up.

“Someway the mason made a mistake and got the new chimney on wrong side

up, and the draught was a powerful one, and, first they know, rain,

hail, snow, and what-all were drawed right down into the room, making

dreadful work.

“They sent for the mason, of course, and he took the chimney down and

put it on again right side up, and then the draught was so powerful

that it drawed a braided rug and a pair o’ tongs and a three-legged

stool and a number of other articles right up the chimney.

“Then they saw something had got to be done, so they put a poultice--a

flour poultice, I understood him to say--on the jamb of the fireplace,

and that drawed down so it balanced and counteracted the draught, and

after that the chimney gave perfect satisfaction.”

Polly had stared at the narrator when he began the story, but as he

progressed she covered her mouth with both hands for fear she should

laugh out and interrupt him.

“Mr. Hiram,” she cried, as the storyteller rose, chuckling, and began

to close the barn for the night, “next to Mr. Hans Christian Andersen’s

I would rather hear your make-believe circumstances than anybody’s that

ever I heard!”

“Compliment number two,” said Hiram, as they stepped out of the barn,

side by side. “You’d better be looking sharp or you’ll have me all

stuffed out with pride before you know it, young lady.”

CHAPTER XVIII

A DREADED VISITOR

Nobody but the kittens knew that Polly dreaded the coming of Eleanor’s

twin. She told them all about it Saturday morning as they sat in her

lap, cuddled up into a warm heap under the gray shawl that Arctura had

wrapped about her.

Arctura’s tooth had not quite stopped its grumbling and she had firmly

declined Polly’s aid in the kitchen that morning.

“I’ve got some bothersome cooking to do,” said Arctura, without the

smile which might let in a draft of air on the convalescent jaw, “and

I’d best be alone, for my nerves are sort of jumpy along with a pain

I’ve been enduring in my head without speaking of it, for some days.

The air’s mild enough for you to sit out on the piazza and watch for

Miss Hetty and Bobby, if I wrap you up well. It’s getting ready to

rain again to-morrow, and then I have hopes of some fair, warm weather

when it clears off finally.”

Miss Pomeroy’s rheumatism was much less troublesome than it had been

for some days, and Hiram had helped her into the low basket phaeton an

hour before.

“I expect she’s ’most home now,” said Polly to the kittens, with a

little shiver, “and she’s bringing that boy--that Bobby--home with her.

He’s going to stay till Monday morning. You needn’t be frightened, Snip

and Snap, for he’s a boy that just likes to read; he wouldn’t do the

things to kitties that the Higgins boys do--things with strings and

spools, till the teacher stopped them. And, anyway, you’ve got lots

of places to hide, where nobody could get you. But I can’t hide. I’m

obliged to be right out where he can see me, and tell whether I’m like

his sister Eleanor that died, and maybe change Miss Pomeroy’s mind

after all, and lose Grandma Manser her ear-trumpet, and the money for

the leaks and shingles and everything!”

Polly buried her face in the old shawl for a minute, and then sat up

straight with a little gasp.

“I hear the phaeton!” she whispered, squeezing the kittens in her

excitement. “I hear it coming over the bridge--fast!”

Snip and Snap objected to squeezing. They struggled under the shawl

and dashed out over Polly’s knees, clutching wildly at the fringe.

They looked up at her cannily with arched backs, and then scurried off

toward the barn.

As the phaeton came around the curve of the driveway, Polly stood up,

clasping her hands under the old shawl. She heard Arctura bustling out

of the kitchen to the porch, and moved slowly along to stand beside

her. In a moment more she found herself solemnly shaking hands with

a boy who had jumped into the phaeton and then politely helped Miss

Pomeroy out.

“This is my nephew Bobby,” Miss Hetty was saying. “And this is little

Mary Prentiss.”

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Polly, lifting her

brown eyes to meet a pair of very large blue ones which gazed at her

through spectacles.

“How d’you do?” said the boy, pleasantly. “Haven’t you got about

through with my hand?”

He laughed as he said it, and so did Polly, but when the hand-shaking

stopped they stood looking at each other awkwardly until Arctura broke

the ice.

“You two children step out to the dining-room, while Miss Hetty goes

and rests after her ride,” said Arctura, cordially. “I’ve set a tray

with two tumblers of milk and some crullers on the buffet, and you can

stand up and eat on to it, so’s not to scatter the crumbs. I never

saw the time a boy wasn’t ready to eat, and Mary here’s got a most

excellent appetite of her own. Dinner won’t be ready for nearly two

hours yet.”

“Thank you,” cried Bobby. “You’re a trump!”

“Seems to me you’ve thickened up a little since last time,” said Miss

Green, cautiously guarding the entrance to the cavern wherein dwelt her

wisdom tooth, as she acknowledged this commendation. “I suppose you’ll

drop into the kitchen along in the afternoon while Miss Hetty and Mary

are taking their naps? I don’t see my way clear to sitting down at

dinner for a talk with you, for I’ve been having a little neuralgy and

the air in the dining-room seems kind of chilly after the kitchen.”

“Do you take a nap every day?” asked Bobby, curiously, as he and Polly

drank their milk and ate the crisp crullers. “I s’pose girls like to

do that kind of thing, but I’d rather read all night than waste time

sleeping in the daylight. I’ve never known any girl very well except my

sister. I’m afraid of them, they’re so queer.”

“Oh, they’re not half so queer as boys, I’m sure!” asserted Polly, with

much decision. “I guess if you knew the Higgins boys that I’ve been to

school with, you’d say so. I never could get those boys to play house

with me once! They said it wasn’t any fun.”

“Well, ’tisn’t, you know,” said Bobby, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Of course, nothing happens when you play house, no adventures--no

accidents--no anything.”

“No accidents!” echoed Polly, in amazement. “I should think it was a

pretty dreadful accident to invite four dollies to tea (cut out of a

newspaper, they were, beautiful ones, Uncle Blodgett did them for me),

and find you had burned up every biscuit to a crisp while you were

setting the table. I mean they had burned themselves up! Don’t you like

to play any make-believes?”

“Yes, I like some,” admitted the boy, frankly, “but you wouldn’t like

my kind, and I call yours pretty slow.”

“What kind of make-believes do you like best?” asked Polly, as she and

the dreaded guest sat together in the library at dusk. Miss Pomeroy was

entertaining Marm Hackett in the parlor, much to the old woman’s rage,

she having desired a talk with the newcomer, for whom she had prepared

a list of searching questions.

“I like the kind of make-believes that are in books,” said the boy,

staring into the fire. He sat on the hearth-rug with his legs crossed

in a position of tantalizing comfort. Polly sat in a straight-backed

chair and viewed him with envy. She would have liked so much to be

beside him on the rug with her hands clasped over her knees and her

chin resting on them. And he had not felt obliged to take any nap. She

had heard him talking to Arctura while she lay on that hot bed.

“‘Treasure Island’ is a mighty good make-believe,” remarked Bobby,

after a short silence. “I shouldn’t have had any objections to living

that story right along.”

“I’ve never read it,” said Polly, with a little sigh. “I’ve never read

much of anything till now. Is ‘Treasure Island’ as beautiful as the

‘Snow Queen’?” she asked, doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem as if it could

be.”

“Beautiful isn’t the word for it,” said Bobby, turning his spectacled

eyes toward her for a moment. “It’s wild, and murderous in places, and

it carries you along with it. So does ‘Kidnapped.’ That’s what you want

of a book. I never can make up my mind whether I’d rather have been

David Balfour or Napoleon. If I had my choice, I believe I’d have to

draw lots.”

“There are places in the woods where Miss Arctura and I went one day

that would be splendid for make-believes, I should think,” ventured

Polly, anxious to please this remarkable boy. “There are rocks that

you could hide behind and jump out at me. I shouldn’t be a bit

afraid--truly, I shouldn’t!”

“We’ll see,” said Bobby, “only to-morrow’s Sunday, you know, and, of

course, we have to go to church--and, anyway, I couldn’t be as fierce

about it as if you were a boy. I couldn’t knock a girl over, or pitch

into her and wrest her sword from her grasp. That’s where the fun comes

in.”

“I thought they said you didn’t care much about play,” said Polly, much

surprised.

“I don’t care for ball, or marbles, or any of those things,” said

Bobby, scornfully. “I’d rather read, any day. But there’s a fellow at

home, George Rogers--just twelve, my age, you know--and he and I play

a robber band piece that we’ve made out of different books. I can tell

you it’s worth seeing. Only, I suppose, ’twould scare a girl blue.”

“It would not scare me blue.” said Polly, shaking her curls. “I should

like it!”

“Eleanor never minded it,” said the boy, softly, to himself, but

Polly heard him, and her heart beat high with hope as he took off his

spectacles, rubbed them for a minute with a big, white handkerchief,

and then adjusted them carefully to his nose, as Uncle Blodgett always

did when preparing to read the newspaper.

“Perhaps he’ll think I’m something like Eleanor, after all,” said Polly

in her heart. She hesitated for a moment and then leaned over until her

head was almost against the boy’s shoulder, as he sat gazing into the

fire.

“Do you like ‘Mary’ for a name?” she asked, scarcely breathing the

words.

“Why, yes, I don’t know but I do,” said the boy, turning to face her.

“But what are you whispering for? I can tell you what I don’t like--I

despise ‘Bobby’ for a name! It’s just like baby talk--but I’m afraid

of hurting Aunt Hetty’s feelings if I say anything about it. Next time

she comes over to our house, I’m going to get grandfather just to

suggest to her that it’s time to give up nicknames when a boy’s all but

in his teens. He can do it all right. Maybe she’ll bring you over. I’d

like to show you George Rogers, and we could do our act for you.”

“Perhaps I shall be in school then,” said Polly, feeling highly honored

by this invitation, “there are only two weeks more vacation.”

“You’re not going to school next term,” said Bobby. “I know, for Aunt

Hetty told me. She wants to get you more ‘chippered up,’ Arctura says.

Isn’t Arctura an old dear? Did she ever tell you what the children

used to sing about her nose when she was a young one? It’s funny, and

she says she never minded, but I’d have soon stopped them if I’d been

there.”

“She never told me,” said Polly, with a glance of admiration at the boy

who spoke so valiantly while he looked so mild, “I’d like to hear it.”

“Her nose is pretty prominent, of course,” said the heir of the

Pomeroys, reluctantly, “and she says it got its growth before the rest

of her. And when they’d see her coming they’d sing out:

“Hark! hark!

’Tura’s bark!

’Spose her nose

Came out o’ the Ark!”

“How mean!” cried Polly, indignantly.

“That’s what I say, but she laughed like everything when she told me

about it,” said the boy. “She says her voice was hoarse and queer

because she was always having coughs and colds. She seemed to think it

was a good joke.”

“That’s because she’s so good-natured,” said little Polly.

“I say, let’s act a charade to-night and make Aunt Hetty guess it.”

said the boy, after staring at the old andirons in silence for a few

minutes. “I know a fine one that I’ve just thought up, and I’ll tell

you how to do your part. George Rogers and I are always making them

up, and then our families try to guess them.”

Polly assented with mingled joy and fear. Bobby pressed Arctura into

his service to collect materials for this impromptu entertainment, and

at seven o’clock Miss Pomeroy sat in the library, waiting for the first

syllable. The door that led into the little porch hall was open, and

Arctura and Hiram were seated side by side just over the threshold of

the dining-room.

“I don’t want to sit in the library along with your aunt, for it gets

het up so with that fire,” Miss Green had explained to the actors.

“Hiram and I will sit outside where we can see all, and yet keep

comfortable.”

The children had exchanged a glance of perfect understanding and some

amusement, but loyalty to the faithful Arctura kept them silent.

A moment after the tall clock had given its seven silvery strokes, the

door into the front hall burst open and in rushed a strange figure. He

was wrapped in a blanket with a bright red border, tied about the waist

with a blue and green plaid shawl. In this belt were two carving knives

and a hammer. A feather duster waved above the boy’s head, its handle

imparting a peculiar stiffness to the action of his neck. A brown

calico mask was drawn over his face. In each hand was an old hatchet.

“Never you fear, Miss Hetty,” came Arctura’s voice from the porch hall,

as this extraordinary figure began to caper about the room, uttering

discordant yells and brandishing the hatchets, “there isn’t a weapon in

his outfit that would cut a string. Mercy on us, keep away from me!”

she shrieked, as the calico mask turned in her direction.

Presently Polly appeared with a little basket on her arm, walking along

with eyes cast down. There was a wild whoop from the figure in the

blanket, a shrill cry from Polly, and the two rushed from the room,

leaving the audience to reflect upon what they had seen.

“Looked like murder to me,” said Hiram, chuckling, “but I suppose that

ain’t the answer.” Just then Bobby stuck his head in the door.

“We think it’s only fair to you,” he said, bowing to his aunt, and

casting a glance beyond her into the darkness where sat the Greens, “to

tell you that there were three syllables to the first act--there’ll be

two to this next one--and one to the last.”

“Three syllables--that settles it--murder’s only got two,” remarked

Hiram, solemnly. “Well, I’ve guessed wrong the first time. Got any

light on it, Miss Hetty?”

“I’m not sure, of course, Hiram,” said Miss Pomeroy, with a laugh, “but

I have the glimmer of an idea.”

Hiram’s chuckle ended abruptly as the door opened to admit Polly,

bearing a slate, on which was drawn an irregular-shaped object, from

the top of which a long line curved off to one edge of the slate.

“I call that a pin-quishion,” said Hiram, meditatively, “or else a

balloon. I don’t know which. It’s first-rate for either one.”

“It isn’t,” said Polly; then she blushed, shook her head, and ran out

of the room, to be received by her partner in the hall with a good deal

of reproach.

“I seem to be sinking in deeper every time,” said Hiram, in a loud

voice, intended to reach the other hall. “Murder--quishion is the

nearest I’ve come.”

“In this next scene you’ve got to pretend you’re all English,” said the

boy, pausing on the threshold before he and Polly entered, “for that’s

the only way we can make it come out right.”

“Pretty short notice for a man that’s never been thirty miles from

home,” said Mr. Green, in a melancholy tone.

The actors paid no heed to him. Polly put her little right hand to her

ear and assumed a listening attitude, while the boy fell prone upon his

stomach, and, raising his head, began to squirm over the floor, making

a strange sound suggestive of tightly-shut teeth and breath drawn in

and let out with all possible force. At last he squirmed out of the

door, followed by the listening Polly.

There was a sound of animated dialogue in the hall, and then just as

Hiram had made the doleful announcement that all was lost as far as his

guessing was concerned, in came the boy and girl, hand in hand.

“We can’t do the whole word,” announced Bobby, “for we’ve decided we

don’t either of us draw well enough. But all I can say is, it’s on the

map. Now, have you guessed? You have, Aunt Hetty, I know you have!”

“I’m not at all certain,” said Miss Pomeroy, cautiously. “Could it

be--Indianapolis?”

“I knew you’d guess,” said the boy, delightedly. “Wasn’t it pretty

good? Indian--apple--’iss. ’Twas her idea, thinking of dropping the h

off hiss, because her Uncle Blodgett told her once that was the way

English people talked.” He looked with appreciation at Polly, as he

gave her this generous tribute. “Wasn’t it bright of her?”

“I move we clap the whole company,” said Hiram--and the entertainment

closed in a burst of applause, while the two actors made their very

best bows to the audience.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

[Illustration: “GOOD BY”

SPEEDING THE UNFORTUNATE WHOSE SCHOOL OPENS FIRST]

_Wood-Folk Talk_

By J. ALLISON ATWOOD

WHY BIRDS MIGRATE

There are very few people who really know why birds migrate--that

is, fly south in the fall, and then return to us in the springtime.

Some say that they cannot stand the cold, and so escape it by going

south where it is warm all winter. Others believe that at the end of

summer the birds have eaten all their food, so they have to go to

some locality where the insects and other dainties have not all been

devoured. Both of these explanations seem reasonable until one has

learned the real cause.

A great many years ago, hundreds and hundreds in fact, birds stayed all

year round in the same place they had built their nests, and, no doubt,

they would do so now if they had their choice. But as it is, they no

sooner feel the first breath of winter than they hurry away as if

pursued by some enemy. And that they have some reason to fear, I’m sure

you will agree when you have heard it.

It was a very cold winter. Most of the birds had to move out of their

summer homes. Brown-thrasher and Song-sparrow had been forced to give

up their thickets, all the undergrowth being dead. Thereupon the former

grumbled much because Flicker was so well sheltered from the cold.

In the summer time, Thrasher had been among the first to make fun of

the carpenter for building such a peculiar house, but now he looked

longingly at him as he disappeared within the comfortable-looking

hollow limb. Kingfisher, too, was regarded with more respect as he

took shelter in the long tunnel which he had made during the previous

summer. But as for those most unfortunate birds who had built on the

ground, as Bobolink and Meadowlark, they, indeed, were very much put

out, for their houses were entirely covered with snow. Still, it is

very probable that everyone would have stayed north all winter had not

something far more dreadful occurred.

On the evening of the winter’s heaviest storm, the birds had all

gathered under an evergreen to sleep. Among them were Flicker and

Kingfisher, for they, much to Thrasher’s delight, had been driven from

their homes on the day before by those improvident fellows, Squirrel

and Muskrat, who thus obtained houses far better than any they could

have built for themselves. The wind was whistling frightfully, and each

one had his head tucked under his wing for warmth. Suddenly Bobolink

stood upright and peered out anxiously into the darkness. His keen ear

had caught some other sound than the harsh wind and spluttering snow.

In an instant Bobolink was alert. Then he saw something that, even cold

as he was, made him shiver. Before him, gliding on noiseless wing,

was a gigantic white object. Its large yellow eyes gleamed terribly

in the dark, and Bobolink was all but paralyzed with fear. Then, in

desperation, he called out loud enough to wake his neighbors. They,

too, saw the dim white form and scattered like leaves before the wind,

just as the huge monster swooped down among them. Barn-swallow, in his

haste to get away, caught his tail on a twig and made a great tear

right in the middle of it. So badly was it torn that the feathers have

never grown in properly, as we can see even to this day. But he was too

frightened then even to know it.

For hours afterwards the terrified birds hid as best they might in the

dark woods. Then, when at length, he thought the danger past, Bobolink

gave a chirp, as if to let his whereabouts be known. After a time the

other folks answered his call, and in this way they soon collected,

every one of them still trembling with fear. Then, although it was

midnight, they prepared to flee. So dark was it that there would have

been great danger of getting lost had not Bobolink suggested that they

keep up chirping as they flew, and in this way be able to hold together.

In such a manner and at such a time the birds made their first journey

south. When once they reached the warmer lands they scattered, for they

had learned that to remain in flocks was dangerous. But what was more

important, they had learned that they could migrate at night, and that

it was the safest way, as then they could not be seen by their enemies.

Hear them chirp as they fly overhead some night in the spring or fall.

That was Bobolink’s idea, and it was a good one, too. It keeps them

from separating in the darkness.

None of the Woodfolk ever learned who the white stranger was. Some

thought him a ghost or spirit, but all of them fear even the thought

of him. No wonder they have never since dared to stay north during the

winter. Of course, the larger ones, like Hawk or Crow, do not always

leave, for they are not afraid of the stranger. But all of those who

first saw him on that dreadful night have always migrated. Indeed, poor

Bobolink is still so fearful of the “white spirit” that he never feels

safe until he has flown all the way to South America.

But how do they know when the stranger is coming? Ah! that is what has

puzzled so many of us. Have you ever noticed in the winter the little

slate-colored fellow with a white breast, who comes to us just before

the snow season? It is Snowbird, of course. He, too, lives in the

north, but not so far away as the white enemy. At the first sign of

danger he hastens south to warn his friends. Then, remaining between

the Woodfolk and the enemy, he keeps a close watch all winter. There

can be little danger to the birds as long as Snowbird is there to warn

them. But how cold it must be for him? Indeed, some folks say that is

what has made his bill and feet so pink just as our hands and noses

grow red from the cold. But he is courageous. He stands guard between

his friends and the terrible white danger, even during the heaviest

snows. So you see that it was not without reason that folks gave him

the name, “Snowbird.” Few of the birds would brave the cold as he does.

But when spring comes! How eager they all are to get back, for they

know now that the enemy has fled to the far north. It is a race to see

which of the Woodfolk will be the first to reach his northern home.

Occasionally they arrive too early, Blackbird, Robin, and Bluebird

first, of course, and then a warning from Snowbird sends them scurrying

south again. The thought of the white spectre still terrifies them.

But this does not often happen, and for the most part when we hear them

exulting on their arrival we know that they are here to stay. Just

listen how Blackbird chuckles as he passes over our heads, for he knows

that he will be the first to get home. Kentucky-warbler is a very slow

flyer, yet he dreads to be the last. His mind is always on his favorite

feeding-place, and he fears that Blackbird will find it. That is why he

calls after him, “Greedy! greedy! greedy!”

And the white spirit? Oh, yes! That is only Snowy Owl. He lives in the

far north and comes down to us only in the very cold weather, when snow

covers the ground. When we see the great white fellow with his large

yellow eyes, we can hardly wonder why the Woodfolk were so frightened.

But the truth of it is that Snowy Owl, unless very hungry, would not

harm the birds at all, for he lives mostly upon the small four-footed

animals. What a pity it is that our birds leave us in the winter,

some of them to go all the way to South America, just because of a

superstitious fear for an arctic visitor who would not harm them if he

could! If we could only explain to them, what a blessing it would be to

both of us!

WITH THE EDITOR

As we look forward to the opening of school it is with feelings of a

mixed nature. There is undoubtedly among some of us a lack of that

ardor with which we hailed vacation. Nevertheless, none of us can fail

to anticipate gladly the greeting of old friends and the return to that

life which, though routine in its nature, will, in after years, be

regarded as the brightest period of our existence.

In school, as in any other path of life, we can only get the most out

by putting the most into it. The amount we accomplish, therefore, is

determined in a great way by our powers of application. The boy or

girl who can bring to bear his whole mind upon his lesson is bound to

accomplish more than one who devotes a much longer period of time to

broken study. Our great desire, then, if we wish to make the most of

our school life, is to concentrate.

But this power of application is not only the secret of success in

the school-room. Anyone who has cultivated it has taken an important

step in their life, whether it be dedicated to study, business, or

profession.

We are often brought into contact with persons not otherwise gifted,

who continually surprise us by the amount they accomplish. Could we

but make a study of them we would see that the greatest part of their

ability lies in this same power of concentration. On whatever they

undertake they put their whole mind. What appears to be a wonderful

versatility is merely the ability to do one thing at a time, and to do

it well.

Even in athletics, where success often comes to those who are

apparently not making the most of themselves otherwise, it is this same

power which excels. Should many of the young folks who have become

proficient in athletics at the expense of their studies, concentrate

upon their lessons as closely as they do upon their exercise, they

would have become intellectual leaders as well.

Now, as the new period of our school life approaches, let us meet it

with a full realization of its value to us. Then only will we be able

to reap its full benefit. The secret of accomplishing the most and

making the best of our time is by concentrating upon our task. Whether

it be our lessons, our work, or our play, we can succeed only by

bringing to bear upon it our whole mind and strength. Then, too, it is

only when we have made our school days days of accomplishment that we

can derive the fullest enjoyment from our vacation.

Event and Comment

The Coronation

The coronation ceremonies of King Edward, postponed from June last and

threatened with frustration, took place on August 9th in Westminster

Abbey. Here were assembled no less than 7,000 people, including the

nobility and clergy, together with foreign princes, ambassadors, and

rulers from various quarters of the globe. Among them were nearly 100

Americans, all more or less prominent.

In the midst of such an assembly the climax of the event came when the

venerable Archbishop of Canterbury placed the jeweled crown upon the

king’s head.

Thereupon the electric lights throughout the Abbey sprang into

brilliant existence, illumining the magnificent apparel and glittering

jewels of both participant and spectator, and giving an effect of

splendor which, according to one who beheld it, has never been equaled.

* * * * *

While on this side we are all too much interested in our own country to

join in the chorus of “God Save the King” with any great enthusiasm, we

can, nevertheless, wish King Edward VII a long and successful reign.

The Great Rifle

What is, without doubt, the most formidable gun ever constructed is the

one recently built at the Watervliet Arsenal for the defence of New

York harbor. While its calibre is but 16 inches, smaller than many guns

already in use, its range is 21 miles, or half again more powerful than

its nearest rival.

The length of the new gun is 49 feet 2 inches and its weight 126 tons.

It throws a projectile whose length is 5 feet 4 inches.

The cost of firing a single shot is $1,000.

Eighteen other such guns are to be constructed and placed at such vital

points along our coast as New York, San Francisco, Boston, and Hampton

Roads.

* * * * *

There is something about these large rifles which appeals to and

fascinates nearly every one of us. We all wish to see the series

completed and distributed. But, further than that, let us hope that

such terrible engines of destruction will never be turned upon a human

foe.

The Seven-masted Schooner

Almost simultaneously with the completion of the great rifle at the New

York arsenal, came the launching of the “Thomas W. Lawson,” the first

seven-masted schooner ever built.

Differing from our usual idea of a sailboat, the new ship is

constructed almost entirely of steel. So manageable are the six

powerful steam engines which control the sails, spars, anchors, and

rudder, that this, the largest sailing vessel afloat, requires a crew

of but sixteen men.

The length of the “Lawson” is 403 feet, and she carries a cargo of

8,100 tons.

There is a system of electric lights and telephones throughout, while

the cabins are heated by steam.

The “Lawson” will be used at first as a collier on the Atlantic coast,

where her owners expect she will make a great profit.

* * * * *

It is to this application of steam and electricity to sailboats that we

may look for strides in that science, which has probably advanced less

than any other in the past two thousand years--the science of sailing.

Preservation of the “Buffalo”

The Secretary of the Interior has announced plans for the perpetuation

of the American bison or “buffalo.” For this purpose he has secured an

appropriation of $15,000 to build a wire corral at Yellowstone Park.

Here the bison, both wild and tame, will be protected in every way. At

present there are but twenty-two bison in the park, but this number

will be greatly increased by purchase in the near future.

A numerical estimate of the pure-blooded bison now in existence gives,

in the United States, 968, mostly tame, and in Canada, 600, all of

which are wild.

* * * * *

There is no place where the old adage, “Put not off until to-morrow,”

can be better applied than in the protection of our wild animals. If

the American bison is to be preserved, it must be to-day.

Fire Damp

Fire damp and carelessness, perhaps, upon the part of one of the

miners were responsible for the terrible disaster which again brought

Johnstown, Pa., into prominence. Over a hundred lives were lost in the

perilous “Klondike dip.”

* * * * *

Although it always seems a little heartless to point to any good

resulting from such a catastrophe, it is probable that it will lead to

a more careful inspection of our mines and greater precaution against

that terrible explosive, fire damp.

[Illustration: ·OUT·OF·DOORS·]

The tennis doubles of the Round Robin Tournament at Westchester drew

forth most of the country’s best players.

The hottest contest was between the champions, Ward and Davis, and

Whitman and Ware, which, after four sets, resulted in a draw with the

score 2 all.

The Wrenn brothers then took to the court, and after playing Ward and

Davis in a set which ran as high as 10 all, finally defeated them.

At the end of the tournament the standing was: Wrenn brothers won 4,

lost 0; Whitman and Ware won 3, lost 1; Ward and Davis won 2, lost 2;

Little and Alexander won 1, lost 3: Clothier and Ogden won 0, lost 4.

* * * * *

In the Henley meet, in England, the race for the Diamond Sculls was the

most interesting event to the Americans in spite of the fact that it

resulted in a defeat for our candidate, C. S. Titus.

After winning from Scholes, the Canadian, and Fields, one of the

English oarsmen, Titus was defeated by Kelley, although the time made

in the last race was 20 seconds slower than that of the one in which

Titus defeated Scholes.

* * * * *

The all-around championship in athletics was decided this year at

Celtic Park, Long Island. Gunn, of the Buffalo Y. M. C. A., in winning

first place, showed great improvement over his last year’s form. Second

to him in the number of points won was Merrill, of the Milwaukee

Athletic Club, while the third place fell to Prinstein, the great

jumper and hurdler.

* * * * *

Golf players of this country were somewhat surprised at the result of

the National Golf Tournament at Glenview, Chicago.

The two-year national champion, Walter J. Travis, was defeated by E.

M. Byers, of Pittsburg, the former Yale individual champion. Later,

however, Byers, himself, was defeated by L. N. James, of Chicago.

* * * * *

In spite of the fact that England will not try for America’s cup this

year, the yachting world is more active than usual. In the race of

the New York Yacht Club for seventy-footers, Cornelius Vanderbilt’s

“Rainbow” showed her superiority over August Belmont’s “Mineola,”

winning by one minute and ten seconds.

The German Imperial Yacht Race, too, aroused much interest among the

Americans, because of the fact that the boats finishing second and

third, the “Meteor” and “Navahoe,” were both built in this country.

[Illustration: THE OLD TRUNK]

Answers to August Puzzles

1. Y O U T H

O C H R E

U L T R A

T U T O R

H E A R T

2. Eagle, heron.

Kite, wren.

Sparrow, redbird.

Lark, robin.

Rhea, thrush.

Hawk, loon.

3. Washington, Lincoln.

4. S

C A R

C A M E L

S A M P S O N

R E S E T

L O T

5. THE ESCAPE

“=K=amby says =E=dith is worse. =Y=ou asked me to write if she began to

fail, and =I= am complying with your request. =S=o, if the =U=nion of

the =N=orth can spare you, come. =D=o not delay, for =E=dith is very

ill. =R=emember, she is waiting for you.

“=M=ost sorrowfully,

“=A=djutant =T=homas.”

Capital letters spell: “Key is under mat.”

The first five perfect solutions were received from

Charlotte Copp.

Mary Folsom Pierce.

Warren Raymond.

Flavius Lentz.

Alice Burr.

ENIGMA

I am composed of ten letters.

My 8-2-3 is a vehicle.

My 9-4-7 is a meadow.

My 5-10-6-1 is a money compensation.

My whole is a place of Divine worship known in ancient and modern times.

--_Martha E. Evans._

DIAMOND

. A consonant.

. . . A young blossom.

. . . . . Something we all eat.

. . . . . . . A day of the week.

. . . . . A term for father.

. . . A period of time.

. A consonant.

--_S. Lillian C._

SOME LARGE NATIONS

1. A scheming nation.

2. A surprising nation.

3. A fanciful nation.

4. A nation that goes no farther.

5. A nation that ends.

6. A reflective nation.

7. A nation that ordains.

8. A nation that foretells.

9. A nation that personifies.

10. A most destructive nation.

11. A nation that names.

12. A nation that specifies.

13. A nation that kills.

14. A nation that crowns.

15. A nation that points out.

16. A nation that grows.

17. A mistaken nation.

18. A reproachful nation.

19. A nation that wanders.

--_Margaret P. Boyle._

HIDDEN ORCHESTRA

Nebotneroolcritopmoiavindnrmbusvilosa.

--_Julia E_--.

[Illustration: IN-DOORS]

PARLOR MAGIC

By Ellis Stanyon

Disappearing Handkerchief.--Obtain a small red silk handkerchief, also

a loose piece of silk of the same color, about one and a half inches

square. Keep this piece at the corner of the handkerchief between both

hands until you have succeeded in getting it into small compass, taking

care that the small piece is at the top. Retain the handkerchief in

the right hand, and with the left hand pull up the right sleeve. Now,

with the right hand pull up the left sleeve, but leave the handkerchief

in the bend of the left arm, where it will be hidden by the folds of

the sleeve, taking care, however, that the small piece of red silk

protrudes from the closed right hand, deluding the spectators into the

belief that the handkerchief is still in your hand--for do they not

see the corner of it? Now, rub the hands together and roll the piece

into a small pellet, and palm it between the bend of the thumb and

first finger. Slap your hands together, and show both sides. Care must

be taken not to spread the thumb and fingers too much while showing

the hands, as this would reveal the piece of red silk. This showing of

hands should be studied before a mirror, as it is upon the apparent

naturalness of pose that many such tricks depend. Afterwards, while

turning to the table, the real handkerchief can be palmed or got

rid of, whichever may be necessary to the performer’s version of the

trick. This is the most effective illusion, and will deceive even the

conjurors.

[Illustration: Fig. 13.]

Another clever disappearing trick with a handkerchief is the

following:--Take a piece of flesh-colored thread, and place it about

the right hand, in the manner depicted in the illustration (Fig. 13).

The dotted lines represent the thread on the outside of the hand. With

this simple device a handkerchief can be apparently placed in the

left hand, when in reality it is stuck between the loop in the right

hand. Vanish a handkerchief in above manner from the left hand, and by

grabbing the air with your right hand you reproduce the handkerchief.

WITH THE PUBLISHER

YOUTH

An Illustrated Monthly Journal for Boys and Girls

Edited by HERBERT LEONARD COGGINS

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_A NEW FEATURE_

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advantage of our other subscription offers.

Earning Her Way By Mrs. Clarke Johnson

Her College Days By Mrs. Clarke Johnson

A Maid at King Alfred’s Court By Lucy Foster Madison

A Maid of the First Century By Lucy Foster Madison

A Yankee Girl In Old California By Evelyn Raymond

My Lady Barefoot By Evelyn Raymond

Dorothy Day By Julie M. Lippmann

Miss Wildfire By Julie M. Lippmann

An Odd Little Lass By Jessie E. Wright

An Every-day Heroine By Mary A. Denison

Uncrowning a King By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.

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In the Days of Washington By William Murray Graydon

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Under the Tamaracks By Elbridge S. Brooks

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The Young Financier By W. O. Stoddard

True to His Trust By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.

Comrades True By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.

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The Campers Out By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.

The Young Gold Seekers By Edward S. Ellis, A. M.

Andy’s Ward By James Otis

Chasing a Yacht By James Otis

The Braganza Diamond By James Otis

The Lost Galleon By W. Bert Foster

Exiled to Siberia By William Murray Graydon

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A Cape Cod Boy By Sophie Swett

Making His Mark By Horatio Alger, Jr.

The Young Boatman By Horatio Alger, Jr.

The Odds Against Him By Horatio Alger, Jr.

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[Illustration: PUSSY MEOW

S·LOUISE PATTESON]

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[Illustration: THE LEWIS PHONO-METRIC INSTITUTE, DETROIT, MICH.

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THE STONE METHOD

[Illustration]

The Clothes do not make the man. Of course the tailor

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[Illustration]

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A. W. MUMFORD, Publisher, 203 Michigan Avenue, Chicago

“MAGIC”

Established 1900

Edited by Ellis Stanyon

ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION, $1.50

SINGLE COPY (by post), 15 cts.

=THE ONLY PAPER in the British Empire= devoted solely to the interests

of Magicians, Jugglers, Hand Shadowists, Ventriloquists, Cartoonists,

and Specialty Entertainers. Clever conjuring tricks for parlor and

stage. Great handcuff tricks. Tricks of card, coin, and handkerchief

kings.

Special Coronation number (July), colored supplement. Vol. 1, with

Index, Title Page, etc., $1.75.

=An Illustrated Monthly Magazine=

Publishers

ELLIS STANYON & CO.

76 SOLENT ROAD, WEST HAMPSTEAD

London, N. W., England

The Optimi_s_t

SAINT LOUIS

_The Midland Monthly Magazine Every Optimist should read it $1.00

Yearly; 10 Cents Copy World’s Fair Views and News Good Advertiser_

The Optimi_s_t Publishing Co.

Globe Democrat Building

====ST. LOUIS

It will be of advantage to mention this Magazine in answering these

advertisements

No Education is Complete

without a course in elocution and oratory. This is particularly true

of the person who contemplates a professional life, and scarcely less

applicable in any walk of life. Such a course gives ease and confidence

before an audience, leads to a better understanding of human nature,

and is a great factor in successful intercourse with men and women in

business and social affairs.

The best known and most thoroughly equipped elocutionary institution in

the United States is The National School of Elocution and Oratory, Odd

Fellows’ Temple, Broad and Cherry Streets, Philadelphia.

It is the oldest chartered school of expression in America.

Its students and graduates are to be found in all parts of this country

and Canada, occupying prominent positions as public readers, teachers

of elocution, clergymen, lecturers, actors, etc.

The instruction is thorough in all that pertains to a well rounded

elocutionary education.

The School has a corps of excellent teachers, each a specialist in his

own department, and all facilities are first-class.

In addition to the regular Day Classes there are also Evening and

Saturday courses.

Special Summer course. Private instruction. Graduating courses one

and two years. Illustrated catalogue giving full information sent on

application.

=MRS. J. W. SHOEMAKER, PRINCIPAL=

It will be of advantage to mention this Magazine in answering this

[Illustration: THE OLIVER

_The Standard Visible Writer_]

Oliver truths are convincing and converting

=GOLD MEDALS and AWARDS=

Philadelphia, 1899.

Omaha, 1899

London, 1899

Paris, 1900

Venice, 1901

Lille, 1901

Buffalo, 1901

Liverpool, 1901

There are many typewriters each said to be as good as the Oliver; each,

however, lacks some vital and needful point.

=The Oliver stands alone=

[Illustration]

The Greatest Honor that can be paid to a typewriter: “=as good as the

Oliver=”

Our new Catalogue just from the press tells an interesting story. Free

for the asking. It will profit you to read it.

=The Oliver Typewriter Co.=

General Offices: 7 Lake Street, Chicago, U.S.A.

_Foreign Office, 42 Poultry, London, England._

_Branches and agencies at all important points_

Transcriber's Notes

A number of typographical errors were corrected silently.

Cover image is in the public domain.

Added major heading “Advertisements” to separate main body from

advertisements.

“Advertisements” was added to the Table of Contents.

Youth, Vol. I, No. 7, September 1902: An Illustrated Monthly Journal for Boys & Girls · 第 4 / 4 章