Round and silvery, fair, and still,
God's grand old moon! that for ages past
Has held its way in the night-sky vast.
And Neddie wanted that shining ball
To hold in his hands so soft and small,
And nobody went and took it down.
He wrinkled his face to a little frown;
Red lips quivered--he wanted it soon;
Then--_one more baby cried for the moon_!
But mamma brought him his milk and bread,
And patted his dear little curly head.
Then quickly he smiled and forgot the moon,
And laughed at his face in his silver spoon.
O happy Neddie! so easy to smile;
Your life will be glad, if all the while
As the years go on you can turn away
From all that you want when God says "Nay,"
And laugh, and thank Him for what He may give--
That is the way for His child to live.
O manly boys, and sweet little girls!
With all your colors of eyes and curls,
If you would have life like a summer day,
Be content with the things that are in your way.
Seek ever the things that are pure and high,
As planets that move in the evening sky,
But if you can't have the shining moon,
Be glad when God offers the silver spoon.
EMILY BAKER SMALLE.
[Illustration: PHYSICIANS IN COUNSEL.]
_Volume 13, Number 33._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_June 19, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: MAMMA HAS RETURNED.]
WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.
IN the first place, I took a walk. It was a March day, but I wore a
sun hat and carried a sun umbrella. Crossing the road in front of my
cottage, I went through a little gate, ran down a hill under great
spreading pines, and walked along the shore of a lovely lake, stopping
now and then to pick white violets, and whortleberry blossoms with
which to adorn my hat. Then I sat me down in a rustic seat, and read
a letter from some friends in Ohio, telling about a snow storm, and
a wind storm, and a frost frolic, and I know not what not of sulky,
boisterous weather. Over my head, meanwhile, the mocking birds sang
merrily, now pretending that they were robins, now bobolinks, and now
nothing but common chirping birds!
Yes, I was in a different country; and you are guessing rightly, that
it was in sunny Florida.
But it was time to go on; the great tabernacle bell was ringing, and
I wanted to be in at the opening, for we were promised some curious
sights that day. After all, I was late; some friends who had been in
the woods stopped to show me some pitcher plants, and to divide great
sprays of sweet-scented Southern jessamine with me, and when I tiptoed
into the tabernacle, work had commenced.
Certainly the sight was curious enough. Men and women, some of them
gray-headed and spectacled, each of them with a bit of paper in hand
about four inches square; red, or yellow, or blue, or golden, as the
case might be; all the colors of the rainbow seemed to be there. Each
of these grave men and women were bent over their papers, carefully
folding, and creasing, and re-folding, according to the direction of
the leader, until they had each made what a small woman of six, sitting
near me, called "a little birdie with wings!" but what her gray-haired
aunt sitting beside her, pronounced to be a "strictly correct
geometrical figure." "Geometry," was that the subject? Well, that is
for grown people, surely. No, playing at boat and bird building. Was
that the subject? But that is for _children_.
Well, you are both right; it _was_ Geometry, and it was _play_. And
the name of it is Kindergarten.
Call it what you will, not a Blossom of you but would have liked to be
there, and help fold that paper; and your mothers would have enjoyed
it, at least, almost as well. Why? Well, principally because of the
little dots at home, which they saw they could delightfully entertain,
as well as teach, in this way; and because of the tall boy, who yet is
a trifle puzzled over fractions. It would be so easy with those nice
sticks, which followed the papers, to show him how to do it. Then the
blocks, cunning little squares, and triangles, and all sorts of shapes;
and what delightful things they would build, to be sure! Do you know, I
fancied I saw every Blossom of mine, who has a sister or brother, four,
five, six years old, who must be entertained very often by your puzzled
selves, sitting in that tabernacle, eager listeners and workers,
getting new and bright thoughts every minute as to how you could
combine pleasure with instruction; and while little sister thought she
was having a "perfectly splendid time" in your care, she would really
be learning lessons which would help her all her life.
Didn't I wish you were there! But since you were not, and I couldn't
reach to call you, why, I will tell you about it now, and fill your
hearts with vain regrets.
Listen, my Blossoms. Kindergarten; that is the name, remember. Is there
one in the city where you go, sometimes, to visit? By all means take a
morning or two, and visit it, and run away with some pretty ideas to
help you amuse the little sisters. Or perhaps it is in the very city
where you live, but too far away for the little sister or brother to
attend; still, by all means, go _you_, as a guest occasionally; and my
word for it, you will be richly repaid. Such wonders can be done with
bright paper, and blocks, and a strong needle with bright-colored silks.
Miss Ross was our teacher, in Florida, last winter; and much did
we enjoy the privilege of hearing her. She is going to hold Normal
Kindergarten Conventions through the States, next fall; look out for
her name, and hear her if you can.
Miss Matilda K. Ross of Chicago.
PANSY.
A LETTER FROM FATHER.
"I WONDER if we will get a letter from father to-night."
It was Essie Carter who spoke. Her mother sat by the window sewing,
while Gracie played with her dolls upon the doorstep. Essie was just
starting for the post-office.
"I think," she continued, "that I will go across the pasture lot, it is
more shady that way and it is very warm this afternoon."
At mention of the pasture lot Gracie sprang up and said in her lisping
tones, "Gracie go too!"
"Gracie may go as far as the fence and wait for Essie there," said
her mother. And clinging to her sister's hand, carrying her favorite
doll, the little one went down the lawn, across the meadow and there
cheerfully relinquished her hold and set about hunting violets while
Essie went on to the country post-office, where she secured the coveted
letter. On her return she found Gracie hanging upon the fence.
"Did you get a letter?" she asked.
"Yes; and now we will hurry home and mamma will read it to us."
"Did my papa write it?" asked the child.
"Yes, dear; papa wrote it to us, maybe there will be a little letter in
it for Gracie."
"With what did he write it?"
"With a pen, of course."
"What is a pen?" asked the little questioner.
"O Gracie Carter! you can ask the most questions of any child that ever
was born, I do believe!" exclaimed Essie.
"But what is a pen?" persisted Gracie.
"A pen is a thing to write with," replied Essie despairing of evading
the questions.
"Who made a pen?"
"I don't know," was Essie's frank reply.
And then she fell to thinking unheeding Grade's questions. After the
letter had been read and talked over Essie said:
"Mamma, Gracie wanted to know who made pens, and I couldn't tell her;
a thing we use so constantly too! I would like to know something about
them myself."
"Well, dear, can't you find out?"
"If we were at home I could study it up in the library, but we haven't
any books here excepting poems and Bibles and the dictionary."
"Is that the way you rank your books?" asked Mrs. Carter smiling.
"No; but it is such a matter of course to have the Bible that I was not
going to mention it, then I just happened to think of the dictionary."
"Well, go to the dictionary and see what you find there."
Essie turned over the pages and read, "An instrument used for writing,
formerly made of the quill of a goose or other bird, but now also of
other materials, as gold and steel."
"Why, mamma, is that true, pens can be made of a quill? I never heard
of such a thing."
"There _are_ a few things that my daughter has never yet heard of."
"Now, mamma, you are laughing at me! But truly I never heard of a pen
being made of a quill. Dear me, I wish I had a cyclopædia. The next
time we come out here I mean to bring a whole set!"
"Perhaps I could tell you something about pens," said Mrs. Carter
quietly.
"O mamma! I beg your pardon," exclaimed Essie coloring slightly. "I
ought to have known that you could! I have heard papa call you a
walking cyclopædia."
"Your uncle Horace was at one time employed in a gold pen manufactory
and I learned a great deal at that time, and we studied up the history
of pens. If I remember rightly the first pens used were made of iron or
steel and were not used with ink, but the letters were cut in stone, or
clay, and afterwards the same sort of an instrument was used to write
upon waxed tablets; then when parchment and paper began to be used pens
were made of reeds, and of course the people must have had ink of some
sort. Now about quill pens. It was probably more than a thousand years
ago that some one discovered that the quills of birds made better pens
for writing on paper than could be made of reeds, and people have used
quill pens more or less ever since."
"Why do we not use them? Did you ever use one?"
"Two questions at once! I'll answer the last one first. Yes, I remember
using quill pens when I first began to go to school. My father had
never used any other and he had a prejudice against steel pens, which
had already come into use, and as we kept a flock of geese we always
had a supply of quills. It was considered in my father's day one of the
necessary qualifications of a schoolteacher that he should be able to
make a good quill pen. Such steel pens as we use may be classed among
_modern inventions_. It is said that they were first introduced about
the beginning of the nineteenth century, but they were not a success
and very little progress was made in the manufacture for more than a
quarter of a century. One thing will surprise you, I think. The first
pens made, in an English factory about the time they were successfully
introduced, sold for nearly twenty-five cents apiece at wholesale
rates."
"At that rate it would cost papa a fortune to keep me in pens! Why, I
use up a box in a little while."
"Probably; you are apt to use up things."
"I wish papa would give me a gold pen; I believe I could keep one a
long time," said Essie.
[Illustration: "DID YOU GET A LETTER?" SHE ASKED.]
"Probably the best steel pens are made in England, but American gold
pens are the best. A great amount of labor is bestowed upon them. Every
one is carefully tested before it is put into the market. When a
person buys a gold pen he pays a good price for it and expects it to
last a long time, and this is the reason that they are so carefully
tested. If half the steel pens in your box prove to be worthless, the
remainder are still cheap."
"But, mamma, you have not told me why people do not use quill pens
nowadays."
"I suppose principally because metal pens are more durable. Quill pens
require to be mended often and one who writes much would find it quite
a task to make and mend his pens. I should not wonder if we would find
a bunch of quills hanging from the rafters in the attic of this old
house and I should like to make a quill pen for you that you may write
with a pen like the one your grandfather always used. And now, Essie,
if you will pay attention to your father's request you shall have a
gold pen when we go back home," said mamma, smiling kindly.
"You mean about taking pains with my writing?"
"Yes; I have sometimes thought that in nothing does culture or want of
culture show itself more than in a person's penmanship."
MRS. J. H. FOSTER.
THE FOX FAMILY.
IN 1840 there lived a man in Kinderhook, N. Y., who was a smart
politician and his party often put him up for office; somehow he had
a way often of being elected, as many popular men do nowadays. He was
nominated for the Presidency. Can you guess his name? There was great
excitement on both sides. The Whigs had put up General Harrison for
their candidate and were singing songs about Log Cabins and Hard Cider,
because General Harrison lived in one and drank the other. They said
many things against the Kinderhook man. Parties always do say hard
things against their opponents.
Among other hard names they called him a "Little Fox," and no doubt
some voted against him, thinking if he was anything like a fox he was
not fit to be President of the United States.
[Illustration: A FAMILY OF FOXES.]
People are prejudiced against this animal because he is so sly and
tricky.
Queer stories are told about his smartness.
He loves (to eat) fowl. He will swim toward a duck _e. g._ with turf in
the mouth, so as to be concealed, then, being near, the unsuspecting
duck is "nabbed" for Mr. Fox's dinner.
He goes limping with his head down, as if eating clover, till near
enough to seize a hare. When caught stealing hens, he will pretend to
be dead, though kicked roughly about, till he gets a chance to "up and
off." When traps are arranged around his hole, he will stay in for
days, hungry, or make a new outlet rather than expose himself to a
trap. He knows how to fire off a gun that has been set for him without
being hit.
In Northern climes he can pull up the fish-line that has been placed by
the fisherman over night through a hole in the ice. The man comes early
to get a morning fish breakfast but only to find an empty hook lying
near the hole and Mr. Fox galloping off in the distance with the game.
The above is what "They say." Many more strange things are said about
the Fox family.
Certain it is they are a shrewd set, smarter in providing delicious
repasts for their children than many of their neighbors, the farmers,
who treat them as thieves.
The Whigs did almost or quite call the Kinderhook man a sly thief.
They probably _now_ think he was as honest, perhaps more suited to the
Presidency than was Gen. Harrison. Very different from the "Fox" of
Kinderhook was Charles James Fox of England who died a hundred years
ago. Strangely enough he was a great Whig, though Whig in England was
not the same as Whig in the United States. He was a fine scholar and
high statesman; some say, "the greatest debater the world ever saw."
Different still was George Fox of England who died two hundred years
ago--one of the purest, best men that ever lived. The Quakers or
Friends started from him. He went everywhere preaching the simple
teaching of the Bible and against trusting to forms and ceremonies.
Enemies arose against him and had him put in loathsome dungeons. But he
came out of the prison (though not just as Saint Peter did, by the help
of an angel) but only to forgive his cruel persecutors and go right on
preaching God's free and simple grace.
John Foxe was another grand man. He wrote "Foxe's Book of Martyrs."
Have you ever read it? He died three hundred years ago. Thus you see
the Foxes are not all so sly and tricky as those in the picture "look
to be." See what queer eyes they have. Somewhat upside down.
C.
SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.
N.--NEWELL, HARRIET ATWOOD.
UPON the platform in Tremont Temple, Boston, at the meeting of the
American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, last October,
there was placed a little mahogany table, old-fashioned in form and
dark with age. It was an object of great interest from the fact that
around that small table, three feet by two--or, when the leaves were
spread, three by five--there sat, seventy-five years ago, the five men
who formed the American Board at that date. The first meeting held in
the parlor of the little parsonage in Farmington, Ct., was a small
beginning, and who could have guessed that Tremont Temple, Music Hall,
and one or two churches would have been filled to overflowing by the
crowds that would come to the seventy-fifth anniversary! We who live
in this missionary age cannot realize the weight of that undertaking,
nor can we who are saying farewell to friends and acquaintances who go
out in fast-sailing steam ships with many a comfort and convenience
unknown in those days, and in comparative safety, realize what it meant
to those five young men and their wives who were the first sent out by
the newly-formed board, to bid adieu to home and friends with scarce a
hope of ever returning to their native land. Rev. Samuel J. Newell was
one of the five, and the subject of this sketch was his devoted young
wife. Harriet Newell was the first woman who went out to India as a
missionary. She was scarcely beyond girlhood, only eighteen years old
when she said good-by to her widowed mother and went out to tell the
people of India about the Friend who waited to receive them.
Mrs. Newell's early home was at Haverhill, Mass. She was educated at
Bradford Academy. It was while she was at school that she determined to
consecrate her life to the service of Christ, though I do not gather
from any account of her life that she had at that time any thoughts of
becoming a missionary. Her letters written at that early period evince
a rare thoughtfulness and uncommon maturity of mind. Indeed, it would
seem that she early put away childish things. Neither have we any
account of her having any of the good times of girlhood; yet I suppose
she was not altogether unlike other girls, but we have only the story
of her inner life. She has told us in her journal of her conflicts
with sin and of her victories; we can see the rapid development of her
Christian character, from the time she first engaged in the service
of God to the hour when she "consecrated herself to the establishment
of the kingdom of Christ in Pagan lands. To this great and glorious
object all her thoughts and studies, her desires and prayers tended.
It was only with a view to this that she considered her talents and
acquirements of any special importance."
Mrs. Newell exhibited in her short life great force and decision of
character. When, after earnest deliberation, mingled with prayer for
wisdom, the question of duty had been settled, she moved forward
without hesitation. Let me give you the words of one who knew her well:
"The character of Mrs. Newell had an excellence above the reach of
mere human nature; behold her, united to friends and country by a
thousand ties, a woman of refined education, with delightful prospects
in her own country, resigning all for a distant Pagan land; all these
sacrifices she made calmly, with a sober deliberation, with steady,
unyielding firmness, and this not for wealth, or fame, or any earthly
object, but to make known among the heathen the unsearchable riches of
Christ."
And now what will you say when I tell you that this remarkable woman,
remarkable for her talents, her personal gifts, remarkable for her
Christian development, was to meet with disappointment at the outset
and was to be denied the privilege of engaging in the work for which
she had left home and friends. They were ordered away from India by the
government and decided to attempt to establish a mission upon the Isle
of France. Nearly a year from the time of leaving America they reached
this place, having spent nearly all that time on ship-board. It would
seem that now their troubles might be at an end; and so Mrs. Newell's
were. For in about three weeks after they landed she was called to go
to her mansion above. At nineteen her work was finished--finished, as
it seemed, before it was fairly begun! Yet her example of devotion,
of fortitude, of love for the cause, her submission and patience
under trial may have accomplished far more than she living could have
done. When the news of her triumphant death came to America, other
noble-hearted, earnest women were found ready to take the place of this
first woman of our land who was ready to give her life to the people of
India. To-day, after seventy-five years, scores are in the field, more
waiting to be sent, and I know not how many among the PANSY readers
getting ready for the Master's work in foreign lands. God grant that
there may be many such!
F. H.
OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.
Q.--QUINCY, JOSIAH.
COUNTING back for five generations, we find in the Quincy family a
Josiah. The great-great-grandfather of the present Josiah Quincy
was a merchant, and we are told that he was a zealous patriot in
Revolutionary times, and you all know that meant a great deal.
His son, who was called Josiah Junior, became a celebrated lawyer, and
was prominent as an advocate of liberty. It was he who with Samuel
Adams addressed the people when the British ships anchored in Boston
Harbor with the cargo of tea. But notwithstanding his reputation for
patriotism, his action in defending the soldiers who fired upon the mob
in what is known as the Boston Massacre, brought him into unpopularity.
Yet I think that if you study the facts carefully, and weigh them well,
you will see that although the presence of the British soldiers was an
outrage, and justly obnoxious to the people, yet upon that occasion
there was some excuse for their action. And John Adams and Josiah
Quincy should not be condemned for undertaking their defence.
Afterwards both did good service in the interest of Colonial
Independence. Quincy went to England doing much to promote the good of
his country.
He died upon the homeward voyage in 1775, in sight of American shores.
His son Josiah, three years old at the time of his father's death, was
educated at Harvard University, became a lawyer, a member of Congress,
and having filled acceptably various other offices, was at length
elected President of Harvard, which position he held for fifteen years,
He had a son Josiah, also a graduate of Harvard, and again the fifth
Josiah in the line is a graduate of the same institution.
There are other Quincys of this family who have attained celebrity.
I might tell you of Edmund Quincy, who was prominent in anti-slavery
circles, but I think you will find plenty of occupation for this month
if you study up all these Josiahs.
FAYE HUNTINGTON.
[Illustration: A VERITABLE BOY BLUE.]
_Volume 13, Number 34._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_June 26, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: AN ENGLISH STILE.]
ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.
BY MARGARET SIDNEY.
VIII.
A BOY, breathless from long running, rushed into Mrs. Allen's arms as
she turned away from the sitting-room window with a sigh.
"Why, here you are!" she exclaimed in a joyous burst.
"The fellows are in some sort of a scrape," gasped the boy, careful of
his words; "can't get home--I'm going to tell their mothers--"
Mrs. Allen looked at her empty arms, turned and went out to the kitchen.
"Ann, you may put on the tea; we will not wait for George Edward."
"Land! he just raced in, red as a boiled lobster," cried Ann with the
privilege of a favored servant.
"I know; but he is off again, on an errand that had to be attended
to--put on the tea, and ring the bell."
It was some time before the son of the family made his appearance in
the Allen household again. When he did come, it was to bring a face
so utterly miserable, and a pair of feet so incapacitated for further
movement, that his mother began to seriously question if she had done
the wise thing to allow him to be the deliverer of the several messages.
The first thing to do now, however, was to get the boy to bed; so with
the aid of Ann's hot oatmeal gruel, George Edward was assisted by
father and mother on either side, up to his pretty room, where he was
rubbed down, pretty much as one would perform that same operation on a
tired horse, till each separate and distinct joint seemed supple and
elastic as was their ordinary condition, and the boy was tumbled into
bed, fast asleep before his head touched the pillow. Mr. and Mrs. Allen
looked at each other as they sat down in the library, and drew a long
breath.
"What shall we do with such a boy?" cried the mother. "He seems to
carry the burdens of other boys, old people, animals, and everything
that comes in his way."
"Let him alone," said Father Allen shortly.
"Oh! I wouldn't dare say anything," exclaimed Mother Allen, alarmed at
being misunderstood; "I was only mentioning the fact."
"You asked a question," said Father Allen, who was nothing if not
exact; "you asked 'What shall we do with him?'"
"And I ask it again," said Mrs. Allen, rubbing her forehead in a
perplexed way, "whatever in the world shall we do with him?"
"And I answer in the same words that the immortal Mr. Dick employed on
a similar occasion to Miss Betsey Trotwood's question, 'Wash him and
put him to bed.'"