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´╗┐Title: Harper's Young People, June 15, 1880 - An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Harper's Young People, June 15, 1880 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

[Illustration: HARPER'S



       *       *       *       *       *


Tuesday, June 15, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




"Bal-loon! balloon! Oh, Charley! where are you, Charley? There's a
balloon a-comin'."

Charley's big brother Harry came running excitedly down the road, and
vaulted the farm-yard fence in a state of great excitement. "Oh,
Charley, come out quick and see the balloon."

Charley was nowhere to be found. He had wandered off hours before to his
favorite rock by the brook to have a "good cry." And this was the reason
of it: One day, a short time before, he had been into the town of
Wayneburg, not many miles distant, with Harry. Charley didn't often have
a chance to go to town, and you may be sure he made the best use of his
eyes. The one thing which he remembered above everything else was the
big poster-board near the market, covered over every inch of it with
bright-colored pictures of leaping horses, trick mules, flying riders
jumping through hoops, comical clowns, and, above all, a big balloon
just rising out of the crowd, everybody swinging their hats.

For two weeks Charley had talked of nothing, thought of nothing, dreamed
of nothing but the coming show, and so, when his mother promised to take
him to see it all, he was the happiest little boy in the county. But,
alas! Charley's mother was taken sick just before the circus came, and
there was no one else to go with him. Harry was too young and wild to be
trusted, she said, and so poor Charley staid at home, and, sitting upon
the big gate-post, watched the wagon-loads of people rattling merrily
into town, bound for a day's fun. With swelling heart he wished he was a
full-grown man. Then he strayed down by the creek, as I have said, to
tell his grief to the fishes.

Harry, who had felt almost as badly as Charley, though he scorned to cry
about it, kept on shouting until Charley peeped above the orchard wall
to see what was wanted. Then he too spied the balloon. It didn't look
bigger than his top, away up among the fleecy clouds, but it rapidly
grew to the size of a pippin, and then over the hill came two or three
galloping horsemen, swinging their hats, and shouting as they rode.

Now the balloon began to descend, and shortly disappeared behind the
woods back of the house. Charley didn't know whether to run or stand
still, and while he was doubting, the great yellow dome arose into sight
again, and this time Charley could see the men in the basket. They were
looking down, and calling to the men in the road to take hold of the
long drag-rope, and pull them down.

This was not hard to do, as a balloon is so prettily balanced when in
the air that in a light wind a little boy like Charley could pull it to
the earth. It is not so easy when the balloon is going rapidly. I once
saw a plucky dog catch hold of the rope with his teeth, and it jerked
him along over fences and through a stubble field on his back, and I
guess when he let go he had but very little hair left. Well, they pulled
the balloon down, and before the men got out several large stones were
put into the basket to hold it down, and the rope was tied to a strong
post. One of the men was tall and stoop-shouldered, with a long sandy
beard; they called him "Professor" (a queer title for a balloon man, is
it not?). The second man was tall and good-looking; he belonged to the
circus company. And the third was the artist, whose sketches you see in
this paper.

After a little, Charley's mother came to the door, and invited the three
strangers into the house, but they preferred to sit on the step; and the
Professor took Charley upon his knee, and asked him how he would like to
travel in the way they did. How odd! Why, that was the very thing he was
wishing for at the moment. He had often watched the birds, and longed
for their wings for a little while. The Professor said, "I'll tell you
what we'll do, Charley; you and I will get into the basket, and tell
them to let us up to the end of the rope." Charley's mother was afraid
to allow him to go; but the tall man told her the Professor often took
children up that way, where he came down when voyaging. Sometimes he had
seen a dozen in the basket at once; so she consented, and shortly they
were seated with plenty of stout hands hold of the rope, "paying out,"
as the sailors say. Above the barn they rose, then higher than the big
elm. Up, up, until the folks below looked very short and funny, with all
their faces turned up to the sky. Charley's mother didn't look larger
than a doll.

I wish I could tell you all that Charley and the Professor saw as they
sat there so high and secure. Away over the hill was the town, and,
beyond, a winding river and another village that he had never seen
before; indeed, there were several towns in sight. He was sure they must
be Boston, New York, and Chicago. He thought he could see the ocean and
the Rocky Mountains; but the one was only distant plains, and the other
the Catskills, about fifty miles away.

The Professor told Charley a great many things about his voyages. Once
he was blown out to sea, and when he had almost given up hope, the rope
was overtaken by a sail-boat in pursuit, and he was towed ashore; again,
he had floated over burning forests, and once came to the earth from the
weight of snow on the balloon; and once, too, his balloon was torn in
the top of a high tree.

Suddenly a great shout was heard from below, and the Professor looked
down. He quickly said to Charley: "Now, my boy, don't be frightened.
They have made a mistake down there, and let loose the rope. We are
going up into the clouds, but I will bring you down all right."

Charley was a brave little fellow, and besides this, he had confidence
in the Professor, who seemed to manage his "air-ship," as it is often
called, so skillfully. What a great thing it is to have confidence in a

The shouting below was very faint and distant now. They were among the
clouds, and in a moment were enveloped in one of them. It was just like
a fog. The soft white masses rolled and whirled close beside the basket;
it was very cool and damp.

In a minute the Professor exclaimed, "Look, Charley! we are above the

"What a funny smell the clouds have!" said Charley; upon which the
Professor laughed heartily, and showed him that the neck of the balloon
was open, and some of the gas was flowing out. He explained that the gas
took up more room as they arose, until it finally escaped in this way.
Then he pulled on a small rope which was fastened to the top of the
balloon, and a rushing sound was heard. This was caused by the escaping
gas going through the valve. This interested Charley, who wanted to know
the "why" of everything.

When he looked about again, they had once more passed through the
clouds, and far below were square light and dark spots, which he knew
were woods and fields. These kept growing in size, and finally right
below appeared a mill where he had often gone with Harry for grist. What
a commotion there was among the cattle and pigs and chickens! The miller
and his men ran out and caught hold of the rope as it rattled noisily
over the roof, pulling them down in the adjoining field. They were
greatly astonished to find such a little fellow in the basket. As it was
only five miles from where they had started, some of the horsemen who
had been there were speedily at the mill. The Professor proposed that
they should take the balloon back along the road to the town, which
could easily be done. So the drag rope was tied to the axle of a heavy
wagon with a number of men riding on it, and the balloon was allowed to
float about a hundred feet from the ground. Charley still rode with the
Professor in his basket, and so they reached his home. He was the hero
of the day, and, to crown all, the town newspaper printed Charley's
story of his trip, just as he told it to them, with his name in capitals
at the top of the page.

I would like to be there, behind the door, when Charley gets this paper
and sees the pictures. I advise him to cut them out and put them in a
frame, and when he looks at them to resolve that he will always be as
brave and manly as upon the day of his balloon trip.


Mr. Thomas Hughes, author of _Tom Brown's School-Days_ and _Tom Brown at
Oxford_, relates many anecdotes of the boyhood of his manly brother
George, a year older than himself. Many of the most noble traits of the
boys of whom the author wrote were first exhibited in his brother

The two boys were sent to school at an early age, and before they had
been there a week George showed the fine stuff he was made of. His young
brother's class had a lesson in Greek history to get up, in which a part
of the information communicated was that Cadmus was the first man who
"carried letters from Asia to Greece." When they came to be examined,
the master asked Thomas Hughes, "What was Cadmus?" This mode of putting
it puzzled the boy for a moment, when suddenly remembering the word
"letters," and in connection with it the man with the leather bag who
used to bring his father's letters and papers, he shouted, "A postman,
sir." At first the master looked very angry, but seeing that the answer
had been given in perfect good faith, and that the answerer had sprung
to his feet expecting promotion to the head of the class, he burst out

Of course all the boys joined in chorus, and when school was over Thomas
was christened Cadmus. To this he would have made no great objection,
but the blood kindled in his veins when the word was shortened into
"Cad." The angrier he grew, the more eagerly some of the boys persecuted
him with the hated nickname; especially one stupid fellow of twelve
years old or so, who ought to have been two classes higher, and revenged
himself for his degradation among the youngsters by making their small
lives as miserable as he could.

A day or two after, with two or three boys for audience, he shut up
little Hughes in a corner of the play-ground, and greeted him with the
nickname he knew to be so offensive, "Cad, Cad," until the boy's wrath
was beyond bounds. Suddenly a step was heard tearing down the
gravel-walk, and George, in his shirt sleeves, swept into the circle,
and sent the tyrant staggering back with a blow in the chest, and then,
with clinched fists, bravely confronted him. Bullies are invariably
cowards, and Tom Hughes's persecutor, though three years older, much
heavier, and stronger than his assailant, did not dare to face him. He
walked off, muttering and growling, much to the disgust of the boys,
who, boy-like, had hoped for "a jolly row;" while George returned to his
comrades, after looking round and saying, "Just let me hear any of you
call my brother 'Cad' again."

It is pleasant to relate that this manly, gallant-spirited fellow was a
capital student. He rose from class to class until he reached the
highest, amongst boys two years older than himself, and in the
competition for prizes was invariably successful.




No. 2.

The Sun as a Worker.



Everybody knows that we are indebted to the sun for light and heat, but
this is by no means all that we owe to him; or, rather, this includes a
good deal more than we may see at first sight. The sun really does all,
or nearly all, the work of the world. We talk of water-power,
wind-power, steam-power, animal power, and the like; but all these are
only kinds of sun-power. Let us look at them one by one, and see if the
sunbeams are not the forces within or behind them all.

Water-power is the force exerted by falling or running water; and
running water is falling water. In the most familiar forms of
water-wheels, troughs--or buckets, as they are called--are arranged on
the rim in such a way that the water runs into those on one side of the
wheel near the top, making that side heavier, so that it descends. As
the buckets go down, the water runs out of them, but those above are
being filled in their turn, so that this side of the wheel is
continually weighted with water, while on the other side empty buckets
are going up. The wheel may turn mill-stones to grind wheat or corn, or
may give motion to machinery for spinning and weaving cotton or wool;
but is it the water-wheel that really does the work? "No," you will say;
"if we trace back the force that moves the machinery, we find it in the
falling water that fills the buckets of the wheel; it is the water-fall
that is the real worker." No; it is the sun, which is a force behind the
water-fall, as the water-fall is the force behind the wheel. What
supplies the water-fall with its never-failing stream? The rain that
fills the springs high up among the hills, where a little brook has its
source--the rain that feeds the brook as it flows, and other brooks that
join it on its way, until it becomes the river that descends in the
water-fall. And what is the source of the rain? The sun, whose rays turn
the waters of the earth to vapor, and lift them up to the clouds, whence
they fall upon the hills. Were it not for the sun the rain would soon
cease to fall, the springs in the hills would dry up, the brooks would
run out, the river would dwindle away, the roar of the water-fall would
die into silence, and the wheel would stop for want of power.

The wind, which is the motive force of windmills and of sailing vessels,
is another form of sun-power. The atmosphere has been compared to a
great wheel carried round by the heat of the sun. We know that when air
is heated it rises, and that the tropical parts of the earth are hotter
than the polar regions. In the tropics, therefore, the heated air rises,
and the colder air from the poles flows in to fill its place, while the
place of the latter is filled by an upper current flowing back from the
equator; and this goes on continually, and keeps the great atmospheric
wheel turning. Wherever a wind blows, the process is similar: it is the
sun that causes the wind, be it zephyr, or gale, or hurricane.

"But," you will say, "the sun does not run our steam-engines; it is
artificial heat, not natural heat, that changes the water into steam."
Very true; but how do we get this heat? By burning wood or coal. For the
former we are clearly in debt to the sun, which made the trees grow that
furnish the fuel; and the coal is the remains of plants that grew long
before the creation of man, plants that were as dependent on the
sunshine as those that flourish to-day. When we burn coal, the heat we
get from it is nothing but the sunbeams that were caught and imprisoned
by those ancient plants; our steam-engines use the force that was stored
up by the sun millions of years before the steam-engine was invented.

All muscular power, whether of man or of other animals, may be traced to
the same source. Animals get their food either from plants or from other
animals that have fed upon plants; and the plants owe their existence to
the sun. The animal is a machine, like the steam-engine; the food which
it eats is the fuel that keeps the machine in action. With every
movement we make, a portion of this fuel is burned up in our muscles.
Every beat of our hearts is at the expense of such material; and the
material is the gift of the sun. Our very thoughts are indirectly
dependent on the sunbeams; for the brain, which is the organ of thought,
requires food to maintain its activity, like the muscles and all the
other machinery of the body.

There are other kinds of force less familiar than these--as electricity,
magnetism, and chemical force--which can also be proved to come
indirectly from the sun, but the proof can not be given here. We can
detect the work of the sunbeams in the flash of the lightning and the
roar of the thunder, in the turning of the compass-needle to the north,
and in all the wonders of chemical science, as certainly as in the
growing plant or the running stream.

The only form of force known to us which does not come entirely from the
sun is that of the tides. The tidal wave is raised and carried round the
earth mainly by the attraction of the moon. The sun, though immensely
larger than the moon, is so much farther off that it attracts the waters
of the earth much less than the moon does. A tide-mill, which gets its
motive power from the rise and fall of the tide, is therefore worked by
the moon rather than by the sun.

[_By special arrangement with the author, the cards contributed to this
useful series, by_ W. J. ROLFE, A.M., _formerly Head-Master of the
Cambridge High School, will, for the present, first appear in_ HARPER'S





As Harry vanished, Joe's head appeared, as he climbed up the side of the
bridge and joined his brother and Tom. Their anxiety was now for Harry,
who had been swept through the channel under the bridge, and was
manfully swimming toward the eddy where the boys had landed. He came
ashore none the worse for his bath, and was delighted to find that Joe
was not only safe, but dry. Joe explained that the boat had drifted
against one of the piles of the bridge, and the current and the tow-rope
together had forced one of her sides so low down that the water began to
pour in. Joe thought that if the river intended to get into the boat, he
had better get out; so he sprung up and caught one of the timbers of the
bridge, and so climbed safely up to the roadway. The boat, relieved of
his weight and freed from the tow-line, drifted quietly away, and was
now floating peacefully on the river about twenty rods from the shore.

Luckily an old man in a row-boat saw the run-away _Whitewing_, and
kindly caught her and brought her up to the bridge. As the boys baled
her out, they told him how the accident happened, and the gruff old man
said it "sarved 'em right." "When you tow a boat next time," he
continued, "you'll know enough to put all your weight in the stern. Did
you ever see a steam-boat towing a row-boat with a man in the bow? If
ever you do, you'll see him go overboard mighty quick. A boat'll sheer
all over creation if you tow her with a fellow in the bow. You just put
the biggest of you fellows in the stern of that there boat, and she'll
go through under the bridge just as steady as a church."

The boys gladly took the old man's advice. When the boat was baled out,
they floated the rope down again, and when it was made fast, Tom
Schuyler, who was the heaviest of the boys, offered to sit in the stern.
His weight brought the bow of the boat out of the water, and she was
towed quickly and safely through. The boys resumed their places as soon
as Harry had put on dry clothes, and after a short and easy row glided
under the Spuyten Duyvel railway bridge, and found themselves on the
broad and placid Hudson. They rowed on for nearly a mile, and then,
having found a little sandy cove, ran the boat aground, and went ashore
to rest. After a good swim, which all greatly enjoyed, including Harry,
who said that his recent bath at Farmersbridge ought not to be counted,
since it was more of a duty than a pleasure, they sat down to eat a nice
cold lunch of ham sandwiches that Mrs. Wilson had kindly prepared; and
when they were no longer hungry they stretched themselves lazily in the

"Well, boys," said Harry, "we made a big mistake at the bridge; but we
learned something, and we won't get the boat swamped that way again."

"I'm awfully obliged to Harry for jumping in after me," said Joe; "but
it's the first time I ever heard of a captain jumping over after a
sailor. When a sailor falls overboard, the captain just stands on the
deck and looks around, kind of careless like, while the second mate and
four sailors jump into a boat and pick the man up. That's the way it's
done; for I know a fellow that saw a man fall overboard on a steam-ship,
and he said that was how the captain did."

"All right," said Harry; "I won't jump in for you again, Joe. The fact
is, boys, I oughtn't to have done it without waiting to find out whether
there was really anything the matter with Joe. I'll tell you what we'll
do. Joe is a first-rate swimmer, and we'll make a rule that whenever
anybody is to jump into the river for anything, Joe shall do it. What do
you say?"

"Oh, I'm willing enough," said Joe. "I don't care who jumps, as long as
the captain don't. It won't look well for the captain to be all the time
jumping overboard to pick somebody up."

"A better rule," remarked Tom, "would be that no fellow shall fall

"I move to amend that," cried Jim, "by forbidding any accidents to
happen to any of us."

"But you can't do that," said Tom, who never understood a joke.
"Accidents never would happen if people could help themselves."

"Well," said Harry, "if the rest of you will agree not to fall
overboard, I'll promise that the captain sha'n't spend all his time in
jumping after you. But if you are all ready, we'd better start on.
There's a nice little breeze, and we can rest in the boat."

By this time Harry's shirt and trousers, which had been wrung out and
hung up on a bush, were perfectly dry. He packed them away with his
rubber blanket rolled tightly around them, and Jim attended to the duty
of stepping the mast. Then the boys took their places, and Joe pushed
the boat off with the boat-hook. The gentle breeze filled the sail, and
the _Whitewing_ went peacefully on her way up the river.

"Boys," said Harry, presently, "it's getting awfully hot."

"That's because we're sailing right before the wind," said Tom. "We are
going just about as fast as the wind goes, and that's the reason why we
don't feel it."

"Is this a lecture on wind, by Professor Thomas Schuyler?" asked Joe.
"Because if it is, I'd rather hear it when it's cooler. Let's go over to
the other side of the river, where we can get in the shade of the


It was now about three o'clock, and the sun was very hot. The boat
seemed to the boys to creep across the river, and the Palisades seemed
to move away just as fast as they approached them. When they finally did
come into the shadow of those huge rocks, they thought they had never
known anything so delightful as the change from the scorching sunshine
to the cool shade. Joe and his brother stretched themselves out, and put
their blankets under their heads; presently they grew tired of talking,
and in a little while they were fast asleep. Tom was not sleepy; but he
was so delighted with the beauty of the shore, as seen from the boat,
that he did not care to talk.

For a long time the boat glided stealthily along. The Palisades were
passed, and a long pier projecting into the river from the west shore
gradually came in sight. When the boat came up with the pier, half a
dozen barges lay alongside of it, into which men were sliding enormous
cakes of ice. The Sharpe boys woke up, and proposed to stop and get a
little ice. The men let them pick up as many small pieces of ice as they
could carry, and they went on their way so much refreshed that they
chattered away as gayly as possible.

Uncle John had warned them to select a camping ground long before dark.
They remembered this advice, and at about five o'clock they landed on a
little low point of land a few miles below the entrance to the
Highlands. They first hauled the boat a little way up the beach, so that
it would be sure not to float off, and then began to take the tent, the
cooking things, and the provisions for supper out of her.

"We want to pitch the tent and make a fire," said Harry, "and somebody
ought to get some milk. Let's pitch the tent first."

"I'll do that," said Tom, "while you fellows get the supper."

"It takes two or three fellows to pitch the tent," said Harry; "you
can't do it alone."

"I'll undertake to pitch it alone," replied Tom. "One of you can get
fire-wood, one can go for milk, and the other can get out the things for
supper. Here goes for the tent."

The tent was furnished with two upright poles and a ridge-pole, each one
of which was made in two pieces, and joined together with ferules, like
a fishing-rod. Tom selected a soft sandy spot close by the water's edge,
where he spread out the tent, and pinned down each of the four corners
with rough wooden pins, which he cut with the hatchet from a piece of
drift-wood. Then he crept under the canvas with the poles. He put one of
the upright poles in its place with the end of the ridge-pole over it,
and then, holding the other end of the ridge-pole in one hand, he put
the second pole in position with his other hand, and pushed the end of
the ridge-pole into its proper place. The tent was now pitched; and all
that remained to be done was to tighten the four corner pegs, and to
drive in the other ones.

Meanwhile Jim had taken one of the pails, and gone toward a distant
farm-house for milk. Joe had collected a pile of fire-wood, and Harry
had lighted the fire, and put the other tin pail half full of water to
boil over it. By the time the water had boiled, Jim had returned,
bringing the milk with him. It did not take long to make coffee; and
then the boys sat down on the sand, each with a tin cup of hot coffee at
his side, and proceeded to eat a supper of ham sandwiches and cake. It
was not the kind of supper that they expected to have on subsequent
nights; but Mrs. Wilson's sandwiches and cake had to be eaten in order
to keep them from spoiling. After the coffee was gone they each had a
cup of cold milk, and then put the rest of it in a shady place to be
used for breakfast. The provisions were carefully covered up, so as to
protect them in case of rain, and then the beds were made. This last
operation was a very easy one, since the sand was soft enough for a
mattress, and all that needed to be done was to spread the rubber
blankets on the ground as a protection from the damp. Then the boys
rolled up their spare clothing for pillows, and, wrapping themselves in
their blankets, were soon sound asleep.




"There they are, Uncle Joe, the Dorking chickens, just where I found

"Pulled all to pieces."

"It was Mr. Bates's yellow dog--I know it was; and they've let him out
again to-day. He'll be over, and kill some more."

"No, he won't, Parry," said Uncle Joe, as he leaned over the barn-yard
fence. "Don't you see what I've done for him?"

"You've let the chickens all out. Yes, and there's Bayard. Isn't he

"Yes, he's pretty enough, but that isn't all. What did we name him
Bayard for?"

"'Cause he isn't afraid. But won't he hurt some of the other roosters?"

"I've shut 'em up. See him!"

The game-cock was indeed a beautiful fowl, and he seemed to know it too,
for he was strutting around in the warm sun, and stopping every minute
or so to flap his wings and crow. His comb and wattles were of a bright
crimson, his wings and feathers of a brilliant black and red, and his
long, arching tail feathers were remarkably graceful and glossy. He was
not a large fowl, but he was a very well-shaped and handsome one.

"There comes that dog, Uncle Joe, right over the fence."

"Yes, there he comes."

"Won't you throw a stone at him, and drive him away?"

"Then he'd come again, some time when we were not here to throw stones
at him."

Mr. Bates's yellow dog was a very big one. Perhaps he was not altogether
a bad dog, either, but he had a sad weakness for teasing any animal
smaller than himself. Cats, sheep, chickens, anything defenseless, would
have been wise to keep out of his way if they could.

The two poor Dorking chickens had not been able to get away from him the
day before, and so they had lost their feathers and their lives.

He had jumped the barn-yard fence now in search of more helpless
chickens, and more of what he called fun.

A snap of his great jaws would have been enough to kill any fowl in that
yard, and it would have crushed the life out of one of the little yellow
"peepers" the old hens were now clucking to, if he had but put a paw on

But Bayard, the game-cock, was neither a Dorking, nor an old hen, nor a
chicken, and he did not run an inch when the big dog came charging so
fiercely toward him. He did but lower his head and step a little

"Oh, Uncle Joe! He will be torn all to pieces."

"No, he won't. See!"

It was done almost too quickly for Parry to see, but the sharp spurs of
the beautiful "bird" had been driven smartly into the nose of the big
yellow dog, and the latter was pawing at it with a doleful whine.

The game-cock had not done with the barn-yard invader. He meant to
follow that matter up till he had finished it.

"Clip!" he had hit him again--in the left shoulder this time--and the
dog's whine changed to a howl.

Another, a deep one, in the fleshy part of one of his hind-legs; for
Bayard seemed disposed to dance all around him.

That was enough, and Mr. Bates's yellow pet turned and ran yelping
toward the nearest fence, while his conqueror flapped his wings and
crowed most vigorously, and every hen in the yard clucked her admiration
of his prowess.

Parry, too, clapped his hands, and felt as if he wanted to crow.

"He's such a little fellow, Uncle Joe, to fight such a big dog as that!"

"With teeth and claws, too, and a hundred times stronger than he."

"Did you know he could beat him?"

"Of course I did."

"He knew just how to use his spurs, didn't he?"

"That's it, Parry. He didn't have much, but he knew just what to do with

"Guess the dog knows it too now. He won't chase any more of our

"He'll keep out of this yard for a while. He's got his lesson."

So had Parry, and Uncle Joe would not let him forget it. It would be a
shame, he said, for any boy to be less wise than a game-cock, and not to
be able to use all the natural gifts he had.



"Tell ye what, mates, this sort o' thing won't do. Here we've been at it
these six weeks, and not a penny of wages yet. It's all very fine to
say, 'Stick to your work,' but a man won't git fat on workin' for
nothing, that's sartain!"

"Right you are, Bill. S'pose we knocks off work, and tells Sir James we
won't do no more without he pays us?"

"Gently, lads: remember what happened to the dog as dropped his meat in
grabbin' at the shadder. If we stick to this job, mayhap we'll git our
money some time; but if we knock off, we won't find another job growin'
on every bush, mark ye."

"Well, that's true; but it's mighty hard luck for _us_, all the same."

So grumbled, under their breath, a gang of English workmen, who were
repairing the interior of one of the great London churches, one fine
summer afternoon in the time of George I. And certainly they had good
reason to grumble. Sir James Thornhill, the court painter, whom the King
had employed to restore and redecorate the building, had his head so
full of his own fine plans and sketches, and of the grand show that the
church would make when all was done, that he had quite forgotten such a
small matter as the paying of his men's wages. So, although the poor
fellows had been hard at work for six weeks and more, not a shilling of
pay had any of them received yet.

"Look here, boys," cried a tall, gaunt carpenter, with a dry,
keen-looking face, "I've always heard say as Sir James is a kind old
gen'l'man at heart, and mayhap it ain't that he don't _want_ to pay us,
but only that he's forgot it, like. Let's just draw lots who shall go
and tackle him about it, and then there'll be no mistake."

The suggestion was at once followed out, and the lot fell upon the tall
carpenter himself.

This was more than the worthy man had bargained for, and he looked
somewhat nonplussed. However, there was no drawing back for him now. Up
he got, and away along the aisle he went toward the spot where Sir James
Thornhill was standing.

But the nearer he got to him, the slower he walked, and the more
chop-fallen did he appear. Indeed, Sir James looked such a grand old
gentleman, as he stood there like a statue, in his laced waistcoat and
silk stockings, with his powdered hair falling over his fine velvet
coat, and his hand resting upon his silver-hilted sword, that poor Chips
felt as bashful as if he were going before the King himself.

But, as the proverb says, "Fortune favors the brave," and the valiant
carpenter was unexpectedly helped out of his dilemma by the very man who
had caused it. Sir James suddenly turned round, and seeing him coming
up, called out:

"Ah, my good fellow, you've come just in time to do me a service. You
see, I want to be quite sure that that pulpit yonder, which we're just
putting up, is in the right place; for, of course, when the clergyman
goes up into it to preach, his voice ought to be heard equally well in
every part of the church. Now suppose you step up there and make a
speech of some sort, while I stand here and try if I can hear you

"But what be I to say, your honor?" asked Chips, scratching his head. "I
haven't got the gift of the gab like you gen'l'men have."

"Oh, say whatever you like--just the first thing that comes into your

The carpenter's small eyes twinkled, as if a bright idea had suddenly
occurred to him. Up he went, and leaning over the carved front of the
pulpit, began as follows:

"Sir James Thorn'ill, sir! Me and my mates has been a-workin' for you,
in this here church, good six weeks and more, and we haven't seen the
color of your money yet; and now we ain't going to do another stroke,
without you pays us all that's owing!"

"That'll do, my man," said Sir James, hastily; "you may come down. Your
elocution's perfect, but I can't say I quite admire your choice of a

However, the sermon was not thrown away. The very next morning the men
received their wages in full, and Sir James gave the clever carpenter
half a guinea extra for himself.

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 24, April 13.]




It is not pleasant to think that when Washington went back to his quiet
home on the Potomac he was not as generally beloved as when he took his
high office. He had had to disappoint a great many men who looked to him
to help their private ambition at the expense of the country. He had had
to enforce laws which some people looked upon as unjust. He had differed
from various public men as to the war between France and England, and
the payment of the debt, and other things, and it is so easy for all of
us to think that a man who differs from us is in some way a bad man. A
good many writers in the newspapers of that day had said hard things
about him. But, after all, the moment the country got into trouble, all
hearts turned toward him.

The men who had come into power in France after the Revolution of 1789
were proud, quarrelsome, and selfish. Because the Americans would not
side with the French in their quarrel with England, these men directed
American ships to be plundered. When the American agents in France
complained, they were insulted; there was danger that such conduct would
lead to war, and the American government began to get ready for it. The
first thing was to choose a commander for the army, and again all eyes
turned to Washington. In 1798 he was made Commander-in-chief, and for
the next year and a half he was closely engaged getting the army ready
for war. Happily it did not come.


In the midst of this work General Washington's noble life was brought to
a sudden end. In December, 1799, he was taken with a violent disease of
the throat, from which he died on the 14th of that month. In his last
sickness he was brave, as he had been on the battle-field; patient, as
he had been in public council; and unselfish, as he had always been. "I
am not afraid to go," he said to those about him, and he begged them not
to take too much trouble for him. The pain he bore was very great, but
he never complained.

When he died, grief spread like a shadow over the whole land. In every
home men felt that they had lost a faithful friend, a wise and loving
guide. Wherever men gathered, words of sorrow for his loss, and praise
for his great life, were spoken. Nor this alone. The French Generals,
against whom he was preparing at the moment of his death to defend his
country in arms, wrapped their flags in mourning in honor of his memory.
The English ships in the Channel hung their flags at half-mast in sign
of the grief of the English people. Surely no better proof of his high
character could be given. It had won the love of those who had fought
against him, and those who were on the point of going to battle with

It was found by the will which Washington left that he had given freedom
to the slaves which he had held during his life, and whom he could not
free before; that he had provided for all the aged and weak among them,
and for the children; and that he had left large sums of money to give
free schooling to the children of those in his neighborhood who could
not get schooling otherwise. His last thoughts were of others, and how
to do them good.

Indeed, the thing which made Washington so great was the earnest way in
which he tried to find what was right, and to do it. Other men have had
greater gifts of mind than he, and could do what he could not. But no
man was ever more true to duty, small or great. At each moment he asked
himself what he ought to do, and he spared no pains to make a true
answer to that question. He carefully studied the rights of others as
much as his own. He looked ahead to see what would follow his acts, that
he might do no wrong by mistake. And when he had made up his mind what
was right, he bent himself to do it. No fear for himself, no love of
ease, no hope of gain, prevented him from going the way that he thought
he ought to go. It was given to him to serve his country better than any
other man has ever served it, and to leave a name which will be honored
for a long time. But if we were to try to tell the secret of his
greatness, it could be done in this short sentence: He always tried his
best to do his duty.


[Illustration: FLIGHT OF THE ARROWS.]


When not on the war-path, or engaged in hunting, Western Indians spend
much of their time in various games or contests of skill. Of these
contests one of the most popular is flying the arrow, a sport to which
the Indians of all tribes devote considerable time and attention.

When this game is proposed, each of those who wish to join in it lays on
the ground something of small value, such as a pipe, quiver of arrows, a
bow, spear, tobacco pouch, or knife, and when all have been collected,
the value of the whole makes a prize well worth trying for.

Then bows are carefully examined, a dozen of the best arrows in the
quiver selected, and the first of the competitors steps out in front of
the rest, and prepares to shoot, not at a mark, but straight up into the
air. His object is to have as many arrows in the air as possible at the
same time; and he who can send up the greatest number, before the first
touches the ground, wins the game and all the prizes.

But few of the most expert of the Indian bow-men have been known to put
more than ten arrows into the air at once, and to do even this requires
extraordinary skill and strength. The arrows, ten or twelve in number,
are held in the hand that grasps the bow, and the rapidity with which
each is fitted to the string and sent upward is truly wonderful.



Few people who are not sailors at all realize what a wonderful thing a
ship is, and of how many different parts one is made up.

In the first place, a model of the proposed vessel has to be made. The
model is an American invention. Formerly what was known as the draught
of a ship took the place of the model. In the draught the proposed ship
was represented on paper from three points of view. The first gave a
complete view of the side; the second, or body plan, showed the breadth,
having described on it every timber composing the frame of the ship;
lastly came the horizontal plan, showing the whole as if seen from
above. The model is much simpler than the old-fashioned draught. It is
simply a miniature ship.

Once having a perfect model, the good ship-constructor feels that half
his battle is already won. It may be as well here to mention the fact
that, as a rule, the length of a ship is five times her greatest breadth
of beam; her depth two-thirds of her breadth. Steamers are longer in
proportion than sailing vessels. This is on account of the extra speed
to be attained, even at the expense of strength.

After the model has been approved, the building of the ship begins. Most
of our ships are now built of wood from the South, where, since the
war, entire forests can be bought for a song.

The keel of a ship has been likened to the backbone of a man, running,
as it does, from stem to rudder. It consists of several timbers scarfed
or pieced together, and under it is the shoe, a kind of second keel, but
differing from the keel proper in that it is only loosely joined to it,
whereas the keel is bolted to the ship's bottom through and through. The
reason for this is that in case of grazing a rock a vessel having a shoe
will, in most cases, part with the shoe, thus saving the keel, and
escaping without serious injury. Corresponding with the keel outside is
a set of timbers within the frames, known as the keelson. On each side
of the keelson are assistant-keelsons to give greater strength.

On the after-end, and morticed into the keel, is the stern-post, another
important timber, all the after-part of a ship curving gracefully toward
this post. The rudder-stock works on the stern-post, which performs the
double duty of supporting the after-timbers and the rudder.

Spaces are purposely left between a vessel's frames for "salting down."
Sometimes this salt can be seen oozing out of her sides after a long
voyage. Two hundred hogs-heads of salt is not an unusual quantity for an
ordinary-sized ship. It is the only thing that will prevent what is
known as the "dry-rot" from attacking her timbers.

As a rule, every wooden vessel's ribs are of oak, and, for greater
strength, preference is given to the best qualities of live-oak. As a
ship's side curves, her outside planking has to be forced into place,
and for the short curves near the bows and stern, the planks have to be
steamed, and bent on while moist, as otherwise they would crack and
split in the process. After these outside planks are all on, the calkers
begin their work, which consists in filling in the spaces between the
planks with oakum, mallets and calking-irons being used for this
purpose. These seams are afterward covered with pitch.

In order to prevent barnacles from injuring a ship's bottom, sheathing
is put on. This usually consists of a composition of zinc and copper,
and covers all parts of a vessel exposed to the action of the water.

In Longfellow's beautiful poem, "The Building of the Ship," the reader
is led to infer that the masts are "stepped" (_i. e._, put in) before
the launching occurs. But practically a ship is first launched, and then
shears are rigged, and she is fitted out with her spars.

[Illustration: "A LITTLE MISER."]



"Isn't it queer what dumb things animals are?" asked Harry Mason, as he
looked up inquiringly into the face of his uncle. "Here's my dog Roger;
why, he knows nothing except to hunt for bones, and to bark at tramps.
And there are the cows, and the horses, and the pigs--what do they know
that's of any account? I'd like somebody to tell me that."

"They know enough to know when dinner is ready, and I could not say that
for some boys that I am acquainted with," replied his uncle,

"Oh yes, that's me, I know," rejoined Harry, laughing. "But that's
because I have something else to think of. Now they don't think of
anything but their dinners. And they are always eating. That's about all
they live for."

"Perhaps they think more than you imagine, Harry," said his uncle,
looking down from his arm-chair which he had leaned back comfortably
against a tree. "They don't talk, it is true; but they have other ways
of showing their thoughts. I could tell you some stories about the good
sense of animals that would open your eyes."

"Oh yes, about elephants squirting water all over a tailor, and that
sort of thing," said Harry, disdainfully. "I have read all that. But I
mean something else. Why can't they build themselves houses, like men
do, with chimneys and fires? And why don't they have farms, and roads to
travel in, and barns?"

"And cows to milk?" broke in little Willie Mason; "and somebody to work
for them and to fight for them--and--and pies, and candy, and such?"

Uncle Ben looked down with a comical expression upon the eager little
fellow, with his bright young face and his sparkling blue eyes.

"Perhaps they do," he said.

"Oh, now, Uncle Ben!" cried Harry and Willie in chorus. "You're only
funning now. Who ever heard of cows building houses?"

"I didn't say cows," replied Uncle Ben.

"But there can't be any animal that builds houses and barns, and raises
crops," persisted Harry.

"Indeed there is, then," rejoined his uncle. "And milks cows, too, and
has armies and workmen, as Willie says; and builds roads and bridges,
and digs tunnels, and carries umbrellas. I don't know any that bakes
pies, but I could name more than one that lives on candy."

"Now I know that Uncle Ben is funning," cried Willie, gleefully; "for he
has got those wrinkles about his eyes, and he never has them except when
he's funning."

"What kind of animals are they, I would like to know?" asked Harry, who
was determined to put his learned uncle to the test. "I never came
across any of their houses, I know."

"Indeed you have, then. I have seen you, more than once, shut their
front doors for them, without asking leave or license."

Uncle Ben, as he spoke, had leaned over to the ground. He now rose, with
a little black travelling speck on his finger.

"Here is one of them," he said, "out for an airing."

"That!" cried Harry, contemptuously. "Why, that's only an ant. I said
animals. I didn't say ants."

"Oho! Is that it? An ant is not an animal, then?"

"I guess not," broke in Willie, decidedly. "Animals eat and drink, and
walk and run, and--and climb trees, and whistle, and bark. Who ever
heard an ant bark?"

"Or a cow?" rejoined his uncle. "As for running, I think this little
fellow can run fast enough. And he eats, too. And he can climb trees. I
don't say that he can whistle, but neither can a frog. I have no doubt
that our ant can talk to his comrades as easily as your dog can converse
with his friends."

"But ants," said Harry, doubtfully. "Don't you forget, Uncle Ben, you
said they built houses and barns, and milked cows, and made roads and
bridges, and had farms, and kept soldiers and workers?--I forget the
rest. Yes, you said some of them lived on candy; and that is the
queerest of all. I'd just like you to tell me what kind of candy it is,
and how they make it; and I'd like to see one of their houses."

"Their houses are all built under-ground," replied Uncle Ben. "There are
too many boys about, with clumsy feet, for them to build their delicate
palaces above-ground. But if you were only to open an ant-hill, and
trace out all its entries and passages, and its rooms and granaries, and
its stairways and its nurseries, you might have more respect for these
little creatures. If you want to see a larger ant-house, you will have
to go to Africa. There the white ants build huge houses twelve feet
high, and firm enough for a dozen men to stand on."

"And full of rooms," began Harry, but he was interrupted by his eager
little brother, whose curiosity ran in another direction.

"Just tell us 'bout the candy, Uncle Ben," he demanded. "I don't care
nothing 'bout the houses now. I want to know 'bout the candy."

"I think that Harry has the floor," said his uncle, reprovingly.

"Well, never mind the houses, and all the other queer things," said
Harry. "Not just now, I mean; I want to know about the candy too."

Uncle Ben settled himself back in his chair, crossed his legs, and
prepared for a story; while Willie hung to his knee on one side, and
Harry stretched himself in the grass on the other, and Roger, the dog,
went off on a butterfly hunt. He evidently was not interested in natural

"Ants are not the only animals that live on candy," said Uncle Ben, as
he pinched Willie's ear. "There are bees, and wasps, and butterflies.
And even such great creatures as bears. For bears sometimes break into
bees' confectionary shop, and gulp down all its contents."

The two boys looked at each other dubiously. What in the world could
Uncle Ben mean?

"It isn't honey you mean?" asked Harry, wonderingly. "That isn't candy."

"It is not cooked candy, I will admit," replied his uncle. "But it is
flower candy. It is the candy that Nature makes, and lays up in her
pretty blossom cups to feed insects that have a sweet tooth."

"But ants don't make honey-comb," cried Willie. "It is the bees do that.
Nobody ever heard of an ant honey-comb."

"Don't be too sure of that, my boy; some folks have heard of many things
that have never travelled to your ears. Why, there is an ant out West
that makes a living honey-comb. Some of the ants themselves are turned
into honey-combs to feed the others during the long winters."

Harry rose to his feet. He could not continue to lie down lazily when
such marvellous stories as these were afloat.

"Living honey-combs!" he ejaculated.

"They are from the West, you know; the land of wonders," explained his
uncle. "They are found in New Mexico. And they were discovered last
summer in Colorado by a Philadelphia gentleman named Dr. McCook. This
gentleman examined their mode of life, and brought some of them home
with him, and tells wonderful stories about them."

"But won't you tell us all about them right away, Uncle Ben?"

"Yes, right away," echoes Willie.

"Well, then," began their uncle, "they live in nests dug in a stony
soil, and having a great many rooms and passages. And in some of these
rooms are found the queerest creatures that were ever heard of. Little
living ants, with half their bodies turned into great bags of honey.
They look exactly like great amber-colored peas, with a black pin's head
stuck on one side of them. This black dot is the head and forward part
of the ant. All the rest of its body is converted into a great
honey-bag, and is swelled out with its sweet contents until it is as big
as a large pea."

"And are all the ants like that?" asked Harry.

"No, only a certain number of them. The others go out foraging for
honey. When they obtain it, they come back, hold their mouths to that of
the honey-bag ant, and force the honey into its body. There are some
three or four hundred of these honey-bearers in each ant-hill. And that
is the way the ants lay up their winter provisions. These living
honey-combs do not do anything; they are too heavy for that. They only
hang by their feet to the ceiling of one of the under-ground rooms. If
one of them happens to drop off, one of the other ants picks him up and
drags him back again. It is no light task, either, for one of these
little fellows to carry a great bag of honey, fifty times his own
weight, up a perpendicular wall and across a ceiling."

"I should think not indeed," cried Harry.

"But how do they use the honey?" asked Willie, curiously. "I should
think when these honey-ants eat it, that would be the end of it."

"They feed it back to the others as they require it," replied Uncle Ben.
"When one of the ants is hungry, he goes up to a honey-bearer, taps him
to let him know what he is after, and puts his mouth to his. The
honey-bearer then seems to slightly compress his bag of sweets, until
some of it flows out of his mouth into that of the other. When the
latter is satisfied, he walks away, and the living honey-comb takes a
rest until some other hungry individual calls upon him."

"Well, that is very curious, I know," cried Harry. "And does the honey
last all winter? Is that all they have to feed on?"

"Yes, so far as is known."

"I guess the honey-bags must be pretty empty by spring, then," said

"I have not quite finished the story yet," continued Uncle Ben. "We have
talked about how bears feed on the honey-comb of the bees. Now men feed
on these living honey-combs."

"Oh, now, Uncle Ben!"

"Yes they do. In New Mexico it is the custom to have a plate full of
honey-ants on the dinner table for dessert. The poor things can not get
away, of course. After dinner the folks there pick them up one by one,
squeeze the bags between their teeth, and suck out the honey, throwing
the empty bags away."

"I don't like such a fashion as that," cried Harry, decidedly. "Why,
they are regular cannibals."

"And what do the rest of the poor ants do for their honey?" asked

"I fear they must pass a hard winter, if they do not die of hunger,"
replied Uncle Ben.


It has often happened that in the course of excavations in search of
minerals, the workmen have come upon some singular hollows or openings
in the rock, caused by convulsions of the earth or earthquakes, or
caverns through which torrents have flowed in former ages, and have left
them for nature to ornament in the most beautiful and fantastic manner.

You will understand how the natural caverns are formed that you may have
seen on the sea-coast; the moving waters, carrying with them gravel and
sand, enter the cracks and crevices in the rocks, and increase their
size by wearing away portions of the rock until caverns are formed. Some
of these are of immense size, and the extent of many is unknown.

Many caverns are lined with beautiful crystals, called _calcareous
spar_, or substances containing much lime, and generally colored by the
impurities of the water that has dropped on them. Sometimes these
crystals are of a pure white, and have, when the cave is lighted up, a
richness and transparency that can scarcely be imagined. Others have the
appearance of stone, moss, and shells, in every variety of color.

Caverns of enormous extent occur in Iceland; that of Gurtshellir being
forty feet in height, fifty in breadth, and nearly a mile in length. It
is situated in the lava that has flowed from a volcano. Beautiful black
stalactites hang from the spacious vault, and the sides are covered with
glazed stripes, a thick covering of ice, clear as crystal, coating the
floor. One spot in particular is mentioned by a traveller, when seen by
torch-light, as surpassing anything that can be described. The roof and
sides of the cave were decorated with the most superb icicles,
crystallized in every possible form, many of which rivalled in delicacy
the clearest froth or foam, while from the icy floor arose pillars of
the same substance, in all the curious and fantastic shapes that can be
imagined. A more brilliant scene, perhaps, never presented itself to the
human eye.



They say I am full of mischief, but they don't speak the truth. Maria is
the only one that knows, and she says I'm a busybody. Mamma hugs me
tight, and says I will be a great help when I am big, but papa tosses me
high up to the ceiling, and says I won't wait to grow up, and that I
make the very best use of my time now. He knows as much as Maria, for
that's just what I do--I use my time. I did so much work yesterday that
I nearly got tired. First, mamma said she was going to Cousin Alice's
wedding. I knew she was, for I saw her best bonnet out of its box on her
bed. So, while she was talking to Katy in the kitchen, I climbed all the
way up stairs, and dragged it down to her myself.

I don't know what they'd have done without me yesterday, for after mamma
had gone, Maria was careless. She left the basin of water on Nelly's
little table. She forgot all about it, so I went, like a good girl, to
put it away for her, 'cause I was afraid that mamma might come back and
knock it over on to the carpet. It wasn't _my_ fault that it slid out of
my hands and broke itself. _I_ was careful, and Maria said nobody else
but just me would ever have thought of putting it away for her.

My sister Bessie don't try half so hard to help people. She sat in her
little arm-chair all the time, tying up Susan Hopkins's joints. She
thinks Susan is the best of all our dolls, but I don't. Her joints are
all loose, and her legs rattle. Bessie isn't so much use as I am. She
kept out of the way, tending to Susan, while Maria had to change every
one of my clothes, 'cause the naughty water sloshed; and Bessie didn't
even pick up the broken pieces of basin for poor Maria! Maria told her
not to touch 'em, for fear of getting her feet wet and cutting her

Afraid! They're afraid of everything. The very minute Maria had me
dressed again, I began to pick up the pieces for her, and I didn't cry
even when I _did_ cut my hand, and the bleed got all over my nice clean
apron. I don't think it was very polite of Maria to set me down so hard
on the sewing machine, and tell me not to move 'till she'd cleared up
the floor.

Bessie is bigger than I am, but she isn't a busybody at all. She only
plays while there's work going on; and only see how much work I've done
this morning! I've fixed up mamma's work-basket for her, and I've
stuffed all the rags and little pieces of our new dresses that were
piled up on the machine into papa's collar drawer. Then I cleared up a
whole lot of muss after Maria. She went to answer the door-bell, and
while she was gone, I took papa's clothes-whisk and swept up a big pile
of dust she left on the hearth, and dumped it where nobody can see it,
in a dark corner of the closet, under mamma's dresses.

It was real lucky I went to the closet, too, for I found the waist of
mamma's best walking suit. I heard her say one day that she was going to
change the trimming on the sleeves, so I took it out, and got a needle
and thread, and I'm going to do it my own self for her. Bessie's darning
a stocking that Maria gave her, and I'll sit right in front of her, so I
can see how she pulls the needle through. The ends of the lace get right
in the way of the needle, though, and I don't know but what I'll have to
cut some of it off, so as to sew it better. I am going to hurry fast,
and see if I can get it done before mamma comes home from market.



  Under the shade of the sun-bonnet's crown,
  One head is golden, and one head is brown;
  Blue eyes and hazel eyes sparkle with fun,
  Hide and go seek, as the gay dimples run.

  Four little hands overbrimming with flowers,
  Four little feet tripping through the blithe hours;
  Two little maidens, so happy and bright,
  Busy all day, and _so tired_ at night.



It was a hot summer afternoon, and the great play-room in the garret was

There was not even breeze enough blowing in at the open window to stir
Angelina Mary, Matilda Agnes, and General Adolphus Popgun, as they lay
upon their paper backs on the table.

"Oh dear," complained Angelina, with a sigh, "I do wish those girls
wouldn't leave us in such attitudes when they go down to dress! It's so

"But you must remember, my love," rejoined her friend Matilda, "that it
has a tendency to sprain our ankles if we remain long standing; and,
by-the-way, did you not hear the children speak about our having some
new paper-muslins?" and thereupon the two ladies fell to discussing
dress with great animation. General Popgun growing meanwhile quite
puffed out with pride, as he reflected on the fact that his blazing red
coat, ornamented with yellow braid, and his jaunty cap with its
conspicuous tricolored pompon, must be particularly becoming to him.

He was not as yet very well acquainted, with his two companions, having
only arrived at the post (as he professionally termed the garret) the
previous day, and since then he had been obliged to attend so many
drillings of the tin soldiers that he had enjoyed but few opportunities
for social recreation. Now, however, he thought he would enter into
conversation with the two fair members of his race beside him, and was
just endeavoring to think of something new to say about the weather,
when a great clattering was heard on the stairs, and the next instant
two boys made their appearance in the garret, both breathing very hard,
and looking as if they had been running races with the sun.

"I beat, anyhow," said one, as he sat down on an old trunk and wiped his

"All right," returned the other; adding, "and now what'll we get to put
in the _Foam_?" and then the two rummaged around the room for a while,
till suddenly one of them pounced upon the table where lay the paper
dolls, and catching all three of them up in his hand, cried out: "Here!
these'll do. Come on, Frank;" and the boys hurried down stairs again
with even more racket than they had made coming up.

As may be imagined, Angelina Mary and Matilda Agnes grew paler than
foolscap with fright when they felt Tom's fingers closing over them so
roughly, and General Adolphus Popgun, although somewhat nervous himself,
felt called upon to postpone his weather remarks, and endeavor, instead,
to calm the fears of his companions.

"Pray don't be alarmed, I beg," he said; "I have no doubt we are being
transported to a grand review of the Tin Regiment. It will be a very
fine sight, and I shall try to provide seats for you in the grand

The boys, however, did not stop at the garden play-house, where the tin
soldiers were encamped, but kept straight onto the gate, passed through
the latter, and then walked briskly off down the road. The General
ventured to peep out between the fingers that inclosed him, and to his
horror saw that Frank held in his hand a little boat six inches long,
roughly whittled out of a common stick of wood.

And soon his dread anticipations were realized, for striking into a path
that ran through a corn field, the boys made straight for the brook,
where Frank proceeded to cut a long switch from a willow-tree, while Tom
took out three pins from his coat, and deliberately impaled the two
paper ladies to the stern, and General Popgun to the bow of the boat.

Fortunately the pin in each case pierced only some portion of the dress
of the terror-stricken creature, otherwise the consequences might have
been most tragical.

And now the _Foam_ was launched, and the ladies and the General floated
upon the rippling deep.

"Hi, don't they look fine?" cried Tom, as with the long willow switch he
guided the little bark on its course down the stream, while his cousin
walked by his side, much interested in the operation.

Having recovered from their first shock, the passengers began to look
about them and enjoy their voyage.

"How very delightful!" exclaimed Matilda Agnes. "'Tis quite a pity,
General, that you're not an Admiral."

"Oh yes. I always adored the navy," added Angelina Mary.

At these remarks the General blushed as red as the white paper out of
which he was manufactured would allow, and hastened to change the
subject by calling attention to the beauties of the country through
which they were passing. He had just begun a poetical discourse on the
wild flowers which an army tramples down on the field of battle, when
Tom's switch happened to strike him in the face with such force as
caused him to flutter for an instant like a sheet of paper in a high

And now the ladies' fears returned, for the brook was growing wider and
wider, and the _Foam_ drifting constantly further and further from the

Suddenly Tom, who had been busy talking about water turtles with Frank,
noticed this, and struck out with his willow branch to bring the truant
back, but it was too late; the boat had got beyond his reach, and was
now floating swiftly down the middle of the stream with the current.

The ladies screamed, and the General groaned; but as neither the screams
nor the groans were louder than paper is thick, they were not heard by
human ears.

"The boys will surely save us," said Matilda Agnes, hopefully. "We are
too valuable to lose, to say nothing of the boat."

Before long, however, Tom exclaimed: "Oh, I'm tired trudging after the
thing. Come on, Frank, let's go back home, and I'll beat you a game of

"But the dolls," the other ventured to interpose. "What'll the girls say
when we tell 'em what's become of them? They'll be mad, won't they?"

"Oh, I guess not, if we make up a nice story about their sailing off
down to the ocean, and going to Europe and Africa, and seeing gorillas
and bears, and kings and princes;" and with these words Tom gave up the
pursuit, and, followed by Frank, soon disappeared in the woods.

Being thus cruelly abandoned, with not so much as a match at hand by
means of which to row themselves ashore, the three paper voyagers gave
up all as lost, and were beginning to bemoan their awful fate, when the
General suddenly spoke out, in cheerful tones: "Perhaps somebody'll pick
us up."

"Or a steam-boat may run us down," added Angelina Mary, somewhat

"Maybe we'll land on a water-lily," murmured Matilda Agnes, with a
poetical sigh.

But time passed, and none of these things happened. The little boat
drifted on and on, through woods full of singing-birds, and by fields
covered with waving grain, beside houses, around hills, under bridges,
and over mill-dams. To be sure, when they emerged from the latter, the
paper travellers were wet to the skin, but the _Foam_ always came out
right side up, and the sun soon dried them.

By-and-by the sun went down, and when the moon rose the little river had
changed into a big one, and the tiny boat still floated down the middle
of it, on and on, all through the night, and during the whole of the
next day; and discovering that nothing terrible befell them, the three
paper dolls began to grow quite contented with their life of constant
change; and when they sailed down past the great city, with its many
piers, big steamers, middle-sized ferry-boats, and little tugs, they
forgot all about being frightened, so interested were they in gazing at
the strange sights about them.

And thus they floated down the harbor, out at the Narrows, and so into
the great broad ocean, and there they may be drifting to this very day.

At any rate, the girls say they are going to keep a good look-out for
them when they go to Europe.


[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]


     Having seen the charming little paper, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and
     being in a distant country, I thought that now and again a letter
     from this place might please some of the dear children.

     The little folks here are very dark-skinned, not black. They use a
     very different language, and call everything by a different name.
     Not having any snow, the boys go to the top of a steep mountain,
     and slide down its side on sleds they make for themselves. Some
     are boards, and some only palm leaves. The mountain is very steep,
     so that it looks as though the children must be killed in coming
     down its sides. Fancy yourselves sliding down the side of an old
     volcano on a palm leaf!

     Sometimes the boys go and jump from thirty feet above the water
     down into it, and go out of sight. After a time they come up a
     long way off, and run up the rocks, or crawl up, and then jump off

     One morning the boys started off, and were found sitting in a
     sugar plantation eating sugar. Though they do not steal as a rule,
     yet, I am sorry to say, they think it no harm to take fruits. Some
     day I will write the children some more strange things.


       *       *       *       *       *


     My little nephew and all of us enjoy the YOUNG PEOPLE very much.
     It gets a pretty thorough reading, for I take it to school, where
     the pupils have it for a week, any who recite perfect lessons
     taking it in turn. Then I send it to my little niece in
     Indianapolis, who, after reading it, sends it to her cousin. You
     see this one copy has a considerable circulation, and I trust that
     many of these readers will take the paper for themselves another

  Your well-wisher,
  M. O. A.

The above letter is very gratifying, and we thank the writer heartily
for her kind wishes on behalf of YOUNG PEOPLE.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am nine years old. I take YOUNG PEOPLE, and think it the nicest
     little paper I ever saw. Little Netta Franklin, the little girl
     whose letter you acknowledged in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 17, and said it
     was so neatly printed, was my little sister. She died several
     weeks ago, and I miss her very much. I am alone now, with neither
     sister nor brother. She thought so much of YOUNG PEOPLE! She had
     mamma read a story to her out of it the night before she died.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I wrote a few weeks ago and told YOUNG PEOPLE of the pleasant
     weather we were having, although the snow was still on the ground.
     But the very next day it began to rain, and before night it was
     snowing. A few days afterward the snow was four feet deep in
     places where there was none before. The storm lasted two weeks,
     and my uncle, who has lived here for more than twenty-eight years,
     says he never knew anything like it before.

     I feel very sorry for those Indians Bertie Brown wrote about, and
     I think he drew a very nice picture for a boy only nine years old.

     I have a cat named Frolic. He is just one year younger than I am.
     He is full of tricks. One is this: when auntie is making cake, he
     always sits quietly at the end of the table and watches her. When
     supper-time comes he waits patiently till we are finished, then
     cries for his share. Just to tease him, uncle gives him a piece of
     bread, but Frol knows the difference between bread and cake, and
     he will not touch a mouthful of anything until he gets his cake.
     We had thirteen cats once, but some of them are dead, and now we
     have only seven.

  MARY A. R.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl eleven years old. My father was hurt on the
     railroad and died, and I and my mamma live with a family that have
     no children at home, so I am the only child in the house. Uncle
     Henry sends me YOUNG PEOPLE. He is not my own uncle, but I love
     him just as well as though he were.

     I have a nice shepherd puppy. It is just as cunning as it can be.
     There is no school here that I can go to, so I study at home. We
     have eight cows. I can milk, and I can strain the milk and skim it
     too. One evening I skimmed sixteen pans.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I live in the country, and write to tell you how much pleasure the
     charming little paper YOUNG PEOPLE gives me. I only wish it came
     every day instead of once a week. My little sister Ethel is
     greatly interested in all the stories, and begs me to read them
     over and over.

     Mamma has over two hundred little chickens. I have made a pet of
     one of them. It follows me wherever I go, and does not seem
     contented without me. We had quite a curiosity the other day in
     the shape of a little chicken. It had four legs and four wings,
     and was otherwise perfect. Unfortunately it did not live, which
     was a great disappointment to us.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I read so many letters in the Post-office Box from other little
     girls that I thought I would write myself. I like YOUNG PEOPLE so
     much that I can hardly wait until it comes.

     I had some pet chickens. They were so tame they would eat out of
     my hand. I had a bird too, but it fell into its bath-tub, and was
     drowned. My only pet now is a cat named Kitty Clover.

  N. V. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am six years old. My cousin, who lives with me, has taken YOUNG
     PEOPLE since the first number. My sister is writing this for me,
     because I can not write very well yet, but I tell her just what to

     I have lots of pets. I live in Chicago, not far from the Park,
     where I go to ride in a little goat-cart drawn by two goats that
     my uncle Will gave me last Fourth of July, which was my birthday.
     I have a pet canary which I have made very tame by catching it and
     making it accustomed to being handled. Now it is so tame that it
     will come when I call, "Goldy, Goldy," even if it is in another
     room. It also does many funny tricks. It will pull all the pins
     out of the cushion, and the hair-pins from mamma's hair.

     I have a parrot which talks French, because we got it in France,
     when we were there winter before last; also, a little white kitten
     named Snowdrop, which always goes to sleep with Cecil, my dog.

     My uncle has three horses, and one is so small and gentle that I
     am learning to ride him.

     I like to read the other children's letters in the Post-office
     Box, and I can read them myself, except the long words.

     My papa is in China. He sent me a little silk dressing-gown last
     Christmas, and a tea-set.

     I have learned to speak "Bofe dem Chillun's White," and mamma and
     I think it is lovely.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am but a tiny baby, but my mamma takes YOUNG PEOPLE for me--so
     she says; but when I grab it to cut my teeth on it, my mamma grabs
     it away, which don't seem as if it were much mine.

     I live in Rochester, and I am in a farm-house near the lake for
     the summer. The lake air is good for little babies.

     I go all over the farm in my little carriage, sometimes 'way out
     in the field to see the cow from which I get milk fresh twice a
     day. The man who takes care of her calls her Betsy, but my mamma,
     who is a Baltimorean, calls her Madame Bonaparte, because she was
     brought to the farm just after Madame Bonaparte's death. I feed
     her on bread and sugar, to pay for her milk.

     When I get bigger I'm going to be like Thackeray's little girl in
     the Rose and the Ring. I'm going to "dance and sing, and do all
     sorts of t'ing," and write you a real big letter.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE from the first number, and I like it
     very much. I like the story "For Mamma's Sake" best of all. I have
     no brothers or sisters, but I have a pet canary I call Beauty.
     Another little girl wrote that she had one by that name. Mine is
     very tame. I have only lived in the city about eight months. I
     always lived in the country, in Connecticut. I like it better than
     the city. I am eleven years old.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I have tried Puss Hunter's recipe for cake, and it was very nice.
     I am going to try R. C. W.'s recipe for candy, in YOUNG PEOPLE No.
     28. I hope it will be a success.

     I expect to have a young turtle given to me soon, and I should
     like to tame it, if I can. Is there any reader of YOUNG PEOPLE who
     can tell me how to tame a turtle?

     I have a great many dolls, and I think a good deal of them all. I
     have a wax doll named Maud, and a china doll named Nellie, and
     another named Linnie. I like Nellie better than all the rest.


       *       *       *       *       *

     YOUNG PEOPLE is a very welcome visitor at our house. I like
     especially the pieces entitled "Easy Botany." I would like very
     much to exchange roots and seeds of wild flowers with any
     correspondents of our Post-office Box.

  Flushing, Long Island.

       *       *       *       *       *


    My father has taken HARPER'S WEEKLY twenty-three years, and has it
    all bound. Now I take YOUNG PEOPLE, and at the end of the year I am
    going to have my paper bound too. I have a little baby brother,
    three months old, and I think he is cunning. I also have a new
    cart, made in Leominster. I go to school, and every Friday night I
    go to grandma's, and stay over Saturday.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am seven years old. I live on the bank of a river and at the
     foot of a hill. Some of the rocks that surround us are full of red
     jasper, and parties come from the cities near by to gather
     specimens. I go to the sea-shore every summer together with my two
     little sisters. We pick up lovely stones and shells. My pets are
     twenty little black and white chickens, and a nice kitty named
     Tabby Gray. I made a doll's cake by Puss Hunter's recipe. It was
     very nice indeed.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I made cake from the recipe given by Bessie L. S. in YOUNG PEOPLE
     No. 28, and thought it very nice. But I think I put a little too
     much egg in it.

     I send a recipe for crullers for Puss Hunter's Cooking Club: One
     heaping cup of sugar; half a cup of sweet milk; one table-spoonful
     of lard; three eggs well beaten; one heaping tea-spoonful of
     baking-powder; flavor with cinnamon or lemon. I read all the
     letters in the Post-office Box.


This little housewife forgot to state the amount of flour required to
complete her recipe; but any little girl's mamma will say how much is
necessary to make the batter stiff enough for crullers.

       *       *       *       *       *


     Here is a recipe for ginger-cake that I send to Puss Hunter's
     Cooking Club: One cup of molasses; half a cup of butter; half a
     cup of water; two cups of flour; two tea-spoonfuls of ginger; one
     tea-spoonful of soda.


       *       *       *       *       *

     I am thirteen years old, and I live in the Blue Ridge Mountains,
     in Northeast Georgia. My home is in a lovely valley, called
     Nacoochee. It was called after an Indian princess of that name.

     I have two dogs--Cupid and Brave. Cupid is a rat-terrier, but he
     likes to hunt rabbits better than rats. Brave is a white and
     yellow spotted dog. He is also a good rabbit hunter.

     I am making a collection of Indian relics and quartz. I would like
     to exchange specimens with some of the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE.

  Nacoochee, Georgia.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I have some little ponies. They are the prettiest little things
     you ever saw. And I have a nice Maltese kitty, and a little bird
     that sings like everything.

     The town where I live was settled by the Hutchinson family of
     singers. I am nine years old.

     I would like to exchange pressed flowers with Genevieve, or any
     other little girl in California.

  Hutchinson, Minnesota.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Yesterday morning I went to the Soldiers' Home, in Dayton, to
     spend the day. It is the largest and handsomest institution of its
     kind in the United States. I went with a friend of mine, and we
     had a splendid time. What we enjoyed most were the flowers. We
     each bought a great number, and among others we got a quantity of
     pansies, which are my favorite flowers. I would like to exchange
     some pressed pansies for some of the floral beauties of
     California. I have a great many varieties, and some are very rare.

  Xenia, Ohio.

       *       *       *       *       *

     If any boy living at the sea-side or in the South will exchange
     birds' eggs with me, I will be very much obliged, and will, as
     quick as I receive any, send eggs in return.

     I would like all eggs sent to me to be plainly marked, that I may
     know what kind they are.

  Norwalk. Huron County, Ohio.

       *       *       *       *       *

     If "Dot," of Washington, D. C., will send me her address, I would
     like to write to her. I am an invalid myself, and can sympathize
     with everybody that is sick in any way. I am eleven years old.

  Fulton, Oswego County, New York.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I should like to tell the little girl named "Dot" all I know about
     taming birds. I had two canaries, and they both died, but my
     sister had one, and every day I would take it out of the cage and
     pet it. It became so tame that it would eat out of my hand, and
     when I let it out of its cage, it would fly upon the tops of the
     picture-frames, and sometimes come and perch upon my shoulder.
     When school began I did not have time to pet it any more, and it
     became wild again.

  N. L. V.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I am twelve years old. My mamma raises canary-birds. We are
     raising some mocking-birds, and if any of the correspondents of
     YOUNG PEOPLE could arrange to exchange a pair of pure Maltese
     kittens for a singing mocking-bird, I would be very much pleased.

  West Point, Clay County, Mississippi.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I am making a collection of birds' eggs and minerals, and would
     like to exchange specimens with any one. I would like very much to
     have some birds' eggs from the North. I send a list of eggs which
     have all been found in the Georgia woods: jaybird, cat-bird,
     sap-sucker, thrush (two kinds), redbird, bluebird, wren (different
     kinds), mocking-bird, woodpecker, partridge, bee-martin, and
     several kinds of sparrows. Any of these I would like to exchange
     for other kinds.

     I saw a letter in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 29 from Samuel P. Higgins, of
     New Jersey, offering to exchange eggs. If he has any kinds not
     mentioned in my list, I would be very glad to exchange with him.

  Ingleside Farm, Cherokee County, Georgia.

       *       *       *       *       *

E. I. RADFORD.--E. & F. N. Span, New York city, can supply you with
catalogues and books of all kinds relating to telegraphy.

       *       *       *       *       *

WILLIE B. M.--The dates you require are given in "A Personation," on
page 392 of YOUNG PEOPLE No. 28.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHARLES L. S.--Fort Dodge, the military post, is in Kansas. There is a
town in Iowa of the same name.

       *       *       *       *       *

ELWYN A. S.--The shells of your doves' eggs are soft because the doves
probably eat nothing from which the shell can be formed. A piece of
cuttle-fish hung in the cage might answer the purpose; or, still better,
the shells of hens' eggs broken in pieces and scattered in the cage. The
doves also need plenty of clean gravel to scratch in.--Your first favor
was acknowledged in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 19.

       *       *       *       *       *

MAUD H. B.--In an article on "The House-Sparrow" in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 14
you will find out what kind of food your "sparrow named Hopkins" will
like best.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.


In marble. To lay a wager. To yield blossoms. An animal. Reptiles. An
abbreviation. In ascend.

  A. H. E.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.


First, to stuff. Second, a European city. Third, a boy's name. Fourth, a


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.


What is it that goes to India, stops there, comes back, and yet never
went there?

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.


  1. A Carthaginian General: H--n--i--a--.
  2. A proverb: A--t--t--h--n--i--e--a--e--n--n--.
  3. A proverb: F--n--f--a--h--r--d--n--t--a--e--i--e--i--d--.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 5.


  Our firsts in agate, not in stone.
  Our seconds in brittle, not in bone.
  Our thirds in pitcher, not in bowl.
  Our fourths in wheel, but not in roll.
  Our fifths in chance, but not in skill.
  Our sixths in stream, but not in rill.
  As classic city and classic land,
  Our names united for ages stand.

  C. P. T.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 6.


A town on the Vistula River. A notion. To act idly. Smooth. A country in
the possession of the English. A Northern region. A part of the hair of
many animals. Answer--Primals form the first name and finals the second
name of a celebrated Scottish patriot.


       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.

  H A N D L E S
    C A R D S
      M A T
      B O G
    S H O C K
  R U N N E R S

No. 2.


No. 3.

  G uardafu I
  E  veres  T
  N   ev    A
  O  rtega  L
  A lleghan Y

Genoa, Italy.

No. 4.

  M A N Y
  A L O E
  N O R A
  Y E A R

No. 5.

1. Harmony. 2. Conglomeration. 3. Consternation. 4. Manipulate. 5.
Broadway. 6. Mathematician.

No. 6.


       *       *       *       *       *

Favors are acknowledged from C. G., B. B., Bettie Melone, Effie M.
Richards, Nyman Coit Gates, M. J. R., Willie S. O., S. F. W., Joseph

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles are received from George W. Raymond, Robbie
H. Osborn, Frank E. Hayward, John A. Wood, K. L. Huckaus, M. Brigham,
Willie M. Bloss, Norris W., Wroton M. Kenny, S. A. Hibbs, O. A. H.,
Laura McC., Joseph Van Doren, George H. Rech.



HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE will be issued every Tuesday, and may be had at
the following rates--_payable in advance, postage free_:

  SINGLE COPIES                     $0.04
  ONE SUBSCRIPTION, _one year_       1.50
  FIVE SUBSCRIPTIONS, _one year_     7.00

Subscriptions may begin with any Number. When no time is specified, it
will be understood that the subscriber desires to commence with the
Number issued after the receipt of order.

Remittances should be made by POST-OFFICE MONEY ORDER or DRAFT, to avoid
risk of loss.


The extent and character of the circulation of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE
will render it a first-class medium for advertising. A limited number of
approved advertisements will be inserted on two inside pages at 75 cents
per line.

  Franklin Square, N. Y.



R. SIMPSON, 132 Nassau Street, N. Y.

The Child's Book of Nature.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Child's Book of Nature, for the Use of Families and Schools:
intended to aid Mothers and Teachers in Training Children in the
Observation of Nature. In Three Parts. Part I. Plants. Part II. Animals.
Part III. Air, Water, Heat, Light, &c. By WORTHINGTON HOOKER, M.D.
Illustrated. The Three Parts complete in One Volume, Small 4to, Half
Leather, $1.12; or, separately, in Cloth, Part I., 45 cents; Part II.,
48 cents; Part III., 48 cents.

       *       *       *       *       *

A beautiful and useful work. It presents a general survey of the kingdom
of nature in a manner adapted to attract the attention of the child, and
at the same time to furnish him with accurate and important scientific
information. While the work is well suited as a class-book for schools,
its fresh and simple style cannot fail to render it a great favorite for
family reading.

The Three Parts of this book can be had in separate volumes by those who
desire it. This will be advisable when the book is to be used in
teaching quite young children, especially in schools.

       *       *       *       *       *

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

_Sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on
receipt of the price._


       *       *       *       *       *

Our Children's Songs. Illustrated. 8vo, Ornamental Cover, $1.00.

       *       *       *       *       *

Songs for the nursery, songs for childhood, for girlhood, boyhood,
and sacred songs--the whole melody of childhood and youth bound
in one cover. Full of lovely pictures; sweet mother and baby faces;
charming bits of scenery, and the dear old Bible story-telling
pictures.--_Churchman_, N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

HARPER & BROTHERS _will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid, to
any part of the United States, on receipt of the price_.


Books for the School and Family.

       *       *       *       *       *


SWINTON'S LANGUAGE PRIMER. Language Primer: Beginners' Lessons in
Speaking and Writing English. By WILLIAM SWINTON, A.M. 12mo, Half
Leather, 30 cents.

SWINTON'S NEW LANGUAGE LESSONS. New Language Lessons: an Elementary
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FOWLER'S ELEMENTARY ENGLISH GRAMMAR. An Elementary English Grammar for
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The ibex, or steinbok, is an Alpine animal remarkable for the
development of its horns, which are sometimes more than three feet in
length, and of such extraordinary dimensions that they appear to a
casual observer to be peculiarly unsuitable for a quadruped which
traverses the craggy regions of Alpine precipices. Some writers say that
these enormous horns are employed by their owners as "buffers," by which
the force of a fall may be broken; and that the animal, when leaping
from a great height, will alight on its horns, and by their elastic
strength be guarded from the severity of a shock that would instantly
kill any animal not so defended. This statement, however, is but little

To hunt the ibex successfully is as hard a matter as hunting the
chamois, for the ibex is to the full as wary and active an animal, and
is sometimes apt to turn the tables on its pursuer, and assume the
offensive. Should the hunter approach too near the ibex, the animal
will, as if suddenly urged by the reckless courage of despair, dash
boldly forward at its foe, and strike him from the precipitous rock over
which he is forced to pass. The difficulty of the chase is further
increased by the fact that the ibex is an animal of remarkable powers of
endurance, and is capable of abstaining from food or water for a
considerable time.

It lives in little bands of five or ten in number, each troop being
under command of an old male, and preserving admirable order among
themselves. Their sentinel is ever on the watch, and at the slightest
suspicious sound, scent, or object, the warning whistle is blown, and
the whole troop make instantly for the highest attainable point.


The Edinburgh _Scotsman_ reports a somewhat remarkable discovery made in
the pretty little burgh of Fortrose, in Scotland. In raising the clay
floor in the kitchen of an old house on the margin of the Cathedral
Green, occupied by Mr. Donald Junor, for the purpose of replacing it
with a floor of cement, the soil below was penetrated for some little
depth, and the spout of what appeared to be a tea-kettle was exposed. On
removing the earth from around it, a vessel, apparently of tarnished
copper, was uncovered. It was some ten or eleven inches in height, of
the familiar shape of the water ewer or flagon in use in Scottish
families in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the water being
poured from it over the hands of guests and others previous to meals.
The top was closed with a lid, formed of a piece of lead three-quarters
of an inch in thickness, and apparently soldered to the flagon.

The vessel was remarkably heavy, and on removing the lead it was found
to be filled with old silver coins. There was a quantity of dark-looking
liquid in the vessel, and on this being poured out, the coins were left,
with one or two exceptions, quite white and clean. They were over a
thousand in number, and were all of the time of King Robert III. of
Scotland, who reigned from 1390 to 1406. They are very thin, as is the
general character of the silver coinage of that time, and larger than a
shilling in the surface.



With two straight cuts of the scissors restore this old stump to life.




  First friends, then foes, my first and last are reckoned,
  My first called great, and really great my second;
  Eager for fame, each led a soldier's life,
  Each fell a victim to the assassin's knife.
  My first died first; but when my second fell,
  He fell before my first, by some strange spell.



  My first an Indian chief, who vainly sought
  To exterminate the foe 'gainst whom he fought.


  Another Indian chief, entrapped, betrayed,
  Whose haughty spirit broke in dungeon shade.


  A State whose boundaries were hard to fix,
  Where lakes and streams their flowing waters mix.


  An ancient Greek, most famous in his age,
  Renowned for eloquence and counsel sage.


  My fifth a novel, read with great applause
  When Dr. Johnson wagged his ponderous jaws.


  My sixth a cycle of revolving time,
  Which visits every nation, age, and clime.


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