CHAPTER XIV.

THE CONTINENTAL CONGRESS.

Near the end of August, 1774, Patrick Henry and Edmund Pendleton, two of

the delegates from Virginia to the first Continental Congress, rode from

their homes to Mount Vernon and made a short visit. Then, on the last

day of the month, Washington mounted his horse also, and the three

friends started for Philadelphia to attend the congress, which was

called to meet on the 5th of September. Pendleton was a dozen years

older than Washington, and Henry was the youngest of the party. He was

the most fiery in speech, and more than once, in recent conventions, had

carried his hearers away by his bold words. He was the most eloquent

man in the colonies,--of rude appearance, but when once wrought up by

excitement, able to pour out a torrent of words.

[Illustration: WASHINGTON, PATRICK HENRY, AND EDMUND PENDLETON ON THEIR

WAY TO PHILADELPHIA, AS DELEGATES TO THE FIRST CONTINENTAL CONGRESS.[D]]

For my part, I would rather have heard the speech which Washington made

at the convention in Williamsburg in the August before, when he rose up

to read the resolution which he and his neighbors had passed at their

meeting in Fairfax County. The eloquence of a man who is a famous orator

is not quite so convincing as that of a man of action, who rarely

speaks, but who is finally stirred by a great occasion. People were used

to hearing Washington say a few words in a slow, hesitating, deliberate

way; and they knew that he had carefully considered beforehand what

words he should use. But this time he was terribly in earnest, and when

he had read the resolution, he spoke as no one had heard him before. He

was a passionate man who had his anger under control; but when it

occasionally burst out, it was as if a dam to a stream had given way.

And now he was consumed with indignation at the manner in which Great

Britain was treating the colonies. He was ready, he said, to raise a

regiment of a thousand men, pay all their expenses, and lead them to

Boston to drive out the King's soldiers.

The three men, therefore, must have talked long and earnestly as they

rode to Philadelphia; for the Congress which they were to attend was the

first one to which all the colonies were invited to send delegates. It

was to consider the cause of the whole people, and Virginia was to see

in Massachusetts not a rival colony, but one with which she had common

cause. The last time Washington had gone over the road he had been on an

errand to the King's chief representative in America, the

Commander-in-Chief, Governor Shirley, and one matter which he had held

very much at heart had been his own commission as an officer in His

Majesty's army. He was on a different errand now. Still, like the men

who were most in earnest at that time, he was thinking how the colonies

could secure their rights as colonies, not how they might break away

from England and set up for themselves.

[Footnote D: The above illustration is reproduced from Irving's "Life of

Washington," by kind permission of Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons.]

They were five days on the road, and on September the 4th, they

breakfasted near Newcastle, in Delaware, dined at Chester, in

Pennsylvania, and in the evening were in Philadelphia, at the City

Tavern, which stood on Second street, above Walnut street, and was the

meeting-place of most of the delegates. Washington, however, though he

was often at the City Tavern, had his lodging at Dr. Shippen's. The

Congress met the next day at Carpenters' Hall, and was in session for

seven weeks. The first two or three days were especially exciting to the

members. There they were, fifty-one men, from all the colonies save

Georgia, met to consult together--Englishmen who sang "God save the

King," but asked also what right the King had to act as he had done

toward Boston. They did not know one another well at the beginning.

There was no man among them who could be called famous beyond his own

colony, unless it was George Washington. Up to this time the different

colonies had lived so apart from one another, each concerned about its

own affairs, that there had been little opportunity for a man to be

widely known.

[Illustration: CARPENTERS' HALL, PHILADELPHIA, WHERE THE FIRST

CONTINENTAL CONGRESS ASSEMBLED.]

So, as they looked at one another at the City Tavern, or at the

Carpenters' Hall when they met, each man was wondering who would take

the lead. Virginia was the largest and most important colony.

Massachusetts had a right to speak, because she had called the

convention, and because it was in Boston that the people were suffering

most from the action of the British Parliament. Perhaps the two most

conspicuous members at first were Patrick Henry, of Virginia, and Samuel

Adams, of Massachusetts; but in the seven weeks of the session, others

showed their good judgment and patriotism. Patrick Henry was asked after

he returned to Virginia whom he considered the greatest man in the

Congress, and he replied: "If you speak of eloquence, Mr. Rutledge, of

South Carolina, is by far the greatest orator; but if you speak of solid

information and sound judgment, Colonel Washington is unquestionably the

greatest man on the floor."

Washington carried on the methods which he had always practiced. He

attended the sessions punctually and regularly; he listened to what

others had to say, and gave his own opinion only after he had carefully

formed it. It is an example of the thoroughness with which he made

himself master of every subject, that he used to copy in his own hand

the important papers which were laid before Congress, such as the

petition to the King which was agreed upon. This he would do

deliberately and exactly,--it was like committing the paper to memory.

Besides this, he made abstracts of other papers, stating the substance

of them in a few clear words.

The greater part of each day was occupied in the Congress, but besides

the regular business, there was a great deal of informal talk among the

members. They were full of the subject, and used to meet to discuss

affairs at dinner, or in knots about the fire at the City Tavern.

Philadelphia was then the most important city in the country, and there

were many men of wide experience living in it. Washington went

everywhere by invitation. He dined with the Chief Justice, with the

Mayor, and with all the notable people.

In this way he was able to become better acquainted both with the state

of affairs in other colonies and with the way the most intelligent

people were thinking about the difficulties of the time. The first

Continental Congress gave expression to the deliberate judgment of the

colonies upon the acts of Great Britain. It protested against the manner

in which Parliament was treating the colonies. It declared firmly and

solemnly that as British subjects the people of the colonies owed no

allegiance to Parliament, in which they had no representatives; that

their own legislatures alone had the right to lay taxes. But after all,

the great advantage of this first Congress was in the opportunity which

it gave for representatives from the different colonies to become

acquainted with one another, and thus to make all parts of the country

more ready to act together.

It was only now and then that any one suggested the independence of the

colonies. Washington, like a few others, thought it possible the

colonies might have to arm and resist the unlawful attempt to force

unconstitutional laws upon them; but he did not, at this time, go so far

as to propose a separation from England. He had a friend among the

British officers in Boston, one of his old comrades in the war against

France, a Captain Mackenzie, who wrote to him, complaining of the way

the Boston people were behaving. Captain Mackenzie, very naturally, as

an officer, saw only a troublesome, rebellious lot of people whom it was

the business of the army to put down. Washington wrote earnestly to him,

trying to show him the reason why the people felt as they did, and the

wrong way of looking at the subject which Captain Mackenzie and other

officers had. He expressed his sorrow that fortune should have placed

his friend in a service that was sure to bring down vengeance upon those

engaged in it. He went on:

"I do not mean by this to insinuate that an officer is not

to discharge his duty, even when chance, not choice, has

placed him in a disagreeable situation; but I conceive, when

you condemn the conduct of the Massachusetts people, you

reason from effects, not causes; otherwise you would not

wonder at a people, who are every day receiving fresh proofs

of a systematic assertion of an arbitrary power, deeply

planned to overturn the laws and constitution of their

country, and to violate the most essential and valuable

rights of mankind, being irritated, and with difficulty

restrained from acts of the greatest violence and

intemperance. For my own part, I confess to you candidly,

that I view things in a very different point of light from

the one in which you seem to consider them; and though you

are taught by venal men ... to believe that the people of

Massachusetts are rebellious, setting up for independency,

and what not, give me leave, my good friend, to tell you,

that you are abused, grossly abused.... Give me leave to

add, and I think I can announce it as a fact, that it is not

the wish or interest of that government, or any other upon

this continent, separately or collectively, to set up for

independence; but this you may at the same time rely on,

that none of them will ever submit to the loss of those

valuable rights and privileges which are essential to the

happiness of every free State, and without which, life,

liberty, and property are rendered totally insecure."

It was with such a belief as this that Washington went back to Mount

Vernon, and while he was occupied with his engrossing private affairs,

busied himself also with organizing and drilling soldiers. Independent

companies were formed all over Virginia, and one after another placed

themselves under his command. Although, by the custom of those

companies, each was independent of the others, yet by choosing the same

commander they virtually made Washington Commander-in-Chief of the

Virginia volunteers. He was the first military man in the colony, and

every one turned to him for advice and instruction. So through the

winter and spring, he was constantly on the move, going to one place

after another to review the companies which had been formed.

I think that winter and spring of 1775 must have been a somewhat

sorrowful one to George Washington, and that he must have felt as if a

great change were coming in his life. His wife's daughter had died, and

he missed her sadly. Young John Custis had married and gone away to

live. The sound of war was heard on all sides, and among the visitors to

Mount Vernon were some who afterward were to be generals in the American

army. He still rode occasionally after the hounds, but the old days of

fun were gone. George William Fairfax had gone back to England, and the

jolly company at Belvoir was scattered. The house itself there had

caught fire, and burned to the ground.

But the time for action was at hand. Washington turned from his home and

his fox-hunting to go to Richmond as a delegate to a second Virginia

convention. It was called to hear the reports of the delegates to

Philadelphia and to see what further was to be done. It was clear to

some, and to Washington among them, that the people must be ready for

the worst. They had shown themselves in earnest by all the drill and

training they had been going through as independent companies. Now let

those companies be formed into a real army. It was idle to send any more

petitions to the King.

"We must fight!" exclaimed Patrick Henry; "I repeat it, sir; we must

fight! An appeal to arms and the God of Hosts is all that is left us!"

[Illustration: JOHN ADAMS, OF MASSACHUSETTS, WHO PROPOSED WASHINGTON FOR

COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE CONTINENTAL ARMY.]

A committee, of which Washington was one, was appointed to report a plan

for an army of Virginia.

But when people make up their minds to fight, they know very well, if

they are sensible, that more than half the task before them is to find

means for feeding and clothing not only the troops but the people who

are dependent on the troops. Therefore the convention appointed another

committee, of which Washington also was a member, to devise a plan for

encouraging manufactures, so that the people could do without England.

Heretofore, the Virginians had done scarcely any manufacturing; nearly

everything they needed they had bought from England with tobacco. But if

they were to be at war with England, they must be making ready to

provide for themselves. It was late in the day to do anything; slavery,

though they did not then see it clearly, had made a variety of

industries impossible. However, the people were advised to form

associations to promote the raising of wool, cotton, flax, and hemp, and

to encourage the use of home manufactures.

Washington was again chosen one of the delegates to the Continental

Congress, for the second Congress had been called to meet at

Philadelphia. He was even readier to go than before. On the day when he

was chosen, he wrote to his brother John Augustine Washington: "It is my

full intention to devote my life and fortune to the cause we are engaged

in, if needful."

That was at the end of March. The second Continental Congress was to

meet on May 10; and just before Washington left Mount Vernon came the

news of Lexington and Concord. Curiously enough, the Governor of

Virginia had done just what Governor Gage had attempted to do; he had

seized some powder which was stored at Fredericksburg, and placed it for

safety on board a vessel of the British navy. The independent companies

at once met and called upon Washington to take command of them, that

they might compel the Governor to restore the powder. Washington kept

cool. The Governor promised to restore the powder, and Washington

advised the people to wait to see what Congress would do.

When Congress met, the men who came together were no longer strangers to

one another. They had parted warm friends the previous fall; they had

gone to their several homes and now had come back more determined than

ever, and more united. Every one spoke of Lexington and Concord; and the

Massachusetts men told how large an army had already gathered around

Boston. But it was an army made up not only of Massachusetts men, but of

men from Connecticut, Rhode Island and New Hampshire. It was plain that

there must be some authority over such an army, and the Provincial

Congress of Massachusetts wrote to the Continental Congress at

Philadelphia, advising that body to assume control of all the forces, to

raise a continental army, appoint a commander, and do whatever else was

necessary to prepare for war. There had already been fighting; there was

an army; and it was no longer a war between Massachusetts and Great

Britain.

I do not know what other delegates to the Congress at Philadelphia came

as soldiers, but there was one tall Virginian present who wore his

military coat; and when the talk fell upon appointing a commander, all

eyes were turned toward him. Every one, however, felt the gravity and

delicacy of the situation. Here was an army adopted by Congress; but it

was a New England army, and if the struggle were to come at Boston, it

was natural that the troops should mainly come from that neighborhood.

The colonies were widely separated; they had not acted much together.

Would it not be better, would it not save ill-feeling, if a New England

man were to command this New England army?

There were some who thought thus; and besides, there was still a good

deal of difference of opinion as to the course to be pursued. Some were

all ready for independence; others, and perhaps the most, hoped to bring

the British to terms. Parties were rising in Congress; petty jealousies

were showing themselves, when suddenly John Adams, of Massachusetts,

seeing into what perplexities they were drifting, came forward with a

distinct proposition that Congress should adopt the army before Boston

and appoint a commander. He did not name Washington, but described him

as a certain gentleman from Virginia "who could unite the cordial

exertions of all the colonies better than any other person." No one

doubted who was meant, and Washington, confused and agitated, left the

room at once.

Nothing else was now talked of. The delegates discussed the matter in

groups and small circles, and a few days afterward a Maryland delegate

formally nominated George Washington to be Commander-in-Chief of the

American Army. He was unanimously elected, but the honor of bringing him

distinctly before the Congress belongs to John Adams. It seems now a

very natural thing to do, but really it was something which required

wisdom and courage. When one sums up all Washington's military

experience at this time, it was not great, or such as to point him out

as unmistakably the leader of the American army. There was a general

then in command at Cambridge, who had seen more of war than Washington

had. But Washington was the leading military man in Virginia, and it was

for this reason that John Adams, as a New England man, urged his

election. The Congress had done something to bring the colonies

together; the war was to do more, but probably no single act really had

a more far-reaching significance in making the Union, than the act of

nominating the Virginian Washington by the New England Adams.

(_To be continued._)

Spring Beauties.

BY HELEN GRAY CONE.

The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church;

A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch.

"Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them.

But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them.

"Vanity, oh, vanity!

Young maids, beware of vanity!"

Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee,

Half parson-like, half soldierly.

The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes,

Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes;

And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass,

They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass.

All because the buff-coat Bee

Lectured them so solemnly:--

"Vanity, oh, vanity!

Young maids, beware of vanity!"

[Illustration]

HOW CONRAD LOST HIS SCHOOL-BOOKS.

BY WALTER BOBBETT.

Conrad was not a prince, not even a lord; he was only an ordinary boy.

He should have been on his way to school; but, having a talent for doing

nothing, he was wandering about the fields and little strips of

woodland, amusing himself by watching the birds skim through the air. He

had lately been reading a volume of fairy-tales, and as he walked along

he began to wonder whether there really was a bit of truth in any of

them.

[Illustration: "HE BECKONED TO CONRAD, WHO CROSSED THE STREAM ON A

SLIGHT PLANK BRIDGE."]

He kept on thinking so intently about it, that he did not notice how

near he was to a little brook, until he found himself almost on the

point of tumbling into the water. This put a stop to his wondering, for

the next moment he stood staring in astonishment, not at the water, but

at a little old man who was sitting on the roots of a large tree that

grew on the opposite bank of the stream. He was dressed in a very

curious fashion. On his head he had a tall steeple-crowned hat, in which

were placed two long peacock's feathers.

The little old man sat looking very attentively at Conrad, and seemed to

derive a great deal of comfort from a long pipe, which he was enjoying

so energetically that all around him the air was filled with smoke. At

last he beckoned to Conrad, who crossed the stream on a slight plank

bridge, and advanced toward him.

By that time, Conrad had leaped to the conclusion, in his own mind, that

the very queer-looking old gentleman was an enchanter, and so he had

resolved to be very respectful, to do just as he was bidden, and to wait

very patiently for the little old man to speak first.

Presently the little old man shifted the pipe for a moment, and asked:

"What are those books that you are carrying?"

"They are my school-books," said Conrad; "but I am tired of going to

school, and I wish to go with the fairies!"

The little old man smiled a benevolent smile, and exclaimed: "Oh!" Then

he shifted his pipe again, and said quickly:

"Give me the school-books."

Conrad did so, at once.

The little old man then opened a spelling-book, and turned to the

fly-leaf.

"Conrad," said he.

Conrad started, for he wondered how the little man had learned his name.

He himself had not once mentioned it. He was sure now that the queer

little person was an enchanter.

"So, Conrad," said the little old man again, "you wish to go to the

fairies, do you? Well, you may go; but you must leave your books with me

until you come back."

Conrad's attention was now attracted by a raven, which he saw standing

beside the enchanter, and which he had not noticed before.

Turning to the bird, the enchanter said: "Give me my key."

The raven hopped from a large key upon which it had been standing, and

taking it in its beak, presented it to its master.

[Illustration]

Conrad wished to ask if the raven would bite, and whether it could do

any better trick than carrying a key; but he thought this might be

considered an impertinent question, so he said nothing.

"Take this key," said the little old man, "and be careful not to lose

it. Walk on until you come to the edge of yonder forest; pass straight

through the wood, and when you arrive at the other side, you will behold

a castle not far distant. You may find it difficult to gain admission;

but you must persevere. As to what will happen afterward, I may not tell

you now. One word more, and then begone; should you ever need my

assistance, blow down the key."

Conrad was so astonished at all he had seen and heard, that he hardly

knew what to do; but as the little old man pointed in the direction of

the forest, Conrad bade him good-day, and walked away to follow the

orders he had received.

He kept on until he came to the forest, which he entered. It seemed so

quiet and dark, that he would have been frightened, had he not

remembered that, in case of danger, he could depend on assistance from

the enchanter.

At last he reached the end of the wood, and about a mile beyond, he saw

the castle with its gilded dome and all its windows shining in the

sunlight. This sight cheered him, and he walked on till he came to the

gateway. He found the great gates wide open; and no one prevented his

entering, as it happened to be a day on which the King received

petitions from those of his subjects who wished to present any.

He passed on through the large court-yard, key in hand, and instead of

going in at the entrance to the court, he entered a little side door and

ascended a winding stairway. Up he went, higher and higher, till it

seemed as if the stairway would never end, when suddenly he came face to

face with an official who was descending.

"What business have you here?" asked the officer.

Conrad could not answer; so the man gently took hold of his ear and led

him down the stairs again, varying the monotony of the long descent by

giving the ear a severe pinch at every seventh step. Out through the

court-yard they passed, the bystanders all cheering and laughing; out of

the gate again; and with one final pinch, the boy was left sobbing on

the roadway.

Poor Conrad had, indeed, found it difficult to gain admission to the

castle. Drying his tears, however, he began to walk around the outside

of the building, until at last he came to a ladder that was leaning

against a window.

"The very thing!" said he; "it must have been left here on purpose for

me."

Up he climbed, slipped in at the window, and dropped quietly to the

floor.

He found himself in a large hall, through which he walked until he came

to an archway at the farther end. Before the archway hung an embroidered

curtain. Conrad pushed it aside, and entered a richly decorated room, at

the end of which stood a throne. Around it were assembled many nobles,

pages, and guards, who were awaiting the return of the King from

hunting.

Few of them looked at Conrad. Some seemed to cast a scornful side-glance

at him, and one even told him to go back by the way he had come. Conrad

was not a whit daunted, however, and boldly holding up his key, so that

every one could see it, he walked up to a portly-looking gentleman, who

was dressed in black velvet and who wore a golden chain around his neck.

Conrad asked him what he was to do. The portly gentleman stared at him.

Conrad asked if any of the company were enchanted; "because," said he,

"if they are, I'll disenchant them with my key."

"Enchanted?" said the gentleman in black. "What do you mean? Why do you

bother me about enchantment?"

Conrad began to feel a little nervous, and to think that they did not

seem at all like enchanted folk; at least, they did not act like any he

had read about in his books.

The enchanter had told him that he would meet with difficulties, but,

despite his confidence, he could not help getting very red in the face.

And by this time, all the gentlemen, except the one dressed in black,

were smiling.

Suddenly, Conrad remembered what the little old man had said about

whistling down the key. Happy thought! He at once rushed up in front of

the portly gentleman with the black velvet suit and the golden chain,

and began to whistle in the key as hard as he could.

But, at this performance, the nobles all stopped smiling and looked

first at one another, and then at Conrad, with very grave faces; one

even put his hand upon his sword.

Now, it happened that the gentleman in black velvet was a Grand Duke and

the Prime Minister of the kingdom. At that moment he was thinking over

some important question of state, and the sight of Conrad whistling and

capering in front of him, just as he was settling everything to his own

satisfaction, made him so angry, that he stopped and stared at Conrad,

as if he could have stepped upon him. Conrad kept on whistling, but the

little enchanter did not come. "He must either be ill or very deaf,"

thought Conrad, and he was just making up his mind that something was

wrong, when all doubts on the subject were removed by the Grand Duke,

who advanced toward him, picked him up by the collar of his jacket, and,

carrying him to a window, quietly dropped him out.

[Illustration]

Poor Conrad was very much shaken by his fall, and for a time was so

dazed that he could hardly realize what had happened. In a little while,

he began to collect his thoughts; but as he picked himself up, he

concluded, notwithstanding the difficulties he had encountered, that he

would try once more to gain admission to the castle. So he arose and

walked toward a door which he saw a few paces distant.

His key fitted the lock perfectly. He pushed aside a sliding door,

walked in, and passed down a stairway, when he found himself in a dark

cellar. The floor was strewn with boxes and small barrels, over which he

stumbled, breaking some bottles that stood in his way. He began to feel

frightened, so he climbed to the top of a barrel, in order to get a

glimpse of his position and see if he could find his way out to

daylight. Suddenly the barrel-head gave way, and before he had time to

jump off, Conrad fell, up to his knees, in some soft powder. He

struggled to free himself, but only upset the barrel and covered himself

from head to foot with flour or fine meal. At last he called for

assistance; and a door, that he had not noticed until then, opened, and

a girl of about his own age came into the cellar, and asked what was the

matter.

"I've tumbled into something; please come and help me out," cried

Conrad.

She hurried to him, and with her aid he at last succeeded in freeing

himself.

After brushing the dust from his hair and his clothes, he followed

where his new friend led the way, and entered a kitchen, thinking that

without doubt he was now in the presence of an enchanted princess, who

must have been waiting many years for some one to disenchant her. "To be

sure," thought he, "I am not a prince; but then that does not so much

matter; there is no telling but I may be one, some day;" so he decided

to ask the maiden how she had become enchanted.

"Beautiful Princess," exclaimed he,----and he was just attempting a very

fine speech in the best fairy-story manner, when the young girl laughed,

and told him to be seated, and asked him if he would like to have a pie.

Conrad was astonished by this question from an enchanted princess; but,

without waiting for his reply, the girl walked toward a table on which

stood a number of mince-pies, and, taking up one of them, she placed it

before Conrad.

That was not the way in which an enchanted princess was supposed to act;

but as Conrad was very hungry, he did not express his surprise, but

turned his attention to the pie. While he was eating, the princess

busied herself with beating some eggs in a large bowl, and before he

knew it, Conrad found that he had eaten all the pie.

Then they talked about the weather and whatever else they happened to

think of; and at last, Conrad asked her how long she had been enchanted.

"What!" exclaimed the princess.

He repeated his question.

"Why, what do you mean?" said she.

He was just about explaining, when "tramp, tramp, tramp!"--the noise of

feet was heard coming down the stairs. The princess jumped up, and

cried:

"Oh, run! Run quickly! I shall be punished if they find that I have

given you a pie!"

"Oh, no," said Conrad; "do not be frightened! I will protect you from

them. I came to this castle on purpose to rescue you."

"But I do not want to be rescued!" said she. "Do go, at once!"

Tramp, tramp! Nearer and nearer came the sound,--almost to the bottom of

the stairs. Conrad felt for his key.

"Oh, dear!" he exclaimed, "I must have lost my key when I fell into the

barrel! I never noticed that I was without it till now. All is lost!

Adieu, good Princess!"

"Good-bye," said she; "only go!"

He jumped upon a table, and climbed out of the window. It was all that

was left for him to do. After he was outside of the building, he turned,

and waving his hand to the princess, begged her to remember him.

"I will come back to you, if I ever get my key again," he said; "and

then I'll disenchant you."

At that moment the kitchen door opened, and Conrad saw a great light. It

might have been a bull's-eye lantern, but Conrad was sure that it was a

dragon that was pointing its fiery eye at him.

"Oh, the poor princess!" said he. "If only I had my key!"

Then, as the light flashed full at him, he became so frightened that he

turned and ran for the gate as hard as he could. He made his way across

the court-yard much faster than when he had come in, and soon he had

left the castle far behind. The houses began to be farther apart and to

have a more rustic appearance. He heard a cart coming along the road.

"Please give me a ride!" he cried to the driver.

"Yes, I will," said the man; "jump in." And Conrad clambered into the

cart.

"You look tired," said the driver. "Lie down on that blanket and rest

yourself."

Conrad gladly did as he was told and, feeling much fatigued after his

adventures, he was soon fast asleep.

He did not awake until he felt himself carried out of the cart, and was

just enough awake to know that all the inmates of his father's house,

together with a few of the neighbors, were crowding about and asking him

where he had been. And that was all he noticed, for the next moment he

was off to sleep again, and was carried upstairs and put to bed.

He did not feel very well the next morning, so the doctor was called in,

who advised that he should remain in the house for a few days, as he had

a slight fever.

While at home, he told his aunt what had happened to him; but she only

patted his head, and told him that he must have been dreaming. But this

Conrad refused to believe.

When he recovered, however, he became a much better boy, more quiet and

attentive to his studies; and it may be mentioned that, whenever any one

told a fairy-tale, he wore a very solemn face, took a back seat, and

said nothing.

It is not known whether he still believes in fairies; but one thing is

certain--he never saw the little old enchanter again, nor the

school-books that he had left with him.

BLOSSOM-TIME.

BY L. E. R.

Snow, snow, down from the apple-trees,

Pink and white drifting of petals sweet!

Kiss her and crown her our Lady of Blossoming,

There as she sits on the apple-tree sweet!

Has she not gathered the summer about her?

See how it laughs from her lips and her eyes!

Think you the sun there would shine on without her?

Nay! 'Tis her smile keeps the gray from the skies!

Fire of the rose, and snow of the jessamine,

Gold of the lily-dust hid in her hair;

Day holds his breath and Night comes up to look at her,

Leaving their strife for a vision so rare.

Snow, snow, down from the apple-trees,

Pink and white drifting of petals sweet!

Kiss her, and crown her, and flutter adown her,

And carpet the ground for her dear little feet!

A SEARCH FOR THE LACE-LEAF.

BY ALICE MAY.

[Illustration]

Early one morning, a palanquin carried by native bearers, and containing

as passengers Mr. Steedman, an English missionary, and his little son

Harry, was proceeding up the one street of Biforána, a queer little

bamboo village on the island of Madagascar, situated about midway

between Antananarivo, the capital, and the eastern coast.

Comparatively little is known of Madagascar, although the unsuccessful

attempt of France to obtain possession of it drew interest and attention

to it not many months ago. There are but two larger islands in the

world. As many of you know, it lies some two hundred and fifty miles to

the east of the African coast, is nine hundred and eighty miles long

and two hundred and fifty wide, and is therefore nearly four times as

large as England and Wales combined.

The Queen of this island kingdom is a young woman with the curious name

of Rasendranovo Ranavalo III. She succeeded to the throne in 1883. She

is a Christian, as is also a large part of the population of her realm;

and there are numerous missionary stations throughout the island.

Harry Steedman's father was one of these missionaries, and Harry himself

was accustomed to traveling by palanquin, since there are no roads nor

carriages to be found in Madagascar.

[Illustration: "PASSING A GROVE OF PALMS KNOWN AS THE 'TRAVELER'S

TREE.'"]

The palanquin was an oblong basket of bamboo, lined with plaited

sheepskin. The ends of the long poles or handles rested upon the

shoulders of four Madagascan bearers, while four others accompanied

these as a relay. Under the palanquin hood of woven palm-cloth, Mr.

Steedman reclined comfortably, while Harry nestled cozily at his feet;

and so, out of the village, and through the swamp of Biforána, the

procession moved until the mire became so thick that the palanquin could

not be carried with ease. As the next best mode of conveyance, the two

passengers were then transferred to the shoulders of two stout natives.

[Illustration: PALANQUIN TRAVELING BECOMES UNCOMFORTABLE.]

Mr. Steedman had started upon an expedition in search of the beautiful

lace-leaf plant, or water-yam, of Madagascar, which he was told grew in

the forests beyond Biforána, and which he was very desirous of finding

in its native state. Harry, after urgent solicitation, had been allowed

to accompany his father; but, as he clung to the neck of his swarthy

bearer, the little fellow found that there was not, after all, so much

fun in the trip as he had expected. And later on, when the palanquin, in

which they were soon seated again, was tossed and bumped by the slipping

and stumbling of the bearers as they climbed a very steep hill-side, he

began almost to wish himself at home.

After passing a grove of the stately palms known as the "traveler's

tree," they found themselves on a path that led to the bank of a river.

They endeavored to ford it, but speedily found that the danger from deep

holes and ugly-looking crocodiles was too great for them to proceed. So

Raheh, the chief bearer, uttered a curious cry, or signal, which soon

brought into view a _làkana_, or canoe, rudely fashioned from a hollow

tree-trunk; and in it a native was paddling rapidly toward them.

Harry and his father stepped into the rather shaky-looking craft not

without misgivings, but they were soon safely landed on the other

shore. When all had been thus ferried across and the native boatman had

been paid, the party entered the great forest of Alamazaotra, which

covers more than forty miles of wild and mountainous country.

[Illustration: THE LACE-LEAF OF MADAGASCAR.]

Their path at once led them through a gorge so narrow that the sides of

the palanquin grazed the rocky walls, and the masses of tangled foliage,

meeting far above their heads, almost entirely obscured the light. The

bearers paused for breath after climbing the steep ascent that led from

this gloomy pass, and Harry and his father exclaimed in wonder at the

strange beauty of the wild tropical forest.

Gigantic palms upheld around their stately heads a leafy dome closely

interlaced by clinging vines. Long garlands of moss and climbing plants

crossed and recrossed this lofty roof, and from its shadowy arches great

masses of gray moss hung suspended. Here and there among the cool green

and gray tints of leaves and moss some tropical flowers and fruits

gleamed forth in bright flashes of scarlet and gold.

Myriads of frail wood-blossoms hid their pale heads under the feathery

ferns that clustered about the roots of the trees, and the dead palms

were tenderly shrouded in waxy-leaved climbing vines, their graceful

fallen crowns replaced by masses of green ferns, intermingled with the

faint pink and blue tints of some rare orchid. On every side were little

groves of bamboo,--their light-green fringes contrasting with the darker

fronds of the stately tree-fern.

Absolute silence reigned throughout this solitude, and Harry began to be

so oppressed by the stillness as to grow fearful of danger. But his

father explained that during the wet season, in which they were

traveling, insect life in these tropical forests is asleep, and Harry

himself knew that there were but few wild animals in Madagascar. Indeed,

with the exception of that curious animal, part fox, part squirrel, and

part monkey, that is peculiar to Madagascar and is called, from its

prowling habits and ghostly appearance, the lemur, or "ghostly visitor,"

the great island possesses no large native quadrupeds. The hump-backed

African cattle and the singular fat-tailed sheep, now common throughout

the island, were not originally found in Madagascar, but were taken over

from Africa.

The bearers of the palanquin clambered on, now over steep and

moss-covered rocks, now crossing sluggish streams on slippery

stepping-stones, or sliding down precipices, until poor Harry was so

rattled and shaken and tossed and tumbled that he declared he didn't

know his head from his heels.

But, at last, a break occurred in the long stretch of rock and forest,

and as the bearers paused upon a piece of level ground, for a moment's

rest, Raheh suddenly uttered the joyful cry of "_rano!_" (water) and

all, on listening, distinguished the sound of a rushing stream.

Urged on by Raheh, the bearers pushed ahead, and soon stood upon the

banks of a beautiful river, dashing merrily along over rocks and fallen

trees, until with a leap it disappeared in the shadows of the vast

forest. Upon the farther side was grouped a little village of the clay

huts belonging to the friendly Hovas, and beyond the village stretched

green fields of waving rice. The "Hovas" are the governing race in the

island, and are the most civilized. Their capital city of Antananarivo,

in the center of the island, is a well-built city of over 100,000

inhabitants.

A tree had fallen across the stream, with its head resting upon the

opposite bank, and this natural bridge was entirely covered with pink,

blue, and white flowers of the waxy orchid. This beautiful sight,

however, was unnoticed by Harry and his father, for in the water at

their feet was the object of their search, the Lattice or Lace leaf.

[Illustration: MADAGASCAN DRINKING-CUP FORMED FROM A LEAF OF THE

"TRAVELER'S TREE."]

The lace-leaf plant, or fresh-water yam as it is sometimes called

because of its potato-shaped or yam-like root, is found in many of the

rivers of Madagascar. The difficulty of obtaining it, however, makes it

a rare plant to Europeans; and when, a few days before, Mr. Steedman had

recognized in some "roasted potatoes," as Harry called the

pleasant-tasting vegetable that one of his boyish Madagascan friends had

given him to eat, the edible root of the lace-leaf plant, the missionary

had determined to make a careful search for the plant so prized by

naturalists. And now at last he had found it, bobbing backward and

forward in a fantastic dance just above the eddying waters of the

beautiful forest river. As soon as they recognized it, both Mr. Steedman

and his son were on the ground in an instant, and bending eagerly above

the clear stream. The water was so pure and limpid that every pebble

could be counted, and in the cool, bright current they saw, to their

delight, a perfect labyrinth of lace-work. Dozens of lace-leaves, green,

gold, olive, and brown, were floating just beneath the surface of the

water.

"Oh, Papa! did you ever see anything so lovely?" said Harry, excitedly.

Mr. Steedman could take but a one-sided view of those wonderful leaves,

as one glass from his spectacles had been lost during their rough

journey; but the remaining glass fairly sparkled with satisfaction.

"Ah, my son, this plant is both lovely and rare. See, the young leaves

are light green and yellow; the older leaves are darker,--shades of

green and olive. A few are even black, and all growing from the same

root. How perfect is every leaf, in spite of its delicate texture! Some

of those larger leaves must be ten or twelve inches long. The strong

midrib in each serves as a support for the fragile threads forming the

meshes on each side."

Harry now plunged his hand into the lace-like web, half expecting it to

dissolve in his grasp. But no! The wiry little yellow leaf which he

raised from the water, was perfect in form, and a gleam of sunlight,

falling upon the shining meshes, transformed them into threads of

glistening gold.

He now discovered, as he examined them carefully, that the under

surfaces of the leaves, were glistening with little pearly bubbles of

air.

[Illustration: RAHEH, THE GUIDE.]

"Oh, Papa," he cried, joyously holding the glistening meshes aloft, "the

lace-leaves are jeweled!"

"Yes, Harry," said his father, "those diamond drops are made by the

breathing of the plant."

Mr. Steedman attempted to detach a root of one of the plants from its

bed of mud, but the little tendrils branching from it on every side held

the root firmly in its place. At last he succeeded in extricating the

little white threads, one by one, and removed the entire plant to the

bank. Its root, which is eaten in Madagascar, was very like the ginger

root, and had a tough, light-brown skin.

Harry carefully placed the leaves of the plant in his herbarium, while

his father packed the root, with its native soil, in a tin case,

preparatory to sending it to the Botanical Society in London.

"Harry," he said, as they finished their work, "this plant could be

easily reared in our green-houses--heat and moisture being all that is

required. But nature seems to have jealously surrounded these beautiful

leaves with almost impassable barriers, and the lace-plant is

comparatively unknown.

"But come, my boy Raheh says '_maly-massandro_' (the sun is dead), and

it will be as long as 'two cookings of rice' (two half hours) before we

can be ferried across to yonder village and secure a place to pass the

night."

And so, after Raheh had given Harry one last drink from the clear, cool

river, in the odd-looking leaf-cup he carried for the purpose, the tired

but successful lace-leaf hunters crossed over to the Hova village and

were soon fast asleep.

THE CARICATURE PLANT.

BY M. A.

One of the most remarkable plants in the whole vegetable kingdom is that

known to botanists as the _Justicia Picta_, which has also been well

named "The Caricature Plant."

At first sight, it appears to be a heavy, large-leafed plant, with

purple blossoms, chiefly remarkable for the light-yellow centers of its

dark-green leaves, which cause them to look as if some acid had been

spilled upon them and taken the color out wherever it had touched.

As I stood looking at this odd plant and thinking what a sickly,

blighted appearance the queer, yellow stains gave it, I was suddenly

impressed with the fact that the plant was "making faces" at me. Still,

unaccustomed as I was to seeing plants indulge in this strictly human

amusement, I was slow to believe it, and stooped to read the somewhat

illegible inscription on the card below the plant--"_Justicia Picta_, or

'Caricature Plant.'" My first impression was correct then. This curious

shrub had indeed occupied itself in growing up in ridiculous caricatures

of the "human face divine," until it now stood, covered from the topmost

leaf down, with the queerest faces imaginable. Nature had taken to

caricaturing. The flesh-colored profiles stood out in strong relief

against the dark-green of the leaves.

A discovery of one of these vegetable marks leads to an examination of a

second and a third leaf, until all are scanned as closely and curiously

as the leaves of the comic papers that form the caricature plants of

the literary kingdom.

What a valuable plant this would be for one of our professional

caricaturists to have growing in his conservatory! When an order was

sent to him for a "speaking likeness" of some unhappy politician, he

could simply visit his _Justicia Picta_ with pencil and paper in hand,

and look over the leaves for a suitable squint, grin, or distorted nose

to sketch from. He could, moreover, affirm with truth that the portrait

was "taken from nature." Cuthbert Collingwood, the celebrated

naturalist, says of the _Justicia Picta_: "One of these plants in the

garden of Gustave Doré would be worth a fortune to him, supplying him

with a never-failing fund of grotesque physiognomies, from which he

might illustrate every serio-comic romance ever written." I have never

heard of the cultivation of the Caricature Plant in this country; but

botanists tell us that it is a hardy shrub. I think we should be glad to

see the funny faces on its leaves. After all the lovely flowers we are

called upon to admire, I am sure that a plant evidently intended to make

us laugh would receive a warm welcome from our young people.

The Chinese appreciate the Caricature Plant, and in some parts of China

it is quite extensively cultivated. Perhaps some of the funny, grinning

faces on Chinese toys and ornaments are reproductions of the grotesque

features on the leaves of the plant.

Finally, I must assure any unbelieving readers of ST. NICHOLAS that

neither in this account of a very remarkable plant, nor in the

accompanying illustration, has the writer drawn upon imagination.

[Illustration: THE CARICATURE PLANT.]

The _Justicia Picta_ really exists. It is a native of the East Indies,

and is a source of much amusement and curiosity to both botanists and

travelers.

VEGETABLE CLOTHING.

BY C. J. RUSSELL.

About two hundred years ago the governor of the island of Jamaica, Sir

Thomas Lynch, sent to King Charles II. of England a vegetable necktie,

and a very good necktie it was, although it had grown on a tree and had

not been altered since it was taken from the tree. It was as soft and

white and delicate as lace, and it is not surprising that the King

should have expressed his doubts when he was told that the beautiful

fabric had grown on a tree in almost the exact condition in which he saw

it. It had been stretched a little, and that was all.

But if King Charles was astonished to learn that neckties grew on trees

in Jamaica, what must have been the feelings of a stranger traveling in

Central America, on being told that mosquito-nets grew on trees in that

country? He had complained to his host that the mosquitoes had nearly

eaten him up the night before, and had been told in response that he

should have a new netting put over his bed.

Satisfied with this statement, the traveler was turning away, but his

attention was arrested by his host's calmly continuing, "in fact, we are

going to strip a tree anyhow, because there is to be a wedding on the

estate, and we wish to have a dress ready for the bride."

[Illustration: KING CHARLES'S VEGETABLE NECKTIE.]

"You don't mean," said the traveler incredulously, "that

mosquito-netting and bridal dresses grow on trees, do you?"

"That is just what I mean," replied his host.

"All right," said the stranger, who fancied a joke was being attempted

at his expense, "let me see you gather the fruit and I will believe

you."

"Certainly," was the answer; "follow the men, and you will see that I

speak the exact truth."

Still looking for some jest, the stranger followed the two men who were

to pluck the singular fruit, and stood by when they stopped at a rather

small tree, bearing thick, glossy-green leaves, but nothing else which

the utmost effort of the imagination could convert into the netting or

the wedding garments. The tree was about twenty feet high and six inches

in diameter, and its bark looked much like that of a birch-tree.

"Is this the tree?" asked the stranger.

"Yes, señor," answered one of the men, with a smile.

"I don't see the mosquito-netting nor the wedding-dress," said the

stranger, "and I can't see any joke either."

"If the señor will wait a few minutes he will see all that was promised,

and more too," was the reply. "He will see that this tree can bear not

only mosquito-netting and wedding-dresses, but fish-nets and

neck-scarfs, mourning crape or bridal veils."

The tree was without more ado cut down. Three strips of bark, each about

six inches wide and eight feet long, were taken from the trunk and

thrown into a stream of water. Then each man took a strip while it was

still in the water, and with the point of his knife separated a thin

layer of the inner bark from one end of the strip. This layer was then

taken in the fingers and gently pulled, whereupon it came away in an

even sheet of the entire width and length of the strip of bark. Twelve

sheets were thus taken from each strip of bark, and thrown into the

water.

A light broke in upon the stranger's mind. Without a doubt these strips

were to be sewn together into one sheet. The plan seemed a good one and

the fabric thus formed might do, he thought, if no better cloth could be

had.

The men were not through yet, however, for when each strip of bark had

yielded its twelve sheets, each sheet was taken from the water and

gradually stretched sidewise. The spectator could hardly believe his

eyes. The sheet broadened and broadened until from a close piece of

material six inches wide, it became a filmy cloud of delicate lace, over

three feet in width. The astonished gentleman was forced to confess that

no human-made loom ever turned out lace which could surpass in snowy

whiteness and gossamer-like delicacy that product of nature.

The natural lace is not so regular in formation as the material called

illusion, so much worn by ladies in summer; but it is as soft and white,

and will bear washing, which is not true of illusion. In Jamaica and

Central America, this wonderful lace is put to all the uses mentioned by

the native to our traveler, and to more uses besides. In fact, among the

poorer people it supplies the place of manufactured cloth, which they

can not afford to buy; and the wealthier classes do not by any means

scorn it for ornamental use.

Long before the white man found his way to this part of the world, the

Indians had known and used this vegetable cloth; so that what was so new

and wonderful to King Charles and Governor Sir Thomas Lynch was an old

story to the natives. Some time after King Charles received his

vegetable necktie, Sir Hans Sloane, whose art-collection and library

were the foundation of the British Museum, visited Jamaica. He described

the tree fully, and was the first person who told the civilized world

about it. The tree is commonly called the lace-bark tree. Its botanical

name is _Lagetto lintearia_.

WOE TO THE FOREIGN DOLLY!

[Illustration: THE PET GREYHOUND RESOLVES INDIGNANTLY THAT THE JAPANESE

"MUST GO!"]

ST. NICHOLAS DOG STORIES.

X.--A CLEVER LITTLE YELLOW DOG.

BY JOHN R. CORYELL.

One cold winter night, not long ago, I took pity on a poor little

dejected-looking yellow puppy, and invited him into my house. Having

once taken him in, it was quite out of the question to think of turning

him out again. I was not afraid that I might be robbing anybody, for he

was the kind of dog that very few persons care to have. He was

dirty-yellow in color, very lank of body, and he seemed to be made up of

ill-assorted parts of different kinds of dogs. His legs, particularly,

seemed intended for some other dog and acted as if they never would

become reconciled to carrying the queer body to which they were joined.

I should have preferred a handsome dog, but since I had no choice, I

determined to do my duty by the little outcast, and to give him such an

education that in the beauties of his mind the ugliness of his body

would be overlooked.

The first thing needed for him was a name; and I tried to think of

something appropriate, but soon gave it up, and in default of a better

title called him Bob. To teach him the name was easy. I merely called

out the word "Bob!" every time I fed him. As it was important that he

should learn to look to me as the source of all his happiness and

instruction, I permitted no one else to feed him. It took him about a

week to learn his name, and to recognize the fact that all the

blandishments he could lavish on the cook would be of no avail, and that

his only hope was in me.

At the very outset, I had made up my mind that under no circumstances

should he receive angry words or blows. He was a broken-spirited,

affectionate little puppy, and I was resolved that if there was no way

of teaching him except by brutality, he should remain ignorant all his

life. The abject way in which, to this day, he runs from a child makes

me feel sad. I fancy that much of his early life was spent in dodging

stones or snow-balls thrown by boys--not cruel, but thoughtless boys.

It was necessary to control him, and I quickly discovered an easy way.

He was such a sensitive little fellow that when he once learned to love

me, he seemed to know by the tones of my voice whether I was pleased

with him, and to have me pleased seemed to be the one object of his

life. Therefore, if I saw him doing anything wrong, I had only to say

sharply and firmly, "No, Bob!" and down would go the tail and ears, and

he would slink shame-facedly to his special corner and from there watch

me until I would call him to me and pat his head.

After a while, a quiet "No, Bob!" would effect the same result. This was

a great victory, and made most of the subsequent teaching merely a

matter of patience.

The first real lesson was when I undertook to make him sit up. If he had

only known what I wished him to do, he would gladly have done it; but

the words "Sit up!" meant nothing to him. He was almost too willing, for

when I took hold of him to put him into a sitting position, he became as

limp as a wet rag, and seemed to be trying to put himself into a

condition to be twisted into any shape I chose.

Then I put him into a corner and set him up, saying continually, "Sit

up! Sit up!" I held him up for a while and then took my hand away, but

at once he collapsed as if all the stiffening had suddenly left his

back-bone. Then I showed him a piece of sugar, of which he was very

fond, and immediately he was himself again. Once more, and many times

more, I put him in position in the corner, until at last, seemingly by

accident, he failed to fall over when I took my hand away. I did not tax

his endurance, but at once gave him the sugar.

It took him about three days to grasp the idea that "sit up!" meant a

special performance, and that to achieve it meant a lump of sugar. Then

I put him through the same process in the middle of the room. He missed

the support of the wall at first, and fell over; whereupon he looked

foolish. One fact was evidently firmly fixed in his mind, however,--the

fact that there was sugar to be had if only he could do as I wished him

to do. All the time that he was struggling for balance, he kept his eye

on the lump of sugar, which I had on the floor beside me. Finally that

lesson was learned, and he could sit up if I would put him in position.

He knew, too, what "sit up!" meant.

After that, I would not feed him until he had first sat up; but it was a

long time before he gained sufficient confidence in himself to sit up

without help. At first I helped him up by both paws; then I helped by

holding only one paw; then I merely touched one paw; then I only

motioned, as if about to touch the paw; and finally I simply said, "Sit

up!"

I think Bob reasoned this all out in his own mind and concluded that

there must be some strange and beautiful power in the words "sit up!"

for he could see that whenever he did it, he had something to eat. I am

obliged to confess that Bob loved to eat; and after he had learned to

sit up, he was inclined to perform the feat morning, noon, and night,

and it was, of course, impossible to make him go away without first

giving him a morsel, however small, of food.

[Illustration: AWAITING FURTHER ORDERS.]

Lessons in standing up, walking and waltzing followed, and they were all

easily taught. In teaching him anything, I was always careful to

associate the action required of him with certain words. Standing,

walking on his hind legs, and waltzing were always "stand up!" "walk!"

"waltz about!" I never taught him more than one thing at a time, so that

there should be no possibility of his misunderstanding the meaning of

the word or words used.

In teaching him to stand up, I first made him sit; then by holding a

piece of sugar over his head, I induced him to stand erect,--while I

kept repeating, "Stand up!" "Stand up!" After he had learned this

lesson, I made him first sit, then stand, and then, by going from him

and saying "Walk!" I made him follow me until he understood the

connection between the words and the action, even when I was at the

other end of the room. I taught him to "waltz" by making him go around

and around after a piece of sugar held over his head when he was

standing up.

To make him go to his corner and lie down, without hurting his feelings,

was difficult. If I said sharply, "Go to your corner and lie down!" he

would go; but he would feel so badly that he could not play for half an

hour. But by repeating the command in gradually softening tones and by

giving him a piece of sugar each time, he eventually learned that he was

not thereby in disgrace.

Seeing, however, how a sharp word would make his ears and tail droop, I

took advantage of this fact, and whenever he had done wrong I would

always say "Naughty!" a dozen times over, until at last I had only to

whisper "Naughty!"--and down would go those ensigns in a moment. On the

other hand, if I said "Good dog!" he was immediately on the alert, ears

up, head cocked to one side, and tail wagging, ready for any kind of

sport.

After he had learned to walk, I taught him to go slowly when I said

"like a gentleman!" and quickly when I said "like a schoolboy!" To teach

him these things required patience principally; but I found that to

teach him some things taxed my ingenuity as well.

I wished him to speak both softly and loudly; but how to make him do it

puzzled me. For Bob seldom barked except when engaged in uproarious

play, and at such times he was not susceptible to instruction. One day,

however, he had been playing with a little rubber ball, running after it

and bringing it to me until I was tired, a condition in which he never

seemed to be.

To stop the game I put my foot on the ball, and picked up a book to

read. Bob waited a few moments to see what I was going to do, and

finding I was not going to play, tried to push my foot away with his

nose. Failing in that, he pulled with one paw. That also failed, and Bob

was puzzled. He retired a few steps, placed his head between his

forepaws on the floor and looked at me. I pretended not to see him,

curious to know what he would do. He remained perfectly still for nearly

a minute, and then, as if determined to attract my attention somehow, he

barked.

There was my clew; I gave him the ball at once. In a few moments I again

placed my foot on the ball, and waited until I saw he was about to bark,

when I said, "Shout! Shout!" He barked, and I gave him the ball. I

repeated this several times a day, and day after day, until he learned

to bark whenever he wanted the ball and I said "Shout!" Then I made him

shout for his meals, and finally, he would "shout" whenever I told him

to do so.

[Illustration: "BOB" JUMPING.]

To make him speak softly, I took advantage of a fashion he had of

whining when he wished to go into the yard for a frolic. I would go to

the door and say, "Want to go out?" Bob would at once respond by

preparing to rush out the moment the door was opened. Then I would say,

"Speak softly!" and keep repeating the words until he whined. After a

while he would whine the moment I said, "Speak softly!"

Another thing that I taught him was to fall down and lie motionless when

I said, "Dead!" This I accomplished by taking hold of his forefeet in

one hand and his hindfeet in the other, and suddenly dropping him on his

side on the floor, as I said the word "Dead!" several times.

At first, Bob thought I was playing some new game with him, and prepared

for a good time, but I had only to say "No!" to him to make him sedate

at once. By this time he had learned that when I repeated a thing

several times, it was because he was to learn something; and the little

fellow really seemed to try to understand what I wished him to do.

After I had pulled his feet from under him a number of times, and had

made him lie still until I said, "Alive!" I tried tapping a hindfoot and

a forefoot, at the same time saying "Dead!" He was a long time learning

this trick; and several times when I thought he had learned to do it

when I simply tapped his feet, I was obliged to go back and pull his

feet from under him. In time, however, he learned to fall the moment I

touched the side of one hindfoot. From that to motioning at the foot,

and finally, merely saying "Dead!" the progress was quick. To make him

jump up, I always said "Alive!"

To make him go "lame" was very easy. I tied a long string to one

forefoot, and by saying, "Lame!" and at the same time making him walk,

while I prevented him from putting the tied foot down, he soon learned

to go on three legs.

One of the funniest things he learned to do was to take his piece of

carpet, shake it well, and put it back in its place. It was through an

accident that I thought of teaching him to do this. I had been

accustomed to shake out his carpet in the yard every morning. One

morning I threw it on the grass to air. In a moment Bob had it in his

mouth and was worrying it, shaking it, and growling. He was playing, but

I saw that I could teach him something, and at once said, "Make your

bed!" By repeating this, morning after morning, he at last learned to

pick up his carpet, carry it out into the yard, shake it, and carry it

back. I could never teach him to lay it down properly, however; he

seemed to think it was as good in a heap as if nicely smoothed out.

After I had taught Bob a number of tricks, I determined to write a play

for him. I do not believe that any human actor ever had audiences more

appreciative than his, when he performed in his "play." His little

friends were always ready to give him sugar by the handful if I did not

interfere, and Bob was always ready to take all that was offered. The

"play" was nothing more than a simple little story into which were

introduced the words which I used in commanding him to perform his

various tricks. I would repeat the story, and when I came to a word of

command, such as "dead," I would emphasize it so that Bob would at once

do whatever he had been taught to do at the sound of that word. The play

I wrote was about as follows:--

"Once upon a time there was a little dog named _Bob_ [here Bob would run

to me, and wait expectantly]. Usually he was a very _good dog_ [wag,

wag, would go his tail], but once in a while he was very _naughty_ [down

would drop ears and tail]. When he was a _good dog_ [happy again], he

would _sit up_ and show any little boy or girl how to behave. At such

times, he would _speak softly_ [prolonged whine], as a polite dog

should, though once in a while he would become excited, and _shout,

shout, shout_ [furious barking], as impolite children are sometimes apt

to do.

"When a lady entered the room where he was, he would always _stand_ up,

ready to give her his chair if she wished it; or if she preferred to go

into the garden or the street, he would go with her and _walk like a

gentleman_. When he played, however, he could run _like a schoolboy_.

But once he was in the ball-room, he could _waltz about_ as well as the

best dancer there.

"If any one ever said to him, '_go to your corner and lie down_' he

would do so at once like the well bred dog he was. But he was always

obedient and would come immediately as soon as one said _Bob_.

"I was very sorry to hear one day that this remarkable dog was _dead_. I

felt so badly that I went to his house, but was pleasantly surprised

when I reached there, to find that he was very much _alive_."

[Illustration: FETCH BRINGS IN THE PERVERSE COW.]

What will be the limit of Bob's education I do not know, for he

continues to learn with increasing ease every day. In addition to all

that has been described, he can now, at the proper order of command,

sneeze, catch a piece of meat from his nose at the word "three," jump

over a cane, turn a somersault, and play tag.

XI.--A DOG THAT COULD COUNT.

BY E. P. ROE.

Old Fetch was a shepherd dog and lived in the Highlands of the Hudson.

His master kept nearly a dozen cows, and they ranged at will among the

hills during the day. When the sun was low in the west, his master would

say to his dog, "Bring the cows home"; and it was because the dog did

this task so well, that he was called Fetch. He would run to a flat rock

and hold his ear down close to it, having learned that he could thus

catch the far-off tinkle of the cow-bells better than in any other way.

If he could not hear them he would range about until he did, and then he

was off like a shot in the direction of the sound.

One sultry day he departed as usual upon his evening task. From

scattered, shady, and grassy nooks, he at last gathered all the cattle

into a mountain road, leading to the distant barnyard.

Switching off the flies with their tails, the cows jogged slowly

homeward, the tinkle of their bells gradually becoming more and more

distinct to the milkmaid who was awaiting them. One of the cows was

known to be a little perverse, and on that evening she gave fresh

evidence of willfulness. One part of the road ran through a low, moist

spot bordered by a thicket of black alder, and into this the cow pushed

her way, and stood quietly. The others passed on, followed some distance

in the rear by Fetch. He was panting from his exertions in the hot

evening, his tongue lolling from his mouth as he slowly and languidly

pursued his way.

Indeed he had quite discarded his usual vigilance, and the perverse cow

took advantage of it.

As the cows approached the barnyard gate, he quickened his pace, and

hurried forward, as if to say, "I'm here, attending to business." But

his complacency was disturbed as the cows filed through the gate. He

whined a little, and growled a little, attracting his master's

attention. Then he went to the high fence surrounding the yard, and

standing on his hindfeet peered between two of the rails. After looking

at the herd carefully for a time, he started off down the road again on

a full run. His master now observed that one of the cows was missing,

and he sat down on a rock to see what Fetch was going to do about it.

Before very long he heard the furious tinkling of a bell, and soon Fetch

appeared bringing in the perverse cow at a rapid pace, hastening her on

by frequently leaping up and catching her ear in his teeth. The gate was

again thrown open, and the cow, shaking her head from the pain of the

dog's rough reminders, was led through it in a way that she did not soon

forget. Fetch looked after her a moment with the air of one remarking to

himself, "You'll not try that trick again," and then he lay down quietly

to cool off in time for supper.

XII.--A CLEVER SHEEP DOG.

A recent English writer tells the following story of an ingenious

sheep-dog that, when the flock took a wrong road, would turn them back

without worrying them. His owner had hesitated for some time before he

made up his mind to have a dog, as he had often seen dogs ill-use the

poor sheep. But believing that in most cases the dogs' harshness toward

the sheep was due to bad training, and not to their naturally evil

dispositions, he resolved to make trial of one. The dog he procured was

young; and he trained it after his own ideas. He soon found the docile

creature a very useful helper in driving a flock from one pasture to

another. The sheep often took a wrong turn, and then scampered off as

fast as they could go. At such times, most shepherds who had dogs were

accustomed to send the dog after the flock, at the top of its speed. Of

course, it soon overtook them, but the sheep were often much frightened,

and not infrequently hurt by falling down or by rushing against one

another. To prevent this, the shepherd mentioned would order his dog

"Smart" to go to the other side of the hedge, saying, "Now, go ahead,

and bring 'em back!" Smart would promptly obey, and would noiselessly

run along behind the hedge, sometimes even climbing a little slope by

the roadway, whence he could overlook the flock and see just where each

sheep was moving. As soon as Smart, by peeping over or through the

hedge, had satisfied himself that he was ahead of all the sheep, he

would come coolly out of the hedge and bring them back down the lane so

gently as not to cause them the least alarm. Smart never attempted to

get ahead of a flock in the way common to most of the dogs in that

vicinity,--by rushing past them and frightening them; but looking at his

master and wagging his tail, he would cross the hedge, overtake them,

and quietly drive them back into the right road.

XIII.--A STORY OF TWO BUCKETS.

BY CHARLOTTE M. VAILE.

There they were hanging, one of them out of sight in the cool, deep

water, and the other swinging empty in the sunshine, as Daisy Hadley and

her dog Bruno came up to the well. The little girl and the big dog had

been rambling about all the morning, following the brook through fields

of sunflowers and poppies, or climbing the rocks on the sides of the

mountains; but they were tired and thirsty now, and Daisy looked

wistfully at the empty bucket, wishing she were strong enough to pull it

down and bring the other, full and dripping, up in its place.

"Bruno," she said reproachfully, "I wish you could draw me some water."

Bruno was a great, shaggy Newfoundland, that had been Daisy's play-mate

ever since she could remember. He was a wonderful dog. Daisy herself

would have told you that there were only a few things he could not do,

but unfortunately managing that well was one of them. So there was no

help for it, and Daisy was turning reluctantly away when she caught

sight of Mr. Paul Gregg, one of the other summer boarders in the Park.

[Illustration: "A CLEVER SHEEP DOG." (SEE PRECEDING PAGE.)]

If he had not come up just then, there would have been no story to tell,

and the buckets might have gone up and down in the well to this day

without taking part in any more remarkable event. But he _did_ come up;

and Daisy's face brightened, for they were great friends, though she was

only a little girl in the Kindergarten, and he was a tall young student.

He stopped when Daisy said she wanted some water; and putting down his

botanical box, he began to draw some gloves over his rather soft hands.

"I don't like this kind of a well at all," said Daisy. "It isn't half as

nice as the one at my grandfather's. _That_ had only one bucket, with a

rope that went 'round and 'round a great roller; and there was a handle

that I could turn myself."

"This is a very old and respectable kind of a well, though," said Mr.

Gregg, taking hold of the rope. "There must have been such wells as long

ago as Shakspere's time."

"How do you know?" asked Daisy, who was sure that Shakspere lived a

great while ago, though she could not have told when.

"Shakspere, you know, Daisy," said Mr. Gregg, "was a great poet who

lived hundreds of years ago, and in a play he wrote, called 'King

Richard II.,' he tells about just such a well as this. Richard was one

of the kings of England, and a very unlucky king he was, though I can't

deny that he brought his troubles on himself, for he was anything but a

wise and prudent ruler. At last his cousin Prince Henry raised a great

army and forced Richard to give up the crown. Poor King Richard did not

show much spirit when his troubles came; but, according to Shakspere, he

made a very neat speech, when his clever cousin Henry told him that he

had decided to become King himself. Among other things, Richard said

that the crown he must give up was

'Like a deep well

That owns two buckets filling one another;

The emptier ever dancing in the air,

The other down, unseen, and full of water;

That bucket down, and full of tears, am I,

Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.'"

While Mr. Gregg was talking, the buckets in the well had changed places.

The one which had swung in the air so lightly at first had gone down out

of sight, and the other had come up ready to be emptied and to take its

place in the sunshine.

Mr. Gregg paused now as he poured out some of the water. Daisy was

silent too, trying to understand it all.

"What became of King Richard?" she asked presently.

"He died in prison," said Mr. Gregg. "Some say his cousin Henry, who

took his place as king, had him put to death; and now," he added,

turning away from the well, "I think that I will see if your mother is

ready to go to dinner with us."

Then he turned toward the cottage and left Daisy standing by the well.

She had not understood it all, but she felt very sorry for the unhappy

king, and she thought she knew why he said he was like the bucket in the

deep, dark water when he sank under his grief and shame never to see any

more bright days.

She was leaning on the side of the well, with her hand upon the rope,

thinking very earnestly of it all and trying to catch a glimpse of the

bucket that was hanging there in the dark, when something dreadful

happened. Before she knew it, she had leaned over too far. She lost her

balance and fell over the side of the well. Down, down went the bucket,

more swiftly than it had ever gone before, and with it, but holding

desperately to the rope, went Daisy! There was only time for one

terrible cry--and she was out of sight in the well!

There was no one there to save her,--Yes, there was Bruno! He heard the

cry. He saw his little friend go down, and with a bark that rang across

to the mountains, he rushed to the well. He leaped frantically against

the low wooden side just as the bucket which had been in the water rose

even with its edge. Somehow he managed to fling his heavy paws on it,

then his whole body, and then, all at once, it was Bruno that was going

down, down, but clinging to the bucket and howling as he went,--and

Daisy was coming up!

It was only for a minute, therefore, that Daisy was in the water. The

next moment, thanks to the sudden pull at the other end of the rope, she

was rising again; and just as Bruno, loosened his hold of the bucket,

and dropped heavily into the water, Mr. Paul Gregg reached the side of

the well, seized the rope and drew Daisy to the top, gasping, shivering,

and frightened almost to death.

As soon as Daisy could speak, she said, "Save Bruno!" But they had

already begun to do that, and they did save him, of course. The brave

old fellow was none the worse for his adventure. He dried himself in the

sunshine, and then lay down beside the rocking-chair where Daisy sat

folded in a soft wrap, with vaseline on her blistered hands.

Daisy was none the worse for it either, in the end; though at first,

when her mother asked her how it happened and she tried to say something

about a "poor king," and "a bucket-full of tears," the poor lady was

afraid the plunge had affected her daughter's mind, and to this day she

is in doubt whether Shakspere or King Henry or Mr. Paul Gregg was

responsible for the accident.

One thing however, was clear. It was Bruno who had saved her. Had he

really meant to go down with the bucket and rescue her? Daisy never had

a doubt of it herself. For the rest of the season he was the hero of the

Park. The summer guests bought him a silver collar beautifully engraved,

and Mr. Paul Gregg declared that he should propose his name as an

honorary member of the Humane Society.

But Bruno's head was not turned with all those honors. He rambled

through the fields with Daisy as he had done before, and when she put

her arms around his neck, and said that he should be her dearest friend

forever, he was happier than if his collar had been made of gold, or

than if he had been elected president of the Humane Society.

THE SMALLEST CIRCUS IN THE WORLD.

BY C. F. HOLDER.

[Illustration: THE "GO-AS-YOU-PLEASE" RACE, AS SEEN THROUGH A MAGNIFYING

GLASS. (SEE PAGE 535.)]

In a former number of ST. NICHOLAS the largest circus in the world was

described, and the curious animal actors were shown in many of their

tricks and performances. We now wish to exhibit another circus, the

smallest in the world, the performers in which, numbering several

hundreds, could all be carried about in a cherry-stone--in fact, a

circus of fleas, of such remarkable intelligence that in their various

feats they were quite equal to many of the larger trained animals with

which we are familiar.

But before showing what the flea can do, let us look at its antecedents.

We know that it is a wingless fly,--a cousin to the house-flies on one

side, and to the crane-flies on the other; and a more knightly-looking

little creature you can not possibly imagine. Under the microscope we

see it covered with a rich polished armor resembling tortoise-shell. The

head is small, and supports two _antennæ_ or feelers, composed of five

joints, and between these is the proboscis, a terrible affair. Upon

close examination with a powerful glass, what an array of piercing and

cutting blades are seen,--long, narrow, transparent knives, each edge

armed with a double row of glistening points that extend outward and

then are hooked backward! These are known as the mandibles, and fit

closely together, concealing another and smaller blade that has a

similar but single row of points. Besides all this, there are two

cutting-blades; the under edges are as sharp as sharp can be, while the

upper are thick and set with bristles. Do you wonder then that the flea

is so sharp a biter?

On its armored head are two large eyes; and the entire body is seen to

be made up of a series of elastic armor-like bands wonderfully jointed,

and armed with bristling spines like the steel points on the armor of

olden times. The legs are six in number, jointed in so remarkable a

manner that they can be folded up one within another. When the flea

makes its prodigious leaps, these six legs all unfold at once, hurling

the little fellow high into the air.

The baby flea is produced from a minute egg that in six days hatches

into a tiny worm. In about ten days, the worm changes into a chrysalis,

and in twelve days more it appears a perfect flea, ready for warfare

upon anything or anybody.

Who first discovered that the flea was susceptible to education and kind

treatment is not known; but the fact remains that on their small heads

there is a thinking-cap capable of accomplishing great results. In the

selection of fleas for training, however, the same care must be taken as

with human beings, as the greatest difference is found in them. Some are

exceedingly apt scholars, while others never can learn, and so it is

that great numbers of fleas are experimented with before a troupe is

accepted. The Flea Circus here described was exhibited a few years ago

and was composed of about two hundred of the most distinguished and

intelligent fleas in the entire family.

One of the first lessons taught the flea, is to control its jumping

powers, for if its great leaps should be taken in the middle of a

performance, there would be a sudden ending to the circus. To insure

against such a misfortune, the student flea is first placed in a glass

phial, and encouraged to jump as much as possible. Every leap here made

brings the polished head of the flea against the glass, hurling the

insect back, and throwing it this way and that, until, after a long and

sorry experience, and perhaps many head-aches, it makes up its mind

never to unfold its legs suddenly again. When it has proved this by

refusing to jump in the open air, the first and most important lesson is

complete, and it joins the troupe, and is daily harnessed and trained,

until, finally, it is pronounced ready to go on the stage or in the

ring.

The famous Flea Circus was placed on an ordinary table, and resembled in

size and shape a common dinner plate. A rim several inches high

encircled the outer edge, and around the circle stood a number of small

wooden boxes--the houses of the performers, and the stables for their

carriages. The signal being given, the audience, consisting of one human

being, would take in hand the large magnifying glass, hold it over the

ring, and the performance would begin. At the word of command from the

director, a very jolly, red-faced old gentleman, armed with a pair of

pincers, a tiny trap-door in one of the wooden houses sprang open and a

number of fleas filed out. They passed around the circle in a dignified

manner, appearing through the glass about as large as wasps or bees.

Each flea had a gold cord about its waist, and this was the grand entry

always seen at the circus. Having completed the circuit, they returned

to their quarters, and the performance proper commenced. Five fleas,

each adorned with a different color, stepped from another house, and

after running about here and there, and being admonished by the

director, ranged themselves in a line, and at the word "go!" started on

a rush around the circle; running into each other, rolling over and

over, and making frantic leaps over one another. Only after half the

course had been gone over, did they move in regular order, and strive

fairly for the goal. In another moment, a large flea would have won the

race had not two laggards almost at the last instant, as if made

reckless by their evident risk of defeat, taken a desperate leap and

landed far beyond the winning-post. Forthwith they were taken up in the

pincers, and placed in solitary confinement in the glass phial, where it

was supposed they had learned not to jump.

[Illustration: THE DANCE.]

A dance was next announced and at a signal from the manager there came

tumbling out from the third house probably the most ludicrous band of

performers ever witnessed. Each dancer was in full regalia, like the

ladies who ride the padded horses in the regular circus, their dresses

of tissue paper being ornamented with purple, gold, and red hues. The

glass was placed in position, the spectator looked through it, the

performers were lifted in by the pincers, and the dance began--a mixture

of the Highland-fling, the sailor's hornpipe, and a "regular"

break-down.

[Illustration: THE HURDLE-RACE.]

The little creatures bobbed up and down, now on one claw, now on all

six, hopping, leaping, bowing, and scraping, moving forward and back,

bumping into one another, now up, now down, until they seemed utterly

exhausted, and several that had fallen down, and were kept by their

voluminous skirts from getting up, had to be carried off by the aid of

the ever-ready pincers.

Next came a hurdle-race. Hurdles of thin silver wire were arranged, over

which two fleas were supposed to leap. One, however, was evidently very

lazy or very cunning, as it won the last race by crawling under the

wire.

A clown flea now appeared in the ring, and crawled about in a comical

manner with a white clown's cap on its diminutive head. A moment later

out came a number of fleas all harnessed with gold wire trappings, and

the several vehicles were taken from the stables. There was a tally-ho

coach, smaller than a very small pea, an Eskimo sled, about a quarter of

an inch long, with wire runners, a trotting sulky, evidently made from

hair or bristles, and other gorgeous equipages. The tally-ho team of

four frantic fleas, evidently fiery steeds, was harnessed to the coach,

and on the top were placed four phlegmatic fleas that had probably been

booked as outsiders, while the insides were two others fleas, which, we

are sorry to say, were obliged to get in through the window, and acted

very much as if they wished to get out again. The other vehicles were

each provided with a steed and rider, and then all were drawn up in a

row. At the word of command, off they started pell-mell! The tally-ho

leaders evidently jumped their traces at first, but finally they were

off with a rush, running over the clown, knocking off his hat, and, for

the moment, creating a dreadful panic. The sled team threw its driver,

and the sulky ran away, the flea trotter actually leaping into the air,

sulky and all. But order was soon restored, and as the track was

arranged on the downhill principle, the racers made rapid time. In two

minutes the circuit was completed, the tally-ho coming in ahead,

without, however, its outside passengers, who were thrown off as the

coach was rounding the curve, and at once crawled into the nearest place

of refuge.

[Illustration: SIGNOR PULEX IRRITANICI ON THE TIGHT-ROPE.]

The last act of this wonderful circus was perhaps the best. The manager

arranged the stage by placing two very fine entomological pins about

four inches apart, connecting them by a slender silver wire, and then

announced that Signor _Pulex Irritanici_, the world-renowned tight-rope

performer, would attempt his wonderful feat of dancing upon the wire at

a "dizzy height" (compared to the size of the performer). The Signor was

then brought out in a small bottle of cut-glass; his only ornament was a

little jacket of tissue-paper. When fished out and placed upon the

pin-head, he boldly started out upon the wire over which his little

clawed toes seemed to fit. In the middle, and over the terrific abyss,

he balanced up and down for a second, stood upon his longest legs, and

then moved on, crossing in safety, and thus ending the circus, at least

for that occasion.

ROCK-A-BYE.

BY MARY N. PRESCOTT.

"Rock-a-bye, babies, upon the tree-top,"

To her young the mother-bird sings,

"When the wind's still, the rocking will stop,

And then you may all use your wings."

"Rock-a-bye, babies, under the eaves,"

The swallow croons to her brood,

"Here you are safer, my children, from thieves

Than if I had built in the wood."

"Rock-a-bye, babies, the river runs deep,"

The reed-bird trills to her flock,

"The river stirs only to sing you to sleep,

The wind your green cradle to rock!"

WHAT BERTIE SAW IN THE FLOWERS.

BY L. G. R.

[Illustration]

Buttercup! Buttercup!

Hold your shining clusters up!

In each little house of gold,

What is this that I behold?

Twenty soldiers, straight and slim,

Golden-helmeted and prim.

All day long so still they stand,

Never turning head or hand;

No one guesses where they stray

In the moonlight nights of May.

When the fairies are abroad,

These small men keep watch and ward;

Round the fairy ring they pace

All night long, to guard the place;

But when morning comes again,

Back are all the little men.

KEEPING THE CREAM OF ONE'S READING.

BY MARGARET MEREDITH.

My plan dates from a few delightful weeks which I spent with a girl

friend, long ago. We were devoted to poetry and to reading aloud; and in

that occupation we had the aid of a brilliant, accomplished young woman.

She selected for us from Coleridge, Shelley, and several other authors,

whose entire works she knew we would not care to read, all the specially

fine poems or passages, and these we read and discussed with her over

our fancy-work. It was charming. At last, she suggested that, as I was

soon to go away and leave the books and clippings with which I had been

growing familiar, it would be helpful for me to write down the choicest

bits, and try in that way to keep in some degree what I had gained. This

I did, putting the extracts in a school copy-book which our friend

dubbed "Snippers,"--from an odd seamstress word which she had picked up

by chance.

Other "snipper" books followed when that one, years after, had been

filled.

My system is an orderly one. All my books are broad-paged and

wide-lined, thus preventing the cramped and crowded writing which often

makes such books unreadable. When I find anything which strikes me as

worth keeping, I note on a slip of paper, somewhat longer than the book

I am reading, the number of the page and make a perpendicular line

beneath it, with a cross line indicating the relative position of the

sentence which I wish to keep, thus:

[Illustration: 23]

If the page is in columns, I make, instead of the single line, a rough

parallelogram, and note within it by square dots the relative positions

of the sentences chosen for preservation, thus:

[Illustration: 187]

This slip of paper I use as a book-mark until it is filled or the book

is finished, noting upon it, as indicated, the choicest passages and

their positions on the pages. When I have finished the book I go

carefully over these selected sentences. Many are discarded; the rest go

into my "snippers." Below the first entry and to the right, I place the

name of the book and its author, both heavily underscored; below the

others, the word "Ibid" or "ditto," underscored. At the top of each page

I note the year, and at the head of each batch of extracts the month or

day.

Paragraphs cut from newspapers, which are worth saving, are pasted as a

fly-leaf to the inner edge of the page, or even slipped under the

binding thread.

In carrying out my plan I am always content with hasty work,--but I

write plainly, and if possible with ink, as much fingering destroys

pencil-marks. I once tried classifying the extracts, but this scarcely

paid for the trouble.

I used sometimes to wonder whether these books of selections were of any

real value. But I have grown now to prize them greatly. Many a time I go

to them for a dimly remembered phrase or passage. Sometimes, too, I read

them over, for of course they give me the essence of what I most like

and admire in my reading. A short time since I lent one to a literary

friend, and was surprised to find she enjoyed it so greatly that she was

almost unwilling to give it back.

I am very glad that I began this practice in my young days. It gives

very little trouble, and that little is a pleasure.

There is a familiar expression about an "embarrassment of riches." This

is the greatest disappointment I experience with my "snippers." For,

occasionally, a book has too many good things in it to be easily copied,

and then my only relief is to own it and, marking it vol. _X_, add it to

my row of extract-books.

[Illustration: THE END]

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

BY HENRY ECKFORD.

THIRD PAPER.

Perhaps you have never given a thought to the fact that, because you

were born into a nation using an alphabet that came down from the

Phoenicians, you are saved a world of trouble. But consider the Chinese.

If a Chinese boy and an American boy begin to learn their letters at the

same time, each studying his own writing, then by the time the American

is ten years old he has advanced as far in the use of letters as the

Chinese boy will have advanced in the use of his when he is twenty years

old. That is the same as saying that Chinese writing is three or four

times as hard to learn as English. Think of spending the years between

ten and twenty in learning to read! On the other hand, the long

apprenticeship of Chinese and Japanese boys to their letters does them

good in one way. They paint their letters with a brush on soft paper. By

this means they learn very early to be skillful with the brush, which is

one reason why Chinese and Japanese artists are so very dexterous with

their brushes.

All writing, let it be remembered, must have begun with pictures. It is

largely Chinese writing which has explained how all sorts of letters

were gradually changed from pictures to an alphabet, in which hardly a

single letter tells from what picture it started. The Japanese tongue is

quite different from the Chinese. But the use by the Japanese of signs

employed ages before by the Chinese explains another step in the

progress of language. The writing of the Mexican Indians also helps us

to understand the growth of alphabets. When, ages ago, the Chinese began

to write, they drew little pictures of the things they wished to

represent, as did the Egyptians before them in their picture-writing;

and from picture-writing they made some advance in the direction of

sound-writing, or rebuses. Then the little rebus-pictures were so much

altered that it became very difficult to see what they once meant.

Now Chinese is a queer language. All its words are only one syllable

long. But the sounds in the Chinese language are not very many, some

four hundred and sixty-five at most, and their written language contains

about eighty thousand pictures, each picture representing a thing or

idea. And these pictures must be committed to memory. This is hard work,

and not even the wisest Chinese professor can learn them all. But now

comes a difficulty. For, of course, where there are so many words and

so few sounds, many different words have to be called by the same sound.

How then are they to tell, when several different things have exactly

the same name which of them is meant?

[Illustration: REBUS-PICTURES FROM THE OLD CHINESE, SHOWING THE

BEGINNINGS OF PICTURE-WRITING.

1. A Month. (From a picture of the moon.) 2. The Eye. 3. A Horse. 4. An

Ax. 5. Rain. 6. Face. 7. A Dragon. 8. Bamboo. 9. Rhinoceros. 10. Dawn.

(From the rising sun.)]

We have such words. For instance, there is Bill, the name of a boy; and

bill, the beak of a bird; there is bill, an old weapon, and bill, a

piece of money; there is bill, an article over which legislatures

debate, and bill, a claim for payment of money; besides bills of

exchange, bills of lading, and so forth. But Chinese is full of such

words of a single syllable, _yen_, for instance, which, like bill, means

many very different things. So they chose a number of little pictures,

and agreed that these should be used as "keys." The Chinese "keys" were

used like the Egyptian "determinative signs," of which I told you. Each

"key" meant that the sign or signs near which it stood belonged to some

large general set of things, like things of the vegetable, mineral, or

animal kingdom, forests, mines, or seas, air, or water, or of persons,

like gods or men. It was like the game called Throwing Light, in which

you guess the article by narrowing down the field until certain what it

is.

But there Chinese writing stopped short, thousands of years ago. There

it is to-day. There are now two hundred and fourteen of these "keys,"

and, by intense application, Chinamen learn to use their method with

surprising quickness and success.

The Japanese acted toward Chinese writing much as the Phoenicians did

toward Egyptian writing. The Japanese, a very intelligent people, made

what you have learned to know as a syllabary, out of signs taken from

the Chinese symbols. It is called a syllabary, you remember, because

each sign stood in their language for a syllable. They had to do this,

because, while Chinese is all short syllables, Japanese is a language of

much longer words even than ours. They cut down and simplified the

Chinese signs, giving them names of their own. In this way they manage

to write very swiftly. And, while not so clumsy as the Chinese fashion,

the Japanese method is clumsier than is the use of an alphabet. In late

years, a society has been started in Japan to do away altogether with

their old-time writing, and adopt our alphabet.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

Perhaps, by this time, you are beginning to see how very slowly

alphabets have grown, and how hard it has been for human beings to

perfect them. Knowing this, will you not look now with more interest on

written and printed words? When you see letters, will you not reflect

what a history each one has, reaching far back into the remotest past,

where at first all seems dark, and where, when light does come, the very

number and variety of materials perplex the student of alphabets?

Moreover, will you not feel ashamed of people who laugh or sneer at

savage nations who have no sound-writing, no syllabary, no alphabet? It

does not mean that in such races all men are stupid. As a rule it means

simply that the race has not had a fair chance. It has been racked by

wars. Or it has never come in contact peacefully with some nation that

used a method of writing a trifle better than its own, so that the

brighter minds could establish schools of learning. When one nation

conquers another, the higher and cleverer minds among the conquered are

often the first to be destroyed. The best of our Indians of North and

South America seem to have been the first to fall in battle with the

whites, or to have died off because of their cruelty. The reason why the

others, who lived with or near the white settlers, did not readily

borrow our way of writing in their turn, as we had borrowed from the

Romans, the Romans from the Greeks and Phoenicians, and the latter from

the Egyptians, seems to be that our system was too far advanced for

them. But if the first white settlers in Central and South America had

been kind and wise men, instead of coarse and greedy people, they could

have found tribes and nations almost as advanced in their mode of

writing as the Japanese, though not the equals of the Japanese in

architecture and the fine arts. These tribes could have learned our

alphabet if care had been taken to instruct their superior men. It is

certain that the Aztecs, or Mexican Indians, had advanced very far on

the road to a true alphabet. When the cruel Spaniards arrived and upset

their governments, destroyed their temples, massacred, enslaved and then

shamefully neglected them, they had already reached the art of

rebus-writing. The name of the Mexican King, Knife-Snake, or, Itz-Coatl

was written in this way: Itzli means knives, and Coatl, snake. There, in

Fig. 1, is the snake, and on his back are knives made of flint. They

even went farther. The same name, Itz-Coatl, was also written as in Fig.

2. The flint-headed arrow means _Itz_; the jar, called _Comitl_, stands

for _Co_; and the branch, a picture of water in drops, stands for _atl_,

water. And it has been asserted that certain neighbors of the Aztecs or

Mexicans, known as the Maya Indians of Yucatan, who were ancient people

of Central America, left ruins of cities covering square miles of forest

and plain, and had reached nearly if not quite to the invention of an

alphabet of vowels and consonants. But the latest authorities agree that

such a Maya alphabet as the Spaniards reported may have been invented

after the whites arrived. Specimens of Maya writing may be seen in

Washington, at the Smithsonian Institute, on slabs and on paper casts

taken from their idols or statues of kings and priests. It was not by

the Maya system, but by one of rebuses, that the old missionaries wrote

what few books they composed for their unhappy Indian congregations.

Only lately a book composed in picture-writing throughout, was printed

for the Mikmak Indians of Newfoundland.

In the next paper we will endeavor to trace the road by which our

English alphabet came down from the Phoenicians, that ancient folk of

the palm-tree and the Red Sea, whose alphabet you saw in the first paper

of this series.

The illustrations of this article are reproduced, by

permission, from a notable French work on ancient

Hieroglyphics by Prof. L. De Rosny, of Paris.

BUBBLE BOWLING

BY ADELIA B. BEARD.

"Nothing new in bubbles! Every one knows how to blow bubbles!" Of course

they do, and yet, the game I am about to describe is an entirely new and

a very interesting one.

When the game of Bubble Bowling was played for the first time, it

furnished an evening's entertainment, not only for the children, but for

grown people also; even a well known General and his staff, who graced

the occasion with their presence, joined in the sport, and seemed to

enjoy it equally with their youthful competitors. Loud was the chorus of

"Bravo!" and merry the laugh of exultation when the pretty crystal ball

passed safely through its goal; and sympathy was freely expressed in

many an "Oh!" and "Too bad!" as the wayward bubble rolled gayly off

toward the floor, or, reaching the goal, dashed itself against one of

the stakes and instantly vanished into thin air.

Bubble parties are delightful, as most children know from experience,

and it is unnecessary, therefore, to give a description of them here. I

propose merely to introduce bubble bowling as a feature in these

entertainments, which will furnish no end of amusement and jollity, and

add increased enjoyment and variety to the programme.