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Title: Harper's Young People, April 5, 1881 - 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, April 5, 1881 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

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


       *       *       *       *       *


Tuesday, April 5, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AT THE COTTAGE DOOR.]



"Put it back, Jim. Do put it back."

"Why?" Jim whispered, with a startled glance along the wood path. "Is
the master in sight, Ned?"

"We are in sight of the Master, Jim."

Jim drew a long breath of relief, and put his finger into the open mouth
of one of the unfledged blackbirds. "You frightened me for a moment," he
said, "but I see you were only talking Sunday-school stuff. Of course,
as Squire's forbid us to touch the nests here, we must mind he doesn't
see, that's all."

"Put it back, Jim, lad," pleaded the elder boy, without resenting his
companion's sneer. "It's as much a home, you know, as your own cottage;
and those four little blackbirds can no more live and grow if you
destroy it, than your baby sisters could live and grow if they had no
home and no mother."

"I ain't harmin' the mother," muttered Jim.

"Suppose your mother came home one night, after her work, feeling happy,
and thinking of the rest she should have in her own snug little house,
where you would all be looking out for her, and just when she came close
up to your cottage--just at the old lilac-tree by the gate, you
know--she looked up and saw there were no little ones to meet her, no
bright little room to rest in, no sign, even, of where the dear old home
had been: if you could see her then, Jim, would you say that anybody
who'd taken it all away hadn't harmed _her_?"

"I don't know nothin' 'bout that," stammered Jim, moodily. "It ain't got
to do with a nest. The old bird can make another."

"I suppose your mother could find another cottage, but would it be the
same without you and the babies?"

"It's very different," grumbled Jim, but a little less defiantly now.

"Father says the mother birds often die of grief when they find their
nests gone. You'll put it back, Jim?"

"Not very likely, when I've had all this fuss to get it."

"Just put it back for ten minutes," pleaded Ned.

"And take it again after?"

"Yes, and take it again after--if you like."

"What good would that do?" inquired Jim, with a laugh.

"Just put it back for ten minutes, while I tell you a story."

"You'll promise not to talk Sunday-school stuff when I take 'em back
again, or tell the master, or serve me any sneaky trick like that?"

"I promise. Stay, I'll help you put the nest back in exactly the old

"I'll do it myself," returned Jim, ungraciously. "I fetched it myself
first, and I'll fetch it again when your tale's over. There, I've put

"Look, Jim! look!" cried Ned, joyfully. "That blackbird flying straight
to the tree is sure to be the mother. Aren't you glad the nest's there

"Ten minutes ain't very long," observed Jim, as he threw himself at full
length on the turf, looking longingly up at the branch on which the nest
was built, while the white blossoms of the hawthorn fell upon his
upturned face. "I'm safe to have 'em in ten minutes to do what I like
with. Now, then, for the tale. Is there a giant in it?"

"Not this time," said Ned, gently. "It's only about myself and the
children and mother. That won't be like Jack the Giant-Killer or
Robinson Crusoe, will it? But the story isn't long, Jim. I was a very
little chap, and the twins were dots of things, and baby only a month or
so old. Father worked for the master here, and loved him as all the men
do now; but I didn't love him, because he wouldn't have us boys take the
eggs or nests. But one day, when I was going through this very wood, and
nobody was by to see me, I took a thrush's nest with five tiny throstles
in it. I hid it in the basket I was bringing to mother, and went off so
cheerfully, remembering we had an old wicker cage at home, and thinking
how I'd put the birds in it, and watch how they'd manage to fledge; and
how I'd burn the nest--it was dry and crisp, and would burn
beautifully--that I mightn't be found out. Mother was sitting by the
fire nursing baby (poor mother was sick that time, and baby hadn't ever
been well), and I went behind her to the cage, and put my birds in
without her seeing, for I knew well enough how she'd tell me I was wrong
to disobey the master, and cruel to the little creatures I'd stolen. I
didn't care to be told that, for I wasn't sorry, and I didn't want to
give mother the chance of spoiling my fun by any of her quiet speeches
about the other Master--up there beyond the blue--who cares for every
little bird in every tree. I had plenty of opportunities for slipping
away to the dim corner where the cage was, for I was let stay up waiting
for father; but at last mother sent me to bed. I slept in a little bed
in a corner of the kitchen, so it wasn't the same as going up stairs;
and I watched the hand of the clock go round, for I couldn't sleep for
thinking how queer my orphan birds looked, and how jealous some of the
lads at school would be. I saw mother get to look whiter and whiter, and
tireder and tireder; but father didn't come home. Then baby began to
moan, and mother got up and walked about with her, and I watched how
troubled she looked. Then I fell asleep. It seemed like the middle of
the night when I awoke, and I jumped up, for I seemed to know in a
second that everything wasn't like other nights. The cottage door was
wide open, and there was mother standing there, looking out into the
darkness, and listening. When I went up to her, she just put her arm
round my neck, but she didn't look at me; she only looked into the

"'Come in, mother,' I cried; 'you oughtn't to stand here while you are

"But she only stood there trembling, till baby began to cry and move
restless in her cradle; then mother came in, and took her up, and held
her close to her neck, sobbing as I'd never heard mother sob before in
all my life--never. I held to her, and begged her to stop, but I was
crying myself too all the time. And still father didn't come. I was a
silly lad, Jim, and a wicked one, but I wasn't a coward; and so I begged
mother to let me go up to the Hall to ask about father. For a long time
she wouldn't, but at last I got her just to whisper 'yes' in her crying,
and I was only too eager to set off. She came to the door with me, still
shivering, and holding baby wrapped in a shawl; and while she kissed me
she whispered something I couldn't hear; but I suppose it didn't matter
my hearing, for she was speaking up to Heaven. I wasn't long reaching
the Hall, for I knew every inch of the road, and could run safely enough
even in the darkness. I went up through the yard, and when I saw a light
in the saddle-room, I knew one of the grooms was sitting up to take the
master's horse, and I went in at once. It was Tom Harris, and of course
I was sorry, because he hated father, and didn't like me; but whoever it
had been, I should have gone in then to ask for father. Tom scolded me
first for startling him, then he laughed at my questions, and then he
got cool again, and stared at me.

"'You won't find your father here,' he said; 'you won't never find him
here again, Ned Sullivan, for he ain't ever coming here again. He's
turned off. The master won't have nothing more to do with him. You'd
best go and ask for him at the public, for he went that way when the
master sent him off. The public's a good place for him to forget his
troubles in.'

"I stared at the man, trying to understand what he said, and trying to
_believe_ him. 'Father never goes to the public,' I stammered. 'What do
you mean?'

"'He's never been turned off work before to-night,' laughed Tom. 'That's
what sends a man to the public. If he ain't there, something's happened
to him. Go you and see after him. Don't stare,' he went on, crossing his
arms, and leaning back in his chair by the fire. 'Can't ye hear what I
say? Your father's been turned off here, and to-morrow you're all to be
off out of your cottage.'

"I caught hold of the table, for the room was spinning round and round;
and then I remember Tom laughed, and said it again, as if I'd questioned

"'Yes, I mean just what I say. Your father's been late every morning
this week, and the master won't stand it--not likely. So you're all to
turn out of your cottage to-morrow for the new shepherd. Go home and
make as much as you can of the place to-night, as it'll be gone

"At first I was afraid to stir, for I thought if I did I should fall;
but as soon as I could I crept away from the man's sight. Out in the
darkness again, all my strength came back, and I ran home faster even
than I had run to the Hall, crying mother's name all the way, without
knowing what I meant.

"The cottage door was open when I reached it. I think she'd put it open
to guide us--father and me; and I looked in, actually afraid for the
first time in my life of meeting mother. She was sitting by the fire,
her face white, and the tears falling all the time. While I stood
wondering how to tell her about father, my sobs burst out and
frightened her. But I was by her side then, and I fell on my knees, and
laid my head in her lap. It was just then, Jim, that I remembered my
little unfledged birds and their ruined home, and the mother who had
lost them, and I folded my hands and looked up into mother's face almost
as if she had been God. 'I'll never do it again--never! never! I didn't
know it was so terrible. I'll put them back.'

"Afterward, while I told her all that Tom had said, I tried not to see
her face, and tried still more, Jim, not to see that old cage in the far
corner of the kitchen, where my little prisoners were. When I'd done,
mother got up from her seat, and put on her shawl and bonnet.

"'No, no, mother,' I cried, quite quietly, though, for fear of waking
baby; 'you mustn't go out; you'll be ill again, and it's quite dark. Oh,
let me go!'

"She stooped and kissed me. 'It's no place for you, my child. Take care
of baby.' She couldn't say another word, and I could only watch her go,
as she had watched me, thinking what I'd have given to be able to go and
take care of her.

"I sat close to baby's cradle, and stared into the fire as if that wide
stare could keep the tears away; but all the while I didn't see the fire
at all, but other things--oh, Jim, so plainly!

"The white light crept through the kitchen window, then the sun rose,
and still father and mother didn't come. The sun was shining now, and
this was the very day we were to go, so I woke the twins and dressed
them, and wrapped baby ready, and put the room in order, all without a
word, for I was too miserable to cry. At last father and mother came in,
very slowly and silently, and father put his hand on my head, and mother
took baby, and then I knew we were bidding good-by to the little home
where we had been so happy, and I didn't want to cry, though my heart
was breaking, so I crept away to the woods for a few minutes. I felt
that everything would seem better there, where I should see the sunshine
on the leaves and grass and flowers, and hear the birds' songs among the
boughs, making the leaves seem full of music, as I had so often heard
them; and even higher still, among the soft white clouds, where I'd
often thought that even the angels must like to hear them, stooping to
listen when their own songs were silent for a bit. But, Jim, when I came
into the wood, there was no note of all these bright glad songs.

"The whole wood was heavy with a dismal silence; and then I knew that it
was my fault that the birds were unhappy, and would never sing again.

"What could I do? Was it all too late? Sobbing bitterly, I ran home to
fetch the little orphan birds, and give the mother back her children and
her home. Ah, Jim, what a change I found in our own dear home! The
little kitchen that had always seemed so snug and bright and cheerful
was empty and bare. Nowhere in the cottage was there a step or voice to
be heard; only I was left there, and with me, in that nest in the old
cage, five little dead birds.

"The dream had been so real, Jim, that my cry terrified a gentleman who
was riding past in the darkness, and heard it. He dismounted, and came
into the cottage kitchen, and I saw it was the master.

"'Were you asleep, Ned?' he asked, in his kind way. 'Did you cry out in
your sleep?'

"Scarcely knowing I had dreamed, I told him all about taking the nest,
and disobeying him, and about the woods being silent, and how I came
home and found our home ruined, and father and mother gone, and the
birds dead; and when he looked kindly at me, I fell down on my knees and
begged him to forgive me, and not take our home away from mother, but to
send only me away, because I'd taken the nest, and to let father and
mother and the children stay. Then he questioned me till I'd repeated
all that Tom Harris had told me when I went to ask for father; and I
said how father had never been to the public before that night, and how
mother had been to fetch him, though she was ill. Then he put out his
kind hand, and lifted me up.

"'I am glad I heard you as I passed,' he said. 'Harris has been
deceiving you, Ned. You might have guessed that, because he is so fond
of frightening you, and has a grudge against your father. But this
amounts to wickedness, and he shall be punished. I guess how it is, my
lad. Your father is in the shed in the far meadow with the sick cow. I
dare say he couldn't send a message from there, and has all the while
expected he would be able to come home in a few more minutes. You may be
sure he is as anxious to come as you are to see him, but he never
neglects a sick animal. Dry your eyes, my lad, for the cottage is your
home still, and it doesn't look at all "ruined," I think. Now build up
the fire, and wait for your mother. I'll see about your father.'

"Oh, Jim, can you fancy what it was like then? I put my head into the
cradle, and smothered baby with kisses; I made the fire up, and put on
the kettle. Then I ran a little way down the dark road, calling out to
mother, 'Make haste, mother! make haste!' At last she came, Jim--not
white and crying and alone, as she had gone, not silent and sorrowful
with father, like in my dream, but talking happily with him. And then
how I longed that I could have given back my dead birds to their
mother--given them back their home, as ours had been given to us! I
don't know what I did for a bit, but when I'd got father and mother to
have some tea, I laid my head down upon the cold nest, and while I held
so tenderly the little dead birds--killed by these hands of mine, while
the master who was kind to the birds had been so kind to me--I asked God
to forgive me, and I made a promise to Him that He has let me be able to
keep, for I ask Him again every night and every morning. Don't you think
it's true, Jim, what mother says, that the more we love the things He
loves, the more we love Him? That's all. It's quite ten minutes, isn't
it? Are you going to take your nest again?"

"You might have told a cheerfuler tale, Ned. Tell another. There's no
hurry about taking that nest again just yet."



  The studios were open, all the artists had united,
  And to see the very pretty show were lots of folks invited;
  They came quite early in the day, they came till late at night,
  And used up all the adjectives in showing their delight.

  A water-color artist, rather grander than the rest,
  Had a funny little usher in a funny costume dressed,
  Who met the people at the door, and marshalled them the way
  To where the easels were arranged with pictures for display.

  And then he bowed a funny bow that made the people smile,
  And through his funny little eyes he gazed at them the while,
  As if to say, "My master is, you see, a clever man,
  And on this grand reception day I do the best I can."

  When the pictures were admired, and the people turned about,
  This funny little usher would with grace escort them out,
  And stand within the passage at a distance about right,
  So as not to be familiar, but exceedingly polite.

  There are many of the pictures that I can not now recall;
  And the little living tableau I remember best of all
  Was the funny little usher from the distant Isle of Skye,
  Who did his duty well, and answered to the name of Fly.

[Illustration: THE HALBERDIER.]


The queer-looking figure in the accompanying etching is that of a
halberdier, or one of a style of soldier that formed an important body
of the European armies of four hundred years ago. We of to-day would
laugh at soldiers in such queer costumes; but in those days the
halberdiers were considered a very fine-looking and handsomely uniformed
body of men. The halberd, or half battle-axe, was a stout shaft of wood
some six feet in length, and having a curious steel head formed for
cutting, thrusting, or tearing; that is, one side of it was shaped like
a battle-axe, and was for cutting; the end was like a spear; and on the
other side was a strong hook, which was very useful in tearing down

The halberd was used by the Scandinavians and the semi-barbarous tribes
of Germany in the very earliest times. The Swiss introduced it into
France in the fifteenth century, and it was first used in England in the
time of Henry VIII.

In our day halberds are very seldom seen, and but few exist outside of
museums, where they are preserved as curiosities. Until late in the last
century they were used by certain court officials in England, and at the
present time they are sometimes borne on occasions of state ceremony by
the yeomen of the Queen's Guard.

[Begun in No. 58 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, December 7.]






During this walk Toby learned many things that were of importance to
him, so far as his plan for running away was concerned. In the first
place, he learned from the railroad posters that were stuck up in the
hotel to which they went that he could buy a ticket for Guilford for
seven dollars, and also that by going back to the town from which they
had just come, he could go to Guilford by steamer for five dollars.

By returning to this last town--and Toby calculated that the fare on the
stage back there could not be more than a dollar--he would have ten
dollars left, and that surely ought to be sufficient to buy food enough
for two days for the most hungry boy that ever lived.

When they returned to the circus grounds, the performance was over, and
Mr. Lord in the midst of the brisk trade which he usually had after the
afternoon performance, and yet, so far from scolding Toby for going
away, he actually smiled and bowed at him as he saw him go by with Ben.

"See there, Toby," said the old driver to the boy, as he gave him a
vigorous poke in the ribs, and then went off into one of his dreadful
laughing spells--"see what it is to be a performer, an' not workin' for
such an old fossil as Job is. He'll be so sweet to you now that sugar
won't melt in his mouth, an' there's no chance of his ever attemptin' to
whip you again."

Toby made no reply, for he was too busily engaged thinking of something
which had just come into his mind to know that his friend had spoken.

But as old Ben hardly knew whether the boy had answered him or not,
owing to his being obliged to struggle with his breath lest he should
lose it in the second laughing spell that attacked him, the boy's
thoughtfulness was not particularly noticed.

Toby walked around the show grounds for a little while with his old
friend, and then the two went to supper, where Toby performed quite as
great wonders in the way of eating as he had in the afternoon by riding.

As soon as the supper was over, he quietly slipped away from old Ben,
and at once paid a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Treat, whom he found cozily
engaged with their supper behind the screen.

They welcomed Toby most cordially, and despite his assertions that he
had just finished a very hearty meal, the fat lady made him sit down to
the box which served as table, and insisted on his trying some of her

Under all these pressing attentions, it was some time before Toby found
a chance to say that which he had come to say, and when he did he was
almost at a loss how to proceed; but at last he commenced by starting
abruptly on his subject with the words, "I've made up my mind to leave

"Leave to-night?" repeated the skeleton, inquiringly, not for a moment
believing that Toby could think of running away after the brilliant
success he had just made. "What do you mean, Toby?"

"Why, you know that I've been wantin' to get away from the circus," said
Toby, a little impatient that his friend should be so wonderfully
stupid, "an' I think that I'll have as good a chance now as ever I
shall, so I'm goin' to try it."

"Bless us!" exclaimed the fat lady, in a gasping way. "You don't mean to
say that you're goin' off just when you've started in the business so
well? I thought you'd want to stay after you'd been so well received
this afternoon."

"No," said Toby, and one quick little sob popped right up from his
heart, and out before he was aware of it; "I learned to ride because I
had to, but I never give up runnin' away. I must see Uncle Dan'l, an'
tell him how sorry I am for what I did; an' if he won't have anything to
say to me, then I'll come back; but if he'll let me, I'll stay there,
an' I'll be so good that by-'n'-by he'll forget that I run off an' left
him without sayin' a word."

There was such a touch of sorrow in his tones, so much pathos in his way
of speaking, that good Mrs. Treat's heart was touched at once; and
putting her arms around the little fellow, as if to shield him from some
harm, she said, tenderly: "And so you shall go, Toby, my boy; but if you
ever want a home or anybody to love you, come right here to us, and
you'll never be sorry. So long as Sam keeps thin and I fat enough to
draw the public, you never need say that you're homeless, for nothing
would please us better than to have you come to live with us."

For reply, Toby raised his head and kissed her on the cheek, a
proceeding which caused her to squeeze him harder than ever.

During this conversation the skeleton had remained very thoughtful.
After a moment or two he got up from his seat, went outside the tent,
and presently returned with a quantity of silver ten-cent pieces in his

"Here, Toby," he said, and it was to be seen that he was really too much
affected even to attempt one of his speeches; "it's right that you
should go, for I've known what it is to feel just as you do. What Lilly
said about your having a home with us, I say, an' here's five dollars
that I want you to take to help you along."

At first Toby stoutly refused to take the money; but they both insisted
to such a degree that he was actually forced to, and then he stood up to

"I'm goin' to try to slip off after Job packs up the outside booth if I
can," he said, "an' it was to say good-by that I come around here."

Again Mrs. Treat took the boy in her arms, as if it were one of her own
children who was leaving her, and as she stroked his hair back from his
forehead, she said: "Don't forget us, Toby, even if you never do see us
again; try an' remember how much we cared for you, an' how much comfort
you're taking away from us when you go; for it was a comfort to see you
around, even if you wasn't with us very much. Don't forget us, Toby, an'
if you ever get the chance, come an' see us. Good-by, Toby, good-by,"
and the kind-hearted woman kissed him again and again, and then turned
her back resolutely upon him, lest it should be bad luck to him if she
should see him after saying good-by.

The skeleton's parting was not quite so demonstrative. He clasped Toby's
hand with one set of his fleshless fingers, while with the other he
wiped one or two suspicious-looking drops of moisture from his eyes, as
he said: "I hope you'll get along all right, my boy, and I believe you
will. You will get home to Uncle Daniel, and be happier than ever, for
now you know what it is to be entirely without a home. Be a good boy,
mind your uncle, go to school, and one of these days you'll make a good
man. Good-by, my boy."

The tears were now streaming down Toby's face very rapidly; he had not
known, in his anxiety to get home, how very much he cared for this
strangely assorted couple, and now it made him feel very miserable and
wretched that he was going to leave them. He tried to say something
more, but the tears choked his utterance, and he left the tent quickly
to prevent himself from breaking down entirely.

In order that his grief might not be noticed, and the cause of it
suspected, Toby went out behind the tent, and sitting there on a stone,
he gave way to the tears which he could no longer control.

While he was thus engaged, heeding nothing which passed around him, he
was startled by a cheery voice, which cried: "Hello! down in the dumps
again? What is the matter now, my bold equestrian?"

Looking up, he saw Ben standing before him, and he wiped his eyes
hastily, for here was another from whom he must part, and to whom a
good-by must be spoken.

Looking around to make sure that no one was within hearing, he went up
very close to the old driver, and said, in almost a whisper, "I was
feelin' bad 'cause I just come from Mr. and Mrs. Treat, an' I've been
sayin' good-by to them. I'm goin' to run away to-night."

Ben looked at him for a moment, as if he doubted whether the boy knew
exactly what he was talking about, and then he said, "So you still want
to go home, do you?"

"Oh yes, Ben, _so_ much," was the reply, in a tone which expressed how
dear to him was the thought of being in his old home once more.

"All right, my boy; I won't say one word agin it, though it do seem too
bad, after you've turned out to be such a good rider," said the old man,
thoughtfully. "It's better for you, I know; for a circus hain't no place
for a boy, even if he wants to stay, an' I can't say but I'm glad you're
still determined to go."

Toby felt relieved at the tone of this leave-taking. He had feared that
old Ben, who thought a circus-rider was almost on the topmost round of
fortune's ladder, would have urged him to stay, since he had made his
début in the ring, and he was almost afraid that he might take some
steps to prevent his going.

"I wanted to say good-by now," said Toby, in a choking voice, "'cause
perhaps I sha'n't see you again."

"Good-by, my boy," said Ben, as he took the boy's hand in his. "Don't
forget this experience you've had in runnin' away, an' if ever the time
comes that you feel as if you wanted to know that you had a friend,
think of old Ben, an' remember that his heart beats just as warm for you
as if he was your father. Good-by, my boy, good-by, an' may the good God
bless you!"

"Good-by, Ben," said Toby; and then, as the old driver turned and walked
away, wiping something from his eye with the cuff of his sleeve, Toby
gave full vent to his tears, and wondered why it was that he was such a
miserable little wretch.

There was one more good-by to be said, and that Toby dreaded more than
all the others. It was to Ella. He knew that she would feel badly to
have him go, because she liked to ride the act with him that gave them
such applause, and he felt certain that she would urge him to stay.

Just then the thought of another of his friends, one who had not yet
been warned of what very important matter was to occur, came into his
mind, and he hastened toward the old monkey's cage. His pet was busily
engaged in playing with some of the younger members of his family, and
for some moments could not be induced to come to the bars of the cage.

At last, however, Toby did succeed in coaxing him forward, and then,
taking him by the paw, and drawing him as near as possible, Toby
whispered: "We're goin' to run away to-night, Mr. Stubbs, an' I want you
to be all ready to go the minute I come for you."

The old monkey winked both eyes violently, and then showed his teeth to
such an extent that Toby thought he was laughing at the prospect, and he
said, a little severely: "If you had as many friends as I have got in
this circus, you wouldn't laugh when you was goin' to leave them. Of
course I've got to go, an' I want to go; but it makes me feel bad to
leave the skeleton, an' the fat woman, an' old Ben, an' little Ella. But
I mustn't stand here. You be ready when I come for you, an' by mornin'
we'll be so far off that Mr. Lord nor Mr. Castle can't catch us."

The old monkey went toward his companions, as if he were in high glee at
the trip before him, and Toby went into the dressing tent to prepare for
the evening's performance, which was about to commence.

It appeared to the boy as if every one was unusually kind to him that
night, and feeling sad at leaving those in the circus who had befriended
him, Toby was unusually attentive to every one around him. He ran on
some trifling errand for one, helped another in his dressing, and in a
dozen kind ways seemed as if trying to atone for leaving them secretly.

When the time came for him to go into the ring, and he met Ella, bright
and happy at the thought of riding with him, and repeating her triumphs
of the afternoon, nothing save the thought of how wicked he had been to
run away from good old Uncle Daniel, and a desire to right that wrong in
some way, prevented him from giving up his plan of going back.

The little girl observed his sadness, and she whispered, "Has any one
been whipping you, Toby?"

Toby shook his head. He had thought that he would tell her what he was
about to do just before they went into the ring, but her kind words
seemed to make that impossible, and he had said nothing when the blare
of the trumpets, the noisy demonstrations of the audience, and the
announcement of the clown that the wonderful children riders were now
about to appear, ushered them into the ring.

If Toby had performed well in the afternoon, he accomplished wonders on
this evening, and they were called back into the ring, not once, but
twice; and when finally they were allowed to retire, every one behind
the curtain overwhelmed them with praise.

Ella was so profuse with her kind words, her admiration for what Toby
had done, and so delighted at the idea that they were to ride together,
that even then the boy could not tell her what he was going to do, but
went into his dressing-room, resolving that he would tell her all when
they both had finished dressing.

Toby made as small a parcel as possible of the costume which Mr. and
Mrs. Treat had given him--for he determined that he would take it with
him--and putting it under his coat, went out to wait for Ella. As she
did not come out as soon as he expected, he asked some one to tell her
that he wanted to see her, and he thought to himself that, when she did
come, she would be in a hurry, and could not stop long enough to make
any very lengthy objections to his leaving.

But she did not come at all; her mother sent out word that Toby could
not see her until after the performance was over, owing to the fact that
it was now nearly time for her to go into the ring, and she was not
dressed as yet.

Toby was terribly disappointed. He knew that it would not be safe for
him to wait until the close of the performance if he were intending to
run away that night, and he felt that he could not go until he had said
a few last words to her.

He was in a great perplexity, until the thought came to him that he
could write a good-by to her, and by this means any unpleasant
discussion would be avoided.

After some little difficulty he procured a small piece of not very clean
paper, and a very short bit of lead-pencil, and using the top of one of
the wagons, as he sat on the seat, for a desk, he indited the following

     "deaR ella I Am goin to Run away two night, & i want two say good
     by to yu &, your mother. i am Small & unkle Danil says i dont mount
     two much, but i am old enuf two know that you have bin good two me,
     & when i Am a man i will buy you a whole cirkus, and we Will ride
     together, dont forgit me & I wont yu in haste


Toby had no envelope in which to seal this precious letter, but he felt
that it would not be seen by prying eyes, and would safely reach its
destination, if he intrusted it to old Ben.

It did not take him many moments to find the old driver, and he said, as
he handed him the letter, "I didn't see Ella to tell her I was goin', so
I wrote this letter, an' I want to know if you will give it to her."

"Of course I will. But see here, Toby"--and Ben caught him by the
sleeve, and led him aside where he would not be overheard--"have you got
money enough to take you home? for if you haven't, I can let you have
some," and Ben plunged his hand into his capacious pocket as if he was
about to withdraw from there the entire United States Treasury.

Toby assured him that he had sufficient for all his wants; but the old
man would not be satisfied until he had seen for himself, and then
taking Toby's hand again, he said: "Now, my boy, it won't do for you to
stay around here any longer. Buy something to eat before you start, an'
go into the woods for a day or two before you take the train or
steamboat. You're too big a prize for Job or Castle to let you go
without a word, an' they'll try their level best to find you. Be
careful, now, for if they should catch you, good-by any more chances to
get away. There"--and here Ben suddenly lifted him high from the ground,
and kissed him--"now get away as fast as you can."

Toby pressed the old man's hand affectionately, and then, without
trusting himself to speak, walked swiftly out toward the entrance.

He resolved to take Ben's advice, and go into the woods for a short
time, and therefore he must buy some provisions before he started.

As he passed the monkeys' cage he saw his pet sitting near the bars, and
he stopped long enough to whisper, "I'll be back in ten minutes, Mr.
Stubbs, an' you be all ready then."

Then he went on, and just as he got near the entrance, one of the men
told him that Mrs. Treat wished to see him.

Toby could hardly afford to spare the time just then, but he would
probably have obeyed the summons if he had known that by so doing he
would be caught, and he ran as fast as his little legs would carry him
toward the skeleton's tent.

The exhibition was open, and both the skeleton and his wife were on the
platform when Toby entered, but he crept around at the back, and up
behind Mrs. Treat's chair, telling her as he did so that he had just
received her message, and that he must hurry right back, for every
moment was important then to him.

"I put up a nice lunch for you," she said, as she kissed him, "and
you'll find it on the top of the biggest trunk. Now go; and if my wishes
are of any good to you, you will get to your uncle Daniel's house
without any trouble. Good-by again, little one."

Toby did not dare to trust himself any longer where every one was so
kind to him. He slipped down from the platform as quickly as possible,
found the bundle--and a good-sized one it was, too--without any
difficulty, and went back to the monkeys' cage.

As orders had been given by the proprietor of the circus that the boy
should do as he had a mind to with the monkey, he called Mr. Stubbs, and
as he was in the custom of taking him with him at night, no one thought
that it was anything strange that he should take him from the cage now.

Mr. Lord or Mr. Castle might possibly have thought it queer had either
of them seen the two bundles which Toby carried, but fortunately for the
boy's scheme, they both believed that he was in the dressing tent, and
consequently thought that he was perfectly safe.

Toby's hand shook so that he could hardly undo the fastening of the
cage, and when he attempted to call the monkey to him, his voice sounded
so strange and husky that it startled him.

The old monkey seemed to prefer sleeping with Toby rather than with
those of his kind in the cage, and as the boy took him with him almost
every night, he came on this particular occasion as soon as Toby called,
regardless of the strange sound of his master's voice.

With his bundles under his arm, and the monkey on his shoulder, with
both paws tightly clasped around his neck, Toby made his way out of the
tent with beating heart and bated breath.

[Illustration: THE RUNAWAYS.]

Neither Mr. Lord, Castle, nor Jacobs were in sight, and everything
seemed favorable for his flight. During the afternoon he had carefully
noted the direction of the woods, and he started swiftly toward them
now, stopping only long enough, as he was well clear of the tents, to
say, in a whisper:

"Good-by, Mr. Treat, an' Mrs. Treat, an' Ella, an' Ben. Some time, when
I'm a man, I'll come back, an' bring you lots of nice things, an' I'll
never forget you--never. When I have a chance to be good to some little
boy that felt as bad as I did, I'll do it, an' tell him that it was you
did it. Good-by."

Then turning around, he ran toward the woods as swiftly as if his escape
had been discovered, and the entire company were in pursuit.




  A mist of green on the willows;
    A flash of blue 'mid the rain;
      And the brisk wind pipes,
      And the brooklet stripes
    With silver hill and plain.
  Hark! the bluebirds, the bluebirds
    Have come to us again!

  The snow-drop peeps to the sunlight
    Where last year's leaves have lain;
      And a fluted song
      Tells the heart, "Be strong:
    The darkest days will wane.
  And the bluebirds, the bluebirds
    Will always come again!"



  BERLIN, _March_, 1881.

It will be long after Christmas before you get this letter, dearest
Clytie, but, for all that, I'm sure you will like to hear about my
German holidays. If my letter seems mixed up and secure, you must excuse
it, for my mind is in a perfect whirligig. One of their festivals, or
"Fest-tag," as they say here, is so different from any we have at home,
that I _must_ tell you about it, although it happened so many weeks ago.
It is "Nicholas-day," and comes on the 6th of December. My new cousins
Ilsie and Lisbet told me that St. Nicholas always comes himself, and
leaves presents at every house for the good children, and a bunch of
rods for the naughty ones. He lives ever so far away, and is a kind of
relation of Santa Claus--second cousins or step-fathers, maybe. Some
people say he was once a real man, and lived in Asiaminer, wherever that
may be; that he was a great Bishop there, and was so good to little
children that they called him "dear Father Nicholas," and when he died
they called him "Saint," and kept his birthday by giving presents to
everybody. Well, that evening we had quite a party in mamma's parlor:
all our cousins, besides Minna and Karl, Randolph and Helen, Cousin
Carrie and two or three of mamma's friends. Cousin Frank didn't come
till after St. Nicholas had gone--wasn't it too bad?

Well, we were talking and playing together, when all at once we heard a
great shouting and stamping of feet, ringing of bells and blowing of
horns; the door was thrown open, and in stalked St. Nicholas himself! He
was as tall as a real giant; his beard came down below his knees; he
wore great goggles, and carried a switch in his hand. He cried out in a
terrible voice, "Where are the bad children?"

Then papa said, "Dear St. Nicholas, we have no bad children here; they
are all as good as good can be."

At that St. Nicholas laughed, and he kept laughing louder and louder. He
hid the switch under his cloak, and said: "Somehow I can't find any
naughty children anywhere. What a beautiful world it is, to be sure--a
world full of _good_ boys and girls!"

Then he opened a bag and shook out nuts, raisins, apples, and oranges,
and while we were scrambling for them, he hurried away, before we could
say, "Thank you."

Next came Christmas, which I can't write about now, and then
Twelfth-night, when we had a splendid supper, with a great plum-cake in
the middle of the table, covered all over with queer little sugar
things, cats and dogs and rabbits, chocolate shoes and mice and goats,
and cunning little candy babies.

Do you wonder that I have had no time for writing you lately, and that
my mind should be in a whirligig, and my thoughts go higgledy-piggledy?
for besides all this, we went to Leipsic to the New-Year's fair. The
fair is held out-doors, and people come from all parts of the world,
bringing curious things to sell. They have their booths in the public
squares, and it is merry and noisy from morning till night. There are
Spaniards and French and Swiss and Italians, and just such people as
I've read you about in my _Stories of all Nations_, and they look
exactly like the pictures I've shown you so often. The fair lasts a
fortnight, and at the end of it is Carnival. Then there are bands of
music everywhere, and processions march through all the streets, and oh,
dear me, Clytie! I can't give you a nidea of the funny times we had.

The doll I have in my lap I bought at the fair, and have named her
Princess Carnival. She is a magnificent creature, and I admire and
suspect her; but as for _loving_ her--there is no doll in the world to
compare with you, my Clytie, when it comes to loving. You are not as
_handsome_ as Princess Carnival, but I love you a million times more, my
pet, than I can ever love her, beautiful as she is.

And now good-night. Be as happy as you can, and take good care of the
others, till I come back to you all.



The picture on the next page represents one of the most remarkable
incidents in the life of Dr. Samuel Johnson. This famous man prided
himself upon being odd and different from other men, and in doing queer
things that no one else would have thought of doing; and the picture
shows him in the act of carrying out one of the queer ideas for which he
was noted.

Dr. Johnson's father was a bookseller in a small way, and was in the
habit of setting up stalls or booths for the sale of books in the
market-places of towns in the neighborhood of Lichfield, where he lived,
on market-days. Sometimes he took his son Samuel with him as an
assistant. This son Samuel, who afterward became Dr. Johnson, said, in
speaking of the incident to which the picture refers, that as a general
thing he could not accuse himself of having been a disobedient child.
"Once, indeed," said he, "I was disobedient: I refused to attend my
father to Uttoxeter market. Pride was the source of that refusal, and
the remembrance of it was painful. A few years ago I desired to atone
for this fault. I went to Uttoxeter in very bad weather, and stood for a
considerable time, bare-headed, in the rain, on the spot where my
father's stall used to stand."

So here the wise Doctor is, standing bare-headed in the open
market-place, exposed to drenching rain, and to the jeers of the people.
And all this, when he is more than seventy years of age, for the purpose
of trying to atone for one act of disobedience committed in his boyhood!

This quaint method of doing penance for an act that most men would have
forgotten long before is but a specimen of his innumerable queer
actions. These were so novel and so original as to gain for him the name
of "Oddity," by which he was very generally known.




If our heroine, Cynthia Smith, walked the earth to-day, she would be a
great-great-grandmother. But at the time of this story, 1780, she was
only a small girl, who lived on a plantation near the Santee River, in
South Carolina. She was twelve years old, four feet and two inches high,
and, for so young and so small a person, she was as stanch a rebel as
you could have found in all America; for the War of Independence had
been raging in the United States ever since Cynthia could remember.

When she was only five years old, her little heart had beaten hard at
the story of the famous "Boston Tea Party," at which a whole ship-load
of tea had been emptied into the harbor because stupid George III.
insisted on "a threepenny tax."

"And New York and Philadelphia would 'a done the same, but for the ships
turning tail, and going where they came from. They've burned the stuff
in Annapolis, and it's spoiling in the Charleston cellars, bless the
Lord!" said Mr. Smith, striking his heavy hand on his knee.

"Hurray!" shouted John and Jack and William and Ebenezer, Cynthia's
brothers. "Hurray!" echoed Cynthia, as if she understood all about it.

The following year, when England shut up Boston Harbor with her "Stamp
Act," never a bit of rice did Cynthia get to eat, for her father sent
his whole harvest North, as did many another Southerner.

After that, John went to Massachusetts to visit Uncle Hezekiah, and the
next June they heard that he had been shot dead at the battle of Bunker

Cynthia wept hot tears on her coarse homespun apron; but she dried them
in a sort of strange delight when Jack, all on fire to take John's
place, insisted on joining the Virginia Riflemen, and following a
certain George Washington to the war.

"It's 'Liberty or Death' we have marked on our shirts, and it's 'Liberty
or Death' we have burned into our hearts," Jack wrote home; at which his
mother wrung her hands, and his father smiled grimly.

"Just wait, you two other boys," said the latter; "we'll have it hot and
heavy at our own doors before we're through."

That was because Will and Ebenezer wished to follow in Jack's footsteps.
Cynthia longed to be a boy, that she might indulge in a private skirmish
with the "Britishers" on her own account.

But she had little time for even patriotic dreamings and yearnings.
There was a deal of work to be done in those days.

Cynthia helped to weave cloth for the family gowns and trousers, and to
spin and knit yarn for the paternal and fraternal stockings. This kept
her very busy until 1776, when two great events took place.

One was the signing of the Declaration of Independence; the other was
the birth of a red and white calf in Mr. Smith's barn. Which was of the
most importance to Cynthia it is hard to say.

To be sure, she tingled from head to foot at her father's ringing tones,
as he read from a sheet of paper some one had given him, "All men are
born free and equal"; but she also went wild with joy when her father
said, "You may keep that bossy for your own, if you'll agree to raise
her, Cynthy."

Cynthia took the calf into her inmost heart, and she named her
"Free-'n'-equal." That was the way the words sounded to her.

If ever an animal deserved such a name, this was the beastie. She
scorned all authority, kicked up her hind-legs, and went careering round
the plantation at her own sweet will, only coming to the barn when
Cynthia's call was heard.

Free-'n'-equal was Cynthia's only playmate, for no children lived within
six miles. As the calf grew into a cow, the more intimate and loving
were the two. To Free-'n'-equal did Cynthia confide all her secrets, and
chiefly did she inform her of her sentiments in regard to the war. She
even consulted her as to the number of stitches to be put on a pair of
wristlets for Jack, who in this winter of 1777-78 had gone with General
Washington to Pennsylvania. Alas! Jack never wore those wristlets. He
was one of the many who lay down to die of cold and hunger in that awful
Valley Forge. Cynthia believed that Free-'n'-equal understood all the
sorrow of her heart when she told her the pitiful news.

Quite as much did she share her joy when Cynthia came flying to the barn
with the joyful tidings that British Burgoyne had surrendered at

Again the joy vanished, and Cynthia sobbed her woe into Free-'n'-equal's
sympathizing ear when Sir Henry Clinton captured Charleston, only twenty
miles away.

But she sobbed even more a few months later.

"For General Gates has come down to South Carolina, Free-'n'-equal, and
father and Will and Ebenezer have gone to fight in his army."

Free-'n'-equal shook her head solemnly at that, and her long low "Moo-o"
said, plainly enough, "What's to become of the rest of us, my poor
little mistress?"

Cynthia brushed away her tears in a twinkling.

"We'll take care of ourselves, that's what we'll do. Mother and I'll hoe
the rice. And, Free-'n'-equal, you've got to toe the mark, and give more
milk than ever to keep us strong and well."

"Trust me for that," said Free-'n'-equal's eyes.

And she kept her promise. Rich yellow milk did she give, pailful after
pailful. Cynthia and her mother worked like men, and fed on the cream.

Those were dangerous days all along the Santee River, for Lord
Cornwallis's troops were roaming over the land, and laying waste the
country. But Cynthia was not afraid--no, not even when Lord Cornwallis
came within three miles of the plantation. She said her prayers every
day, and believed firmly in the guardian angels, and a certain rusty gun
behind the kitchen door.

"Just let those soldiers touch anything of ours, and see what they'll
get!" said she, with ponderous dignity.

Free-'n'-equal was perfectly sure Cynthia could manage the whole British
army, if need were, and munched her cud in blissful serenity.

Oh no, Cynthia had no fear, even when a red-coat did sometimes rise
above the horizon like a morning cloud. She regarded him no more than
she would a scarlet-breasted bird which sung above her head when she
went into the forest hard by to gather sticks.

So no wonder that she was taken mightily aback when, one afternoon as
she came home with her bundle of sticks, her mother met her with
wide-open eyes and a pale face.

"Cynthy, they've been here and carried off Free-n'-equal."

"'They!'" gasped Cynthia. "Who?"

"The British soldiers. They tied a rope round her horns. She kicked
well, but they jerked her along. Cynthy, Cynthy, what shall we do?"

Cynthia uttered a sound between a groan and a war-whoop, and darted out
of the door. Along the dusty road she ran, on and on. Her yellow
sun-bonnet fell back on her shoulders, and her brown curls were covered
with dust. One mile, two miles, three miles--on and on. At last she
reached a small house, which was Lord Cornwallis's head-quarters. Never
a moment did Cynthia pause. The sentinels challenged her in vain. She
marched majestically past them. Into the house--into the parlor--walked

There sat Lord Cornwallis and some six of his officers, eating and
drinking at a big table.

Cynthia stopped at the threshold and dropped a courtesy.

Lord Cornwallis glanced up and saw her.

Miss Cynthia dropped another courtesy, opened her lips, and spake.

"I am Cynthia Smith," said she, gravely, "and your men have taken my
cow, Free-'n'-equal Smith, and I've come to fetch her home, if you

"Your cow?" questioned Lord Cornwallis, pausing, with a wine-glass in
his hand.

"They carried her off by a rope," said Cynthia.

"Where do you live?" asked the British General.

"Three miles away, along with my mother."

"Have you no father?"

"One, and four brothers."

"Where is your father?"

"In General Gates's army, Mr. Lord Cornwallis."

"Oh, he's a rebel, is he?"

"Yes, sir," said Miss Cynthia, proudly erect.

"And where are your brothers?"

Cynthia paused. "John he went to heaven along with General Warren, from
the top of Bunker Hill," said she, with a trembling lip.

One of the younger officers smiled, but he stopped in a hurry as Lord
Cornwallis's eyes flashed at him.

"And Jack went to heaven," proceeded Cynthia, softly, "out of Valley
Forge, where he was helping General Washington."

"Where are the other two?"

"In the army, Mr. Lord Cornwallis." Cynthia's head was erect again.

"Rank rebels."

"Yes, they are."

"Hum! And you're a bit of a rebel too, I'm thinking, if the truth were

Miss Cynthia nodded with emphasis.

"And yet you come here for your cow," said Lord Cornwallis. "I'll be
bound she's rebel beef herself."

Cynthia meditated. "I think she would be if she had two less legs, and
not quite so much horn. That is, she'd be rebel, but maybe they wouldn't
call her beef then."

Lord Cornwallis threw back his head and laughed a good-natured, hearty
laugh that made the room ring. All his officers laughed too, including
the miserable red-coat who had smiled over John's fate.

Miss Cynthia wondered what the fun might be; but in no wise abashed, she
stood firm on her two little feet, and waited until, the merriment over,
they might see fit to return to the cow in hand, which was certainly
worth any two in the camp.

At last her face began to flush a little. What if these fine gentlemen
were making game of her, after all.

Lord Cornwallis saw the red blood mount in her cheeks, and just because
he was a real gentleman, he became sober instantly. "Come here, my
little maid," said he. "I myself will see to it that your cow--"

"Free-'n'-equal," suggested Cynthia.

"That Free-'n'-equal," repeated Lord Cornwallis, courteously, "is safe
in your barn to-morrow morning. And perhaps," he added, unfastening a
pair of silver knee-buckles which he wore, "you will accept these as a
gift from one who certainly wishes no harm to these rebels. And that his
Majesty himself knows."

Then he rose and held his wine-glass above his head; so did every
officer in the room.

"Here's to the health of as fair a little rebel as we shall meet, and
God bless her!" said he.

She dropped her final courtesy, clasped the shining buckles, and out of
the room she vanished, sure in her mind that Free-'n'-equal was all her
own once more.

As for those buckles, children dear, they are this very day in the hands
of one of Cynthia's descendants. For there was a real cow and a real
Miss Cynthia, as well as a real Lord Cornwallis.

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 66, February 1.]






It was a perfect morning. Blue sky, with pure little snow-drop clouds,
as if the angels had dropped them from their baskets as they tended the
flowers in the heavenly gardens. The lake sparkled and glistened in the
sunshine, and every wave seemed to leap joyously as it broke in soft
foam on the shore. In one end of the _Flyaway_ sat Phil, on a pile of
shawls; in the other were stowed a large basket, a pail of ice, and a
pail of milk, and in between were Miss Rachel, Lisa, Joe, and Graham.
Phil had twisted up a little nosegay for each, and had pinned a broad
wreath of grape leaves around Joe's straw hat, making the old fellow
laugh at his nonsense. They were just pushing off, when a sudden
rattling of chain and some impatient barks from Nep showed that he began
to feel neglected.

"I thought we could get away unnoticed," said Miss Rachel, "but I find
myself mistaken."

The boys pleaded for Nep. "Ah, let him come, please let him come."

Nep's leaps becoming frantic, Miss Rachel yielded, and Graham soon had
him loosened. He jumped at once into the boat, and crept under Phil's
feet, making a nice warm mat.

"Poor Nep," said Phil, patting him, "he felt neglected;" and the big
tail wagged thankful thumps against the boat.

The morning air was sweet with all manner of herbage yet fresh from the
morning dew. The trees were in their most brilliant green, and every
leaf seemed newly washed.

Graham began a boating song, and Miss Schuyler joined in the chorus. Old
Joe chuckled and grinned; even quiet Lisa hummed a little as the song
rose louder; and Phil, dipping his hands in the clear water, imagined
that the fishes were frisking a waltz in their honor. They glided past
Point of Rocks, past huge beds of water-lilies, past lovely little coves
and inlets, and spots where Graham said there was excellent fishing;
finally Eagle Island became more distinct, and its pine-trees began to
look imposing.

"Here we are!" said Graham at last, bringing the _Flyaway_ up nicely on
a pebbly beach, in good boating style.

Graham and Joe made a chair with their hands and arms, and so carried
Phil very comfortably to the place under the trees which Miss Rachel had
chosen for their encampment.

"Now," said Miss Rachel, as she brought out Phil's portfolio, a book,
her own embroidery, and Lisa's sewing, "I propose that Graham, being a
more active member of society than we are, go off with Joe and catch
some fish for our dinner."

"Just the thing!" said Graham; "but I did not bring a line."

"Joe has everything necessary, bait and all," said Miss Schuyler.

"Now," said Miss Rachel, when the fishermen had gone, seeing Phil's
longing look, and knowing well how much he would have liked to go with
them, "we must go to work too, so that we may enjoy our play all the
more afterward. I could not let you go with Graham, my dear Phil; it
would have fatigued you too much; but I want you to try and draw me that
drooping bush on the edge of the water, and while you draw I will read
aloud for a while."

Miss Schuyler read, explained, talked to Phil about his drawing, and
gave him the names of the trees about him.

The time flew fast, and it seemed a very little while when Miss
Schuyler said to Lisa, "I think I hear oars; we had better be getting
our feast ready."

They brought out the basket and pails, spread a nice red dessert cloth
down on a smooth patch of grass, laid broad green leaves down for the
rolls and biscuits; golden balls of butter were in a silver dish of
their own, and so were the berries in a willow basket, around which they
put a few late wild flowers.

"Now we want a good flat stone for our fire-place, and-- Ah! here come
our fishermen just in time."

Graham and Joe now appeared with a few perch, but plenty of cat-fish.
They went to work with zeal, and soon had enough brush for the fire,
which they built at a good distance. And whilst Graham fed it, Joe
skinned his cat-fish, salted the perch, and laid them on the stone.

Then they all sat around their grassy table, and Joe served them in fine
style, bringing them their fish smoking hot on white napkins.

How merry they were over the good things, and how eager Graham was to
cook fish for Joe, and serve the old fellow as nicely as he had done all
of them! And Phil cut the very largest slice of cake for Joe.

"It is just the jolliest picnic I ever was at," said Graham, helping to
wash and clear away, and re-stow spoons and forks.

"Of course it is," said Phil. "There never can be another quite so nice:
it is my first one, you know."

"Yes; just think of it, and it's my fiftieth, I suppose; but then you
must not think all picnics like this. It is something really remarkable
to have everything go off so smoothly. Why, sometimes all the crockery
gets smashed, or the fire won't burn, or if it does, you get the smoke
in your eyes, or your potatoes get burned, and your lemonade gets in
your milk, or somebody puts your ice in the sun, and, to crown all, down
comes a shower."

"Dear! dear! what a chapter of accidents, Graham!"

"Are you listening, Miss Rachel?" said Graham, with a quizzical look. "I
was only letting Phil know how much better you manage than most people."

"Well, when you and Phil are ready, I want to tell you about something
else I should like to manage. Come, put away all the books and work, and
listen to my preaching."

Miss Rachel sat on a fallen tree, leaning against some young birches.
"Phil was asking me, yesterday," said she, "what became of all the poor
sick children in the city, and he seemed to think he ought in some way
to help them. So I promised him to think about what he had been
considering, and a little plan came into my head in which I thought you
could help us, Graham."

Graham looked up with a pleased face, and nodded.

"It is just this. In the city hospitals are many sick children who have
to stay in bed almost all the time. Now Phil and I want to do the little
that we can for them, and it seems to me it would be nice to send fresh
flowers and fruit--all that we can spare from our gardens--once or twice
a week to some of these sick city children. What do you think, boys?"

"It would be lovely, Miss Schuyler," said Phil, "only I do not see how
_we_ could help; it would all come from you."

"Not all, dear child. I mean to give you both a share of the work--you
in your way, and Graham in his. Are you interested? Shall I go on and
tell you?"

"Yes, indeed," both exclaimed.

"I propose that we set aside a certain part of our flower garden and our
fruit trees, you and I, Graham (for I know you have a garden of your
own), which we will call our 'hospital fruits and flowers,' and Phil is
to assist in making up bouquets, hulling berries, and packing to send
away; besides that, he is to make some little pictures, just little bits
of sketches of anything that he fancies--a spray of buds, a single
pansy, Joe's old hat and good-natured face beneath, a fish, or a bit of
vine-covered fence--and we will sell them for him, and the money shall
help pay the express charges upon our gifts to the sick children, so
that Phil will really be doing more than any of us. How do you like my

The boys were pleased, and had begun to say so, when a shout came from
the other part of the island, from Joe, and Nep set up a violent

"Hi! look up dar, Miss Schuyler!" called out Joe.

[Illustration: "LOOK! THERE'S AN EAGLE."]

"Quick, Phil!" said Graham; "look! there's an eagle. How fortunate we
are! There he goes sailing away in all his glory;" and sure enough the
great bird floated further and further up in the blue sky.

Still Nep kept on barking, and Graham ran down to see what was the
matter. He came back with something dangling from his hand, Joe and Nep

"A black snake!--oh, what a dreadful creature!" exclaimed Lisa.

"Yes, indeed, ma'am," said Joe, "and if Nep hadn't barked so, the
drefful cretur would have bitten me sure. That dog knows a heap; you'd
better allus take him with you in the woods, Miss Rachel. I was lyin'
off sound asleep, with this critter close beside me, when Nep come up,
and barked just as plain as speakin'. 'Take care,' says he, 'ole Joe,
you're in danger,' an' with that I woke in a hurry, an' jist then I saw
that big eagle come soarin' overhead, and then Marsa Graham come and
give that snake his death-blow."

"How did you do it, Graham?" asked Phil, excitedly.

"Oh, I pounded him on the head with a stone as he was making off. He is
a pretty big fellow, and he must have swum from the mainland, Miss

"Yes, I never saw a snake on this island before."

"Come here, Nep," said Phil, "dear old fellow; good dog for taking care
of Joe. Your head shall be my first picture for our sick children."




One of the most exquisite pieces of embroidery I ever saw was brought
from the Royal School of Art Needle-Work at South Kensington by a
gentleman who imports the most beautiful art embroideries for sale in
this country. This was a sofa pillow of soft yellow India silk, with the
design outlined, and the rest of the surface darned back and forth in a
rich old-gold-color. A few lines of pale pink veined the petals, and
there was a narrow border of dull greenish-blue that inclosed the whole.
The only stitch used was simply an irregular darning stitch. The work
was so charming and so easy that any young girl would enjoy doing it. It
would be a very pretty way of embroidering work-bags or squares for the
backs of wall-brackets. The soft India silks are hard to find, but you
may find a dull yellow Surah silk, and there is a soft cream-colored
pongee that would do. Something near the color of a light yellow
nasturtium would be best. Get a piece eight inches square, trace on it
the design of Fig. 17, and back the silk with a piece of soft, very thin
unbleached muslin, and overcast the edges. Fig. 17 is just the size of a
tile such as is usually set in square wall-brackets. Buy a skein or two
of old gold filoselle of a somewhat darker shade than your silk, or a
good bronze-color that harmonizes well with it. First run the outline of
your flowers in the dark yellow or bronze, and the shading lines, taking
up but few threads of the silk with your needle, so that the outline
will show strong and plain on the surface. Outline the leaves and stems
in a dull, not too dark, green. Take two or three threads from a strand
of filoselle in your needle at once, and do not take too long a
needleful. Then darn the background back and forth, making the threads
run parallel to each other, but with constant variation as to the length
of stitch and the closeness of the lines--in this way:


The background could be darned in dull blue if you prefer, or with
slightly varying shades of yellow. The irregularity in stitch, in
closeness of the lines, and in shade, all help to give the work a very
antique look. A narrow border can be darned all around of another color
that will not contrast too sharply with the flowers or the background.

[Illustration: FIG. 17.]

[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]


     In the month of January a party of Americans had the honor of a
     special excavation at Pompeii. There were nine in the party. We had
     a room given us to be excavated. They found some table legs of
     bronze ornamented with ivory rings, and a bronze vase which had
     stood on the same table; also some nails and pieces of terra-cotta
     vases. After the workmen had finished excavating, some of us went
     to digging. My sister found two nails, auntie and another lady
     found some nails too, and I found one handle of the bronze vase,
     which had been broken off. We also went to where the workmen were
     making the regular excavations, and saw a little bit of a fountain,
     which the manager said was the finest which had been found yet. It
     was of mosaic. Then we went to the Stabian Baths, and had our
     luncheon, which was spread on an old marble fountain--a dry one, of
     course. The Stabian Baths was the largest bathing establishment in
     Pompeii. It was called Thermæ.

      We went upon an embankment, and took a bird's-eye view of Pompeii.
      It is a great mass of houses without roofs, and is a very odd
      sight. I have seen it several times, and it does not look very
      strange to me now.

      I do not remember my first visit there, but I am told that I
      danced on one of the mosaic floors in the house of Sallust, and
      the guide said that children always wanted to dance in Pompeii. I
      would like to write more about this old buried city, but I must go
      to school.

      I am nine years old, and my sister is eight. We are delighted with
      YOUNG PEOPLE, especially with the story of "Toby Tyler," and are
      impatient for the mail that brings it.


       *       *       *       *       *


     There is a very interesting Indian mound near this place, on the
     banks of Brush Creek. It is called the Serpent Mound, because it is
     in the form of a serpent. It is nearly one thousand feet in length,
     extending in graceful curves, and ending in a triple coil at the
     tail. Its neck is stretched out and slightly curved, and its mouth
     is opened wide, as if in the act of swallowing an oval figure, like
     a huge egg. Some think it was built to represent the Oriental idea
     of the serpent and the egg. It is said to have been the work of a
     race of men called the Mound-Builders, very many years ago. There
     are other mounds here, but none so interesting as this one.



The mound described by our young correspondent is in Adams County, Ohio,
and is one of a number called "animal mounds," because they represent
the forms of animals, or birds, or men, instead of the usual type of the
pyramid or circle. The Serpent Mound is described in Short's work on
_The North Americans of Antiquity_, published by Harper & Brothers, from
which we take the accompanying illustration. It lies "with its head
conforming to the crest of hill, and its body winding back for seven
hundred feet in graceful undulations." Another remarkable work by the
ancient race of men is a large elephant mound, found a few miles below
the mouth of the Wisconsin River. It is so perfect in its proportions
that its builders must have been well acquainted with all the physical
characteristics of the elephant; so that the mound-builders may have
been of Asiatic origin, or lived when the great mastodon of North
America roamed over the continent. Another mound, in Licking County,
Ohio, represents an alligator. It is about two hundred feet in length,
twenty feet broad, and each of the paws is twenty feet long.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I live near where the celebrated David Crockett once lived. His old
     house is still standing on our place. The logs are full of
     auger-holes, where I suppose he had wooden pins to support shelves,
     or to hang clothes and household things on. When my grandpa was a
     little boy he knew David Crockett very well.


David Crockett was a famous hunter, who was born in Tennessee in 1786.
He was a political friend of General Jackson, and was several times
elected to Congress. He was a great humorist, and very eccentric in his
habits. When the people of Texas revolted against the government of
Mexico, he enlisted in the Texan army, and lost his life in the terrible
massacre at Fort Alamo, in 1836, when the Mexicans, in violation of the
rules of war, slaughtered all their prisoners.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little boy five years old. I take HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and
     mamma and auntie read me all the pretty stories and all the little
     letters in the Post-office Box.

      I have a little brother three years old. We each have a bank in
      which we keep our pennies. George's bank is a great big
      cross-looking bull-dog. He has a flat place on his nose. If we put
      a penny on it, and then pull his tail, he will open his mouth and
      swallow the penny. My bank is a soldier who is standing in front
      of the trunk of a tree. He has a gun in his hand, with which he
      points at a hole in the tree. When I put a penny on the end of the
      gun, and touch the soldier's foot, he fires off the gun, and the
      penny goes into the hole. Papa gives us each a penny every day we
      are good; but every day we are naughty we have to give him one. I
      have fifty-one pennies in my bank. George has not quite so many,
      but I am the oldest, and I ought to be the best boy.

      I would like to write about some of our playthings, but I am
      afraid my letter would be too long.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I would like to tell YOUNG PEOPLE what kind friends I have. I am a
     poor little girl, and my mamma has to go out to work. I go to the
     public school, but I am not very strong, and the noise and close
     air sometimes make me sick. Once I had to stay from school a long
     time; and there was a little girl who had a private teacher come
     every day, and she let me go and study with her. She used to pay my
     car fare out of her own spending money. It cost her sixty cents a
     week. And she made me a present of all my school-books, and a great
     many other handsome books. I do not think there are many little
     girls so kind.

      There is another little girl who made me a Christmas present of
      YOUNG PEOPLE, and I will have it all the year. She, too, is very
      kind to me. I like YOUNG PEOPLE very much. I think "Mildred's
      Bargain," "Phil's 'Fairies," and especially poor "Toby Tyler," are
      splendid stories.

  MAY H.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I thought I would tell YOUNG PEOPLE about my pet sheep. My grandpa
     gave me a sheep and a lamb when I was a baby, and now I have seven.
     They are all very tame, and almost run over me when I feed them. I
     am seven years old.

      I read in the Third Reader, and I study arithmetic and geography,
      but I have never been to school.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I live on a beautiful farm. My papa raises lots of onions, and
     sends them to Cincinnati by car-loads. There are a great many stone
     quarries in this place, where they make grindstones. They are sent
     all over the world from here. They also get big blocks of stone
     from the quarries for building railroad bridges, houses, and

      Last summer I went up the lakes with papa and mamma as far as
      Marquette. We saw lots of Indians sailing down the rivers in their
      canoes, and a great many other pretty and interesting sights.


       *       *       *       *       *


     When we lived in the country my sister had a pet deer. Its name was
     Nellie. It was a very pretty creature. When we were in the garden,
     and were hungry, we used to send Nellie to get us some bread, and
     the darling little thing would go and get a loaf of bread from
     grandma and bring it out to us. One day Nellie was running in the
     woods, and some one shot her. My sister cried very much, and we
     buried poor Nellie, and put flowers on her grave.

  L. F.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I have been in bed for two months with rheumatism, and I look
     forward to the coming of YOUNG PEOPLE with very great pleasure.

      I think the picture of "Harry and Dan" is very pretty indeed. I
      have not been able to walk any distance for more than a year, and
      I think it would be real nice to have such a pretty goat and

      I am very glad YOUNG PEOPLE disapproves of disturbing birds'
      nests. I always thought it was very cruel.


       *       *       *       *       *


     We think the Post-office Box, and everything in YOUNG PEOPLE, are
     interesting. My brother Ernest likes "Toby Tyler" the best.

      My little sister Mabel, two years old, can sing every tune she
      hears once. She likes "Kissing through the Chair," in YOUNG PEOPLE
      No. 57. She calls it "Peep Ho." She gets in the rocking-chair
      every day, and rocks, and sings the first verse over and over for
      a long time.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am thirteen years old. I take YOUNG PEOPLE, and like it very
     much. I go to school nine miles from this place, and come home
     every Friday evening. I call for my paper on my way, and I read it
     to my little brother and sister. They are much pleased and
     interested with the stories and pictures.

      I have two pet lambs, named Annie Bell and Ellinore, that follow
      me everywhere I go. They are about a year old.

      I hope YOUNG PEOPLE will be in the hands of all the boys and


       *       *       *       *       *

     I have no more postmarks, but I will exchange stamps, for
     curiosities or foreign stamps.

  GEORGE N. PRENTISS, Watertown, Wis.

       *       *       *       *       *

     All my silver ore is exchanged, but I will exchange a few foreign
     stamps, a piece of coral, some Florida shells, and some other
     curiosities, for a genuine Indian bow and arrow in good order for

  11 Beaver Street, Newark, N. J.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I am a little girl thirteen years old. I take YOUNG PEOPLE, and
     like it very much. I like Bessie Maynard's "Sea-Breezes."

      I would like to exchange sea-shells and other small curiosities
      for old coins or odd bits of money.

  VIRGIE MCLAIN, care of U. S. Consul,
  Nassau, N. P., Bahamas.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. D. Austin, Buffalo, N. Y., wishes to inform correspondents that his
stock of Sandwich Island and Canadian stamps is exhausted, and he
accordingly withdraws his name from our exchange List.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following exchanges are desired by correspondents:

     Postmarks and beetles, for butterflies and moths.

  95 Elm Street, New Bedford, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Foreign stamps, for a 5-cent, 30-cent, or 90-cent United States
     stamp, issue of 1851 to 1860; a 90-cent, issue of 1861, envelope or
     newspaper stamps, except 1-cent, 2-cent, and 3-cent, or any
     Department stamps except Interior and Treasury.

  R. L. BRACKETT, P. O. Box 4494, New York City.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Postage stamps, crests, and monograms.

  Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Canada.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Foreign and United States postage stamps, for minerals and coins.

  P. O. Box 611, Emporia, Kan.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Canadian, East Indian, English, and old issues of United States
     stamps, for stamps from Russia, Persia, China, and other foreign

  31 Thorp Block, Indianapolis, Ind.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Pressed autumn leaves, postmarks, and stamps, for minerals, Florida
     moss, or any curiosity.

  125 Fourth Street, Jackson, Mich.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Danish, German, Italian, East Indian, or British stamps, for other
     foreign stamps, or for Indian curiosities.

  Lititz, Lancaster County, Penn.

       *       *       *       *       *

     United States postage and Department stamps, for other stamps.

  P. O. Box 1552, Muskegon, Ottawa County, Mich.

       *       *       *       *       *

     English and German stamps, for stamps of any other foreign country.

  St. Edward, Boone County, Neb.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Quartz, Indian arrow-heads, rocks from the Mammoth Cave, some
     shells from the Dead Sea, and sea-oates, for amethysts or other

  WILLIS G. WHITE, Yorkville, S. C.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Six different War Department stamps, for a stamp from India, China,
     Egypt, or any South American country.

  Rock Island Arsenal, Rock Island, Ill.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Twenty-five postmarks, for five foreign stamps.

  20 North Washington Street, Rochester, N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Fourteen Ohio postmarks, for two rare foreign stamps.

  Warren, Trumbull County, Ohio.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Virginia and Lake Superior iron ores, for insects, minerals, or
     Indian arrow-heads. Stones and soil from Ohio, for sea-shells.

  1115 Euclid Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio.

       *       *       *       *       *

     English and Cuban stamps, for other foreign stamps.

  J. D. J. B.,
  129 Broadway, South Boston, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

     United States stamps, for foreign stamps.

  Marshall, Calhoun County, Mich.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Foreign stamps, specimens of wood, foreign and United States
     postmarks, slate showing formation of coal, or soil of Illinois,
     for rare foreign or United States Department stamps, or ocean

  P. O. Box 531, Urbana, Champaign County, Ill.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Petrified coral, zinc ore, or a piece of volcanic rock from Italy,
     for a specimen of lead or copper ore.

  51 Seventh Street, Hoboken, Hudson Co., N. J.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Indian arrow-heads and rattlesnake rattles, for ocean curiosities.

  Carlyle, Allen County, Kansas.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Twenty foreign postage stamps (no duplicates), for twenty others.

  Franklin, Essex County, N. J.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Stamps, for minerals.

  1743 North Seventh Street, Philadelphia, Penn.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Rare postage stamps.

  Clarence G. White,
  1581 Euclid Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio.

       *       *       *       *       *

     A piece of Quincy granite, for ten stamps of any foreign country
     except England, France, and Germany.

  W., P. O. Box 208, Milton, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Fifty postmarks or twenty-five stamps, for ocean shells.

  Mohrsville, Berks County, Penn.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Postage stamps, for Indian relics.

  850 National Avenue, Milwaukee, Wis.

       *       *       *       *       *

     Rare postage stamps.

  36 East Fifty-seventh Street, New York City.

       *       *       *       *       *

HENRY M. R.--There is some uncertainty in regard to the origin of the
name of the city of Toronto. _Chambers's Cyclopædia_ says that it is of
Indian origin, and that the meaning of it seems to be lost. On the other
hand, the _National Cyclopædia_ says that the district, as it was
gradually cleared by the British, was called Toronto, after the fort
Tareno; but the name given by Governor Simcoe, in 1774, to the town,
which he laid out on a regular plan, was York. This name it retained
until 1834, when Sir John Colborne raised it to the rank of a city, and
changed the name to that of the district, Toronto.

It is also surmised that the name of the fort may have been derived from
that of the ancient city of Tarentum, in Calabria, also called Tarentus,
and in modern times Tarento. The war which the inhabitants of Tarentum
maintained against the Romans, with the assistance of Pyrrhus, King of
Epirus, and which has been called the Tarentine war, is greatly
celebrated in history. This may account for the name being given to the

       *       *       *       *       *

"INQUISITIVE."--The kinds of matches now in common use are of
comparatively recent origin. The earlier kinds consisted of thin pine
splinters, about six inches long, tipped with sulphur. They were lighted
by applying the end to tinder ignited by the old-fashioned flint and
steel. After the discovery of phosphorus, in 1677, a readier means of
lighting them was invented. The interior of a small bottle or vial was
coated with oxide of phosphorus, and kept tightly corked, except when a
light was wanted, when a match tipped with sulphur was dipped in, and
immediately took fire. Other methods, equally clumsy, were also employed
to obtain a light.

The first friction matches, called _lucifers_, were invented in 1829.
They were tipped with an inflammable paste, and ignited by being drawn
between folds of sand-paper. They were made in the shape of a comb (a
form still in use), and broken off when required. When these matches
were introduced into this country, they were called _locofoco_, perhaps
from the Italian word _fuoco_, meaning fire. It was not until 1834 that
phosphorus was employed in the composition of the substance with which
matches are tipped.

The number of matches consumed every year is enormous. Ninety-five per
cent. of all the phosphorus made is employed in their manufacture. More
than three hundred tons of this substance are fabricated every year in
Europe, and as one pound of phosphorus will make one million of matches,
an estimate of the number manufactured may easily be made by those of
our little readers who have a fondness for calculation.

Many people are still living who can remember when every night, winter
and summer, the coals were carefully raked together and covered up, so
that they would keep alive until morning. If by chance they died out,
fire could only be obtained by means of flint, steel, and tinder, unless
live coals could be borrowed from a near neighbor.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO CHRISIE BURDICK B.--Last Tuesday morning the mail brought to me a
little gift to aid Toby Tyler in reaching his uncle. God bless the
generous little heart that prompted the deed, and may some kind hand
ever smooth the rough places in her journey through life!

I would like to have her full name and address. Will she kindly send it
to me through YOUNG PEOPLE?

With many thanks, in the name of Toby Tyler, I remain, sincerely,


       *       *       *       *       *

OSBORNE Y.--The distinguished person who refused to stand on the Bible
was Edward the Sixth of England. The following account of his reverence
for the sacred volume is from a work entitled _England in the Sixteenth
Century_: "An interesting anecdote of Edward's childhood shows how
deeply he was imbued with reverence for the Bible. One day, when very
young, he wished while at play to get something that was above his
reach. A companion, observing this, brought a large book for him to
stand upon; but Edward, perceiving that it was the Bible, rebuked his
associate for want of respect to the Scriptures, and lifting the book
reverently from the ground, he kissed it, and replaced it on the shelf."

       *       *       *       *       *

FLORENCE E. M.--The Column of Luxor, which stands in the Place de la
Concorde, in Paris, is an obelisk similar in appearance to the one now
erected in the New York Central Park. It is a syenite monolith, and is
covered with hieroglyphics recording the glories of the great King
Sesostris, who reigned about 1500 B.C. This obelisk was a present from
Mehemet Ali to Louis Philippe. It arrived in Paris in 1833, but was not
erected in its present position until two years later.

       *       *       *       *       *

TWO LITTLE INDIANS.--The word "pariah" signifies mountaineer. It is
applied to the lowest and most degraded classes in India, these formerly
having been wandering people from the hill tribes. But now all outcasts
and vagabonds are known as pariahs, and have become a caste. Their
presence is supposed to be contaminating, and they are not allowed to
approach within many feet of any member of the higher classes.
Missionaries have made great efforts to better the condition and
character of these wretched people.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. E. C.--A very good miniature water-wheel was described in a story
entitled "Setting the Brook to Work," which appeared on page 430 of

       *       *       *       *       *

SUBSCRIBER, SAN FRANCISCO.--See answer to Willie F. W. in the
Post-office Box of No. 73.

       *       *       *       *       *

EDWARD A. S.--Messrs. Harper & Brothers can not attend to the binding of
your volume of YOUNG PEOPLE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Jessie B. Brown,
Charles Beyers, Hugh Burns, "_Bolus_," C. F. Bishop, Sadie Beebe, Bessie
Bolton, Arthur C., John L. Collins, Nellie Cromwell, Maud Chambers, De
F. W. Chase, C. H. Cole, A. E. Cunningham, R. O. C., Maggie Dutro, "Dick
Deadeye," G. M. Fisher, L. M. Fobes, W. E. Gulick, Jun., Ashbel G.,
Alice C. H., George Hewson, Curtis Hillyer, Rita Harris, Alice H.,
Edward L. H., "Indian," L. A. Jones, Isobel Jacob, Willie M. K., Jemima
Latimer, Frank Lomas, Thomas Lunham, "L. U. Stral," _Nelson C. Metcalf_,
_John McClintock_, C. H. Nichols, W. Olfenbüttel, Frances Patterson,
Henry Rochester, Emma Schaffer, _Bennie Stockwell_, Gilbert S., "Starry
Flag," Gilbert P. Salters, W. S. and E. I. Sheppard, Alice M.
Southworth, James W. Thompson, "The Lawrence Girls," "The Dawley Boys,"
W. I. Trotter, Karl Wells, "Wild Oats," Tillie Winter, Robert S. Winn.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.


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  *  8  *  *
  *  *  9  *
  *  *  * 10

Cross Words.--1. Two and a quarter inches. 2. A cozy home. 3. To gape.
4. Fondness. 5. Solitary. 6. A chill. 7. A narrow road. 8. To satisfy.
9. A multitude. 10. To domineer.

Zigzags.--A division of the United States.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.


A lake in North America. Sounds. Fearful. A continent. A color. The
present tense of a verb. A letter from California.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.


1. A town of New Mexico. 2. A town of Mexico. 3. A river in Russia. 4. A
tributary of the Danube.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.


Cross Words.--Peculiar. A keepsake. To amuse. Eloquence. A kind of
cement. A boy's name. A water-nymph.

Primals.--The name of an American author.

Finals.--His place of residence.

  G. T. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 5.


  First in ape, not in monkey.
  Second in ass, not in donkey.
  Third in trunk, not in box.
  Fourth in cat, not in fox.
  Fifth in ashes, not in coal.
  Sixth in horse, not in foal.
  Seventh in bright, not in gay.
  My whole a savage beast of prey.


       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.


No. 2.

1. Rain, rai_d_, _s_aid, s_l_id, sli_p_, sl_o_p, slo_w_, s_n_ow. 2.
Rags, ra_t_s, rat_e_, _s_ate, sa_l_e, sal_t_, s_i_lt, sil_k_. 3. Mill,
_b_ill, b_e_ll, bel_t_, be_n_t, _c_ent. 4. Sin, _w_in, w_o_n, wo_e_. 5.
Sold, _c_old, col_t_, co_s_t, _l_ost. 6. Line, l_o_ne, lo_r_e, _c_ore,
cor_d_. 7. Nay, na_g_, _l_ag, l_e_g, le_a_, _y_ea. 8. Glue, gl_e_e,
_f_lee, fle_d_, _s_led, s_e_ed, se_n_d, _m_end.

No. 3.

1. Newport. 2. Toledo. 3. Charleston. 4. Helena. 5. Armenia. 6.
Damascus. 7. Thebes. 8. India. 9. Willow. 10. Pine. 11. Oak. 12. Elm.
13. Pear. 14. Peach. 15. Plum. 16. Ibis. 17. Curlew. 18. Emu. 19.
Sparrow. 20. Horse. 21. Camel. 22. Bear. 23. Dove. 24. Bittern. 25.
Swan. 26. Crow. 27. Snipe. 28. Thrush.

No. 4.


No. 5.



SINGLE COPIES, 4 cents; ONE SUBSCRIPTION, one year, $1.50; FIVE
SUBSCRIPTIONS, one year, $7.00,--_payable in advance, postage free_.

The Volumes of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE commence with the first Number in
November of each year.

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 the order.

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

  Franklin Square, N. Y.



About thirteen hundred years ago, an officer was unjustly accused of
treason by a brother officer, and was condemned to death. His son, who
was only fifteen years of age, went to the Emperor, praying to be
allowed to die for his father.

The Emperor thereupon set the man free; and then expressed his intention
of giving the boy the title "Perfectly Dutiful."

The boy exclaimed: "It is right and just for a son to die when his
father is disgraced; but what disgrace can be compared with the idea of
gaining honor at a father's expense? I respectfully decline your
Majesty's proposed distinction."

       *       *       *       *       *

A certain man had a mother who lost her sight, and he spent all his
money on doctors, but in vain. For thirty long years he cared for her,
and would scarcely take off his clothes; and in the pleasant spring
weather he would lead his mother into the garden, and laugh and sing, so
that she forgot her sadness.

When she died, her son wasted away from grief; and when at last he
somewhat recovered his health, he loved his brothers and sisters like
his mother, and was as gentle to his nephews and nieces as if they had
been his own children. As he said himself, "This is the only way in
which I can get some comfort, namely, in letting my love go forth to
those who are left."

       *       *       *       *       *

The eldest son of an ancient Emperor had a younger brother whose name
meant "Junior Order," who again had a son named "Illustrious," a lad of
remarkable ability. When the elder brother knew that his father's
intention was to bequeath the throne to "Junior Order" and
"Illustrious," he and the second son, "Harmony," sought a livelihood by
collecting medicinal herbs, and went off to the barbarous tribes of
China. Moreover, they shaved their heads and tattooed their skin, as
much as to say "We are no longer possible candidates for the throne."

By thus secretly ascertaining his father's wishes, and departing at once
with his second brother, there was no trace left of the somewhat
roundabout arrangement between father, sons, and brothers. In all these
matters we should avoid the straight and stiff following of our own

       *       *       *       *       *

A great officer named Yang served his mother most dutifully.

In the spring-time he used to carry her up and down on his back amongst
the wealth of flowers; and he would frisk and gambol about, while his
mother enjoyed the fragrance and the shade.

The old lady died at the age of one hundred and four.

       *       *       *       *       *

A prince whose name meant "Solitary Bamboo" had three sons. He left
directions in his will that the youngest son should succeed him. But the
younger brother wished to make way for the elder. The elder replied, "It
is our father's order," and forthwith disappeared. The younger refused
the throne, and left the country, like his elder brother, and the people
of the land elected the second son as their prince.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kiang Ong's family was renowned for filial piety and brotherly love.
When they were children, he and his two brothers slept under the same
coverlet, with exceeding great love and harmony; and when they were
grown up, their love could not bear a moment's separation. On one
occasion they met with robbers, and the brothers strove for death, each
one wishing to die first, with the hope of the others escaping. The
robbers, seeing this, released them all three.

[Illustration: The Man in the Moon]

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