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Title: Harper's Young People, November 15, 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, November 15, 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, November 15, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WASHING DOLLY.]


  "It's growing late," said the honey-bee;
  "Winter's no sort of weather for me;
    I'll hurry away to the hive."
  "It's growing cold," said the bustling fly;
  "There's going to be plenty of snow by-and-by,
    And how will a poor fly thrive?"

  The cricket piped, "The season is old,
  Leaves and grasses are turning to gold;
    It's a queer world that changes so;
  My chirp has lost its musical tones,
  And the north wind bites to my very bones;
    I think I had better go."

  The squirrel said, "It is growing chill;
  The windfalls have gone to the cider-mill;
    But there's many a chestnut burr
  Ready to burst at the frost's first touch.
  If snow flies soon, _I_ sha'n't mind much,
    Wrapped in my thickening fur."

  "The best of the year," trilled the lingering thrush,
  "Has left us behind; there's a tender hush
    Brooding o'er meadow and dell;
  Our nests are all empty, our birdlings have flown;
  There is nothing to keep us at home, I must own;
    There's nothing to sing but 'Farewell.'"


"Just like his luck!" half of the boys said, when Charlie Foster won the
State Scholarship.

They had made the same remark when his name had been sent in by the
principal of the school to the superintendent as his best scholar. In
all likelihood these same old school-fellows will keep on saying, "Just
like his luck!" if Charlie ever becomes a Judge, or a Senator, or if he
marries happily, or makes a fortune. Every step upward is attributed by
some men and boys to that unknown quantity called "luck." And curiously
enough, just as "Like his luck" is used to account for the success of
one's friends, so "Just like my luck" is used to explain our own

"It is just my luck! There was not a single question about anything I
knew. I had crammed up the capitals of the States, square root, and the
conjugations, and I was asked about mountain ranges, compound interest,
and the fifth declension. I always was unlucky!"

In all this talk about "luck" is there not a good deal of inconsistency?
We never employ the word to account for our own successes or somebody
else's failures. When the said Charlie Foster misses a catch at
base-ball, or catches a crab in a race, we do not cry, "How unlucky he
is!" but, "What a muff that Charlie Foster is!" and when we ourselves
manage to get on the roll of honor, we resent with virtuous indignation
any congratulations on our luck. "Luck, indeed!" we growl; "there was no
luck at all. It was just hard work, and nothing else."

Moreover, this talk about luck is, in the first place, somewhat unmanly,
not to say cowardly. To trust to luck is a confession that one can not
do anything by one's own labor or one's own intellect. It is really, my
boy, an acknowledgment that you have no independence of character, no
strength of will, no patience, and no perseverance. It is a sure
confession of carelessness and idleness. "I'll study this thing or that
thing, and trust to luck for the rest," you say, and the result is you
are nowhere in the examination.

So in everything we undertake. If we neglect to take ordinary pains, if
we omit ordinary prudence, no luck ever saves us from disaster.

Trusting in luck is a very different thing from trusting in Providence.
Providence aids those who aid themselves, and just in proportion as they
do their work honestly and conscientiously. Luck is a kind of capricious
spirit which is expected to set at naught all the laws of nature for our
advantage, or to our disadvantage, without the slightest apparent reason
why it should intervene at all. If there is such a thing, that can
either make or mar us, our first duty is not to be its slave, but to
make ourselves its master.

We must not stand like beggars at a street corner until luck drops a few
coppers into our hats. We must be a law unto ourselves, and not mere
playthings of chance. Let us be honest enough to acknowledge our own
mistakes. The grumbler who laments,

  "I never had a slice of bread,
    Cut nice and smooth and long and wide,
  But fell upon the sanded floor,
    And always on the buttered side,"

fancies himself unlucky. If he were honest, he would blame himself for
not keeping good hold of his bread and butter, and if he thought about
it, he would see that falling on the buttered side was a natural result
of the way in which he was holding it.

This notion of luck very often arises from a mixture of conceit and
jealousy. We do not like to allow that another has more talent than we
have, and has used his faculties better. He has, however, if we examine
his career, been more studious, more careful, more observant. It would
be much more noble of us, instead of repeating like parrots the word
"luck," meaning thereby that he has got a reward which he does not
deserve, to candidly say, "He has deserved all he has won; he is the
better fellow."

Another evil arising from this talk about luck is that at last we
actually believe in it. Once under the influence of this notion, we
exercise no caution or foresight. "Luck," we say, "will bring us
through." Fortunately for our future and permanent success, luck does
nothing of the sort. In the long-run, luck is nowhere. You may have
heard of games of chance--gambling games, as they are styled--and of
lotteries and the like. You have heard of people being lucky at them.
The professional gambler and lottery-keeper know better than that; they
know that even in throwing dice there is very little luck. The man who
is lucky to-day is unlucky to-morrow: it is in reality skill or trickery
and not luck that enables the professional gambler to pursue his career.

Lucky people, in fact, are people who have thoroughly trained themselves
for the battle of life. They have eyes open to perceive a coming danger,
and have learned how to avoid it; they recognize a difficulty, and know
how to overcome it; they see an opportunity, and know how to make use of
it; and they are ready, with all their faculties alert, to seize it
before it has gone forever. Their success is visible to every eye, and
arrests our attention at once. What we do not see, very often what we
will not see, but deliberately shut our eyes to, is the foresight they
exercise, the careful training they have undergone, the long practice
which has made them perfect.

There is nothing brilliant or showy about this practice and training,
and therefore we have not noticed them. But they are there,
nevertheless. To all of us, every day of our lives, opportunities
present themselves which pass without our heeding them, or, if we see
them, without our having the courage and skill to avail ourselves of
them. We let them fly, never to return, because we are not ready, and
then we cry, "Just like our luck!" As Shakspeare says,

  "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
  But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

Away with your notions of luck. Be manly, and trust to work. Do your
duty, and let luck do its worst.


An Indian Story.



[1] Begun in No. 101, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

Before Steve Harrison and his friend left the ruins of the ancient town
behind them, they had decided that they were going away from a complete
solitude--a place where even wild Indians did not very often come.

It looked desolate enough, with its scattered inclosures of rough stone,
not one of them with any roof on, or any sign that people had lived
there for a hundred years at least. The windows in the tumbling walls
had probably never had either sash or glass in them, and the furniture,
used by the people who built the village, whatever it may have been, had
long since disappeared.

It could never have been a very large or populous town, but it could
hardly at any time have had a wilder-looking set of inhabitants than
were the party of men who drew near it at about the time when Steve and
Murray were killing their cougar.

Two tilted wagons, a good deal the worse for wear, apparently pretty
heavily laden, and drawn by six mules each, were accompanied by about
two dozen men on horseback. Their portraits would have made the fortune
of any picture-gallery in the world. Everybody would have gone to look
at such a collection of bearded desperadoes.

They were not Indians, nor were they dressed as such. They were attired
in every fashion except well and cleanly. If the odds and ends of
several clothing stores had been picked up after a fire, and then worn
about out, and patched and mended with bits of blankets and greasy
buckskin, something like those twenty odd suits of clothes might have
been produced; that is, if the man who tried to do it could have had
these for a pattern. If not, he would have failed.

The men themselves were as much out of the common way as were the
clothes they wore, but they had somehow managed to keep their horses and
mules in pretty good condition.

Horses and mules are of more importance than clothing to men who are as
far away from tailors and civilization as were these new-comers in the
neighborhood of Steve's mine.

If Steve had seen them he would probably have trembled for the
"Buckhorn," for Murray would at once have told him that these men were

That was nothing against them, certainly, and they must have been daring
fellows to push their hunt for gold so far beyond any region known to
such hunters.

One look at their hard, reckless faces would have convinced anybody
about their "daring." They looked as if they were ready for anything.

So they were, indeed, and it is quite probable a man of Murray's
experience would have guessed at once that they were ready for a good
many other things besides mining.

Just now certainly they were thinking of something else.

"Bill," said the foremost rider to a man a little behind him, "we were
wrong to leave the trail of them army fellers. We're stuck and lost in
here among the mountains."

"It looks like it. We'll hev to go into camp, and scout around till we
find a pass. But it wasn't any use follerin' the cavalry arter we found
they was bound west."

"That's so. It won't do for us to come out on the Pacific slope. It's
Mexico or Texas for us."

"We'd better say Santa Fe."

"They'd make us give too close an account of ourselves there. Some of
the boys might let out somethin'."

"Guess it's Mexico, then. That isn't far away now. But I wish I knew the
way down out of this."

The ruins, strange and wonderful as they were, did not seem to excite
any great degree of curiosity among those men. They talked about them,
to be sure, but in a way which showed that they had all seen the same
sort of thing before during their wild rovings among the mountains and
valleys of the great Southwest.

Just such ruins are to be found in a great many places. We do not even
know how many, and nobody has been able yet to more than guess by whom
they were built or when.

Mere ravines and gorges and cañons would not do for this party. They
must find a regular "pass," down which they could manage to take their
horses and mules and wagons. Even before they halted, several of them
had been looking and pointing toward what Murray had spoken of as "the
western gap."

That was the opening through the ranges which had been for a moment such
a temptation to Steve Harrison.

"It's west'ard, Bill, but it may hev to do for us."

"It may take us down, to some lower level, or it may show us a way

"The great Southern Pass is down hereaway somewhar."

"Further east than this. We ought to strike it, though, before we cross
the border."

"Mexico ain't a country I'd choose to go inter, ef I hed my own way, but
we've got to go for it this time."

But whatever may have been their reason for seeking Mexico, they were
just now a good deal puzzled as to the precise path by means of which
they might reach it. It was getting late in the day, too, for any kind
of exploration, and the mule-teams looked as if they had done about

So it came to pass that the ruined village of the forgotten people was
once more occupied.

Did they go into the houses? No. It was the man called Bill who said it,
but all the rest of them seemed to feel just as he did, when he

"Sleep in one of them things? No, I guess not--not even if it was roofed
in. They were set up too long ago to suit me."

That stamped him as an American, for there is no other people in the
world that hate old houses. No real American was ever known to use an
old building of any kind a day longer than he could help. He would as
soon think of wearing old clothes just because they were old.

The ground near the ruins was covered with fragments of stone and fallen
masonry, but there was a good camping ground between that and the trees
from which Murray and Steve had fired at the buck.

"It's the loneliest kind of a place, Captain Skinner," said Bill, just
after he had helped turn the mules loose on the grass.

"I wish I knew just how lonely it is. I kind o' smell something."

"Do ye, Cap?"

Every such band of men has its "Captain," of some kind, and sometimes
very good discipline and order is kept up. But Captain Skinner was
hardly the man anybody would have picked out for a leader, before seeing
how the rest listened to what he said, and how readily they seemed to
obey him.

He was the shortest, thinnest, ugliest, and most ragged man in the whole
party; and just at this moment he did not appear to be carrying any arms
except the knife and pistol in his belt.

"If I don't smell it, I can see it. Look yonder, Bill."

"That's so!--blood!"

It was the spot on which the buck had fallen, and in a moment more than
half a dozen men were looking around in all directions.

They understood all they saw, too, as well as any Indians in the world,
for in less than five minutes Captain Skinner said: "That'll do, boys.
We must follow that trail. Two white hunters. They killed the buck. Both
wore moccasins; so they ain't fresh from the settlements. There's
something queer about it. They were on foot, and they carried off their

It was indeed very queer, and it would not do to let any such puzzle as
that go by unsolved. So, while several men were ordered out after game,
and several more were left to guard the camp, Captain Skinner himself,
with Bill and five others, armed to the teeth, set out at once on the
trail of Murray and Steve Harrison.

It was easy enough to follow those two pairs of footprints as long as
they were made in the grass. After they got upon rocky ground, it was
not so easy, and the miners did not get ahead so fast; but they did not
lose the trail for a moment. Indeed, it was about as straight in one
direction as the nature of the ground would permit.

"Two fellers out yer among these ere mountains, all by themselves,"
growled Bill, as they drew near the ledge at the head of the deep cañon.

"We don't know that they're all alone yet," said Captain Skinner. "They
carried that deer somewhere."

"Right down yonder, Captain. They stopped here to rest from kerryin' of
it, and I don't blame 'em, if they'd got to tote it down through that
thar cañon."

"It's a deep one, no mistake."

"Captain, look yer!" suddenly exclaimed one of the men. "We've lit on it
this time."

"The ledge? I wasn't looking at that."

A perfect storm of exclamations followed from every pair of lips in the
party. Such a ledge as that they had never seen before, old mine-hunters
as they were. But each one seemed inclined to ask, just as Murray had
asked of Steve, what could be done with it. Gold enough, but nothing to
get it out of the rock with, and no where to carry it to. It was a sad
problem for men who cared for nothing in the wide world but just such
ledges and just such gold. What was the use of it?

Steve Harrison never knew it, but his mine was of a good deal of use to
him and Murray just then. It kept Captain Skinner and his men looking at
it long enough for them to get nearly back to the camp of the Lipans.

"It won't do, boys," said Captain Skinner at last. "We're wasting time.
Come on."

They followed him, every man turning his head as he did so to take
another look at the yellow spots that shone here and there in the
quartz. Their way down the ravine was made with care and circumspection,
for they did not know at what moment they might come in sight of "those
two fellers and their deer."

It was well for them, probably, that they were cautious, for, after a
good deal of steep climbing, just as they were about to clamber down one
of the rocky "stairs," the man called Bill exclaimed, "Captain, thar it

"The deer? They've left it. I see it."

"More'n that further down."

"A big-horn! And there's a painter lying beside it!"

"More'n that, Cap. They didn't give up that thar game for nothin'."

"Lay low, boys. Git to cover right away. Red-skins!"

There was no difficulty in hiding among the rocks and bowlders, and the
miners were out of sight in a moment.

They could see, though, even if they were not seen, and they were soon
able to count a dozen Indian warriors leading three pack-ponies as far
up the ravine as four-footed beasts could go.

"Wonder if they've wiped out the two fellers," said Bill.

"Looks like it. Or they may have captured 'em. Lost their game, if they
haven't lost their scalps. Wonder what tribe of red-skins they are,

There was a better reason than that why No Tongue and Yellow Head did
not come back with their friends, but it was just as well that Captain
Skinner and his miners did not understand it.

"Captain," whispered one of the men, "shall we let drive at 'em? We
could pick off half of 'em first fire."

"Not a shot. All we want jest now is to be let alone. I don't mind
killing a few red-skins."

"Mebbe they killed the two fellers."

"Likely as not. I'm kind o' glad they did. That there ledge is ours now.
Let 'em carry off their game, and then we'll climb back. I reckon I know
now how we'd best work our way down to the level those Indians came


The Lipans made short work of loading their ponies, and the moment they
were out of sight, the miners began their climb out of that cañon. There
was no good reason why they should follow the Lipans.



Charlotte Corday is remembered as the assassin of the wicked Marat. No
one was ever more cruel than Marat. He was one of the worst of the
French Jacobins at Paris, who in 1793 practiced every kind of crime.
They professed to be freemen, but were tyrants more cruel than Nero.
They filled Paris with murders, executions, and every kind of misery. No
one's life or property was safe, and Marat, who was now their leader,
constantly urged them to new cruelty. He seemed to the people of Paris
and all the world a savage monster who could only live amidst bloodshed
and crimes, and had begun in France what is known as the "Reign of

There lived in the country a young girl whose intended husband, it is
said, had been put to death at the suggestion of Marat. Her name was
Charlotte Corday. She was about twenty-five years old, fond of reading
and study, tall and beautiful, when she resolved to kill Marat. If she
could destroy the monster, she thought she would save the republic and
revenge her lost lover. In July, 1793, Charlotte bade her father good-by
in a short note, and set out from a friend's house at Caen on her
journey to Paris. She hoped to make her way into the famous club of the
Jacobins, and stab Marat in the midst of his guilty companions.

Early on the second morning after she had reached Paris she went to the
Palais Royal, bought a knife, and drove to the house of Marat. He had
been for some time unwell, and unable to join his companions at the
Jacobin Club. Charlotte was refused admittance, and went away
disappointed. She went back to her hotel, wrote a short note to Marat,
telling him that she wished to see him on business of importance to
France, and once more returned to his house. She sent up the note. Marat
read it, and ordered her to be admitted. He was in his bath; Charlotte
stood alone before her victim. It was the 13th of July, 1793, about
eight in the evening.

She told him of some events at Caen. Marat asked the names of the
deputies from Caen, and began to write down a list of them to have them
put to death. The guillotine was an instrument then employed to cut off
people's heads; and Marat said, "Let them all be guillotined."

"Guillotined!" exclaimed Charlotte, with horror, and plunged the knife
into Marat's heart.

"Help!" he cried; "help, my dear!"

His housekeeper and some others ran into the room. He was seen lying
covered with blood, and Charlotte standing motionless beside him.


A crowd gathered around the house; they carried her away to prison. She
was brought to trial before the Revolutionary judges, and showed no
signs of emotion or fear. "It was I that killed Marat," she said. She
was condemned to death. She wrote to her father, asking his forgiveness
for having given her life to her country. On the 15th of July she was
led through the streets of Paris to the scaffold. Many of the people
followed her with applause and cries of sympathy. She smiled as her head
was cut off, looking beautiful even in death.

Marat, her victim, was buried by his fellow Jacobins with a great
display. His body was covered with flowers, and his bust or statue
appeared in every part of Paris. The Reign of Terror went on for two
years longer. The murders and executions were fearful. But at last
Robespierre, Marat's successor, was killed, and the murderers were
punished. Marat's four thousand busts were thrown down, and his grave

As for Charlotte Corday, she was a murderess roused to madness by the
crimes of her victim.



"Beats all," said good old Mr. Hurlbut to good old Mrs. Hurlbut, as he
laid down the paper from which he had been reading--"beats all what
mizzable little fellers some o' them poor children in the city be. It
seems a good many folks on farms, like us, Sereny, have took 'em in 'n'
kep' 'em a spell. Must 'a done the poor little things good. Law! makes
me feel bad."

Good Farmer Hurlbut took off his spectacles and wiped them with great
thoroughness. He was thinking not only of the little newsboys, and the
other poor children of whom he had been reading, in the city, fifty
miles away, but of a certain little boy of his own and "Sereny's," who
had gladdened their home for nine short years, and then had died,
leaving them desolate indeed, but with a warm place in their hearts for
all his kind.

Presently Farmer Hurlbut spoke again, and, it seemed to Aunt Sereny,
rather irrelevantly:

"Lots o' nuts this year up in the north pastur. The clump o' chestnuts
is fuller 'n ever--the biggest chestnuts I ever see; 'n' up higher
there's more walnuts 'n' butternuts than you ever see in your life.
Guess we'll have to go over and get George's folks 'n' Eliza Jane 'n'
the girls, 'n' have a picnic some warm day up there, and gather 'em."

"Yes, we must," assented kind Aunt Sereny.

"It would be sorter nice for them poor little fellers in the city to
take a day off in the woods so," continued Farmer Hurlbut, jerking his
thumb toward the paper from which he had been reading.

"Yes, it would," concurred Aunt Sereny.

"But," went on Farmer Hurlbut, with a puzzled expression, "how to get at
'em--that's the question."

"I should think so," said Aunt Sereny, whose sole mission in life was to
agree and to smooth over and to dispense peace generally.

Suddenly Farmer Hurlbut seized his paper, and began to look over what he
had been reading, passing his finger patiently along the lines.

"I thought so!" he exclaimed at last, pinning a particular place with
his big thumb. "I thought I see the name of the superintendent of the
society, 'n' I did. He'd know, I s'pose."

"Know what?" asked his wife, mildly.

"Why, how to get at 'em."

"Oh!" Aunt Sereny brightened up wonderfully.

"How d'ye s'pose 'twould do to ask a whole raft on 'em to come?" asked
Farmer Hurlbut, reflectively.

"I'd be kinder afraid on 'em, so many, seems to me"--with a little
deprecatory laugh.

"Thet's so," said her considerate husband. "They be wild little
critters, so I've heerd. Mebby five or six would be enough. My! how
their eyes would shine to see them nuts!"

Aunt Sereny laughed--a wholesome, sunshiny laugh as ever was heard.

"'N' I know," continued Farmer Hurlbut, affectionately, "that you'd feed
'em up, 'n' pet 'em, 'n' do 'em more good 'n all the mission schools in

Aunt Sereny protested modestly, but was sure she would be willing to try
and see what she could do.

There was a little time of silence, during which the clock struck nine.

"Wa'al, what say, Sereny?" said the old farmer at last.

The old lady understood him perfectly.

"I say, Josiah," she replied, with considerable emphasis--"I say, do
just as you've a mind to."

The consequence of this conversation was a letter from Farmer Hurlbut to
the superintendent, and later, the appearance of six ragged boys,
equipped with bags, on a pleasant Wednesday morning in early November,
at the railroad station in the city, ready to take the train which would
reach Farmer Hurlbut's at nine o'clock in the forenoon. That is, six
boys were expected. But when the gentleman who was waiting at the
station to put the little party on the cars came to count them, behold!
there was a seventh figure, very much smaller than any of the rest,
holding on tight to a bigger boy's hand.

It was a shrunken little mite, with a big coat on it that came to the
floor, and a hat that must have belonged to somebody's grandpa--a
comical, pitiful, heart-breaking little figure as ever was seen.

"Who's that, Tim?" asked the gentleman of the boy to whose hand the
little creature was desperately clinging. He didn't know Tim very well,
and had never encountered this tiny object before.

"I don't know as you'll like it," gasped Tim, apparently in great terror
lest he was going to be circumvented, "but it's the Baby, 'n' he's five
years, on'y he's little, 'cause he hasn't growed, 'n' he's been sick,
'n' mother said as how a whiff o' country'd do him good, 'n' mebby he
could go 'stead o' me. Philly here'll see to him."

"Yes, sir," said Phil Barstow, whose outfit was only less imposing than
the Baby's own. "I know the Baby, 'n' the Baby knows me, 'n' if you
think it's too many for Tim to go too, we kinder decided--Tim's mother
'n' Tim 'n' me--that mebby the Baby'd better go 'stead o' Tim, or,"
added Phil, with unexpected heroism, and swallowing hard, "or 'stead o'

"It's all right," said the gentleman, who was sure, from the tone of
Farmer Hurlbut's letter, that he wouldn't mind having seven any more
than six. "It's all right, Tim. Now take good care of him, and sit
still, all of you."

So "the Baby" was put on board, and the cars moved slowly off.

At the end of their journey, there was Farmer Hurlbut with his big
lumber wagon, which had three boards laid across it for seats. The boys,
with their bags and their dreadful costumes, filed out as soon as the
train stopped, their glowing faces revealing unmistakably their

They were immediately pounced upon and conveyed to their seats in the
wagon, where Aunt Sereny was waiting for them.

Farmer Hurlbut was overflowing with joviality and good-humor. Two great
suggestive baskets and a mighty jug were packed into the front of the
wagon, and behind were various boxes and barrels to hold the surplus

"And who's this?" asked Aunt Sereny, beaming delightfully from the front
seat of the wagon, and fixing her gaze particularly upon the forlorn
little straggler clinging tight to Tim's hand.

"Please, mum," said Tim, eagerly, "it's the Baby, 'n' he's sick, 'n'
mother was for havin' him come 'stead o' me, but they said mebby you'd
take us both."

"Take you both!" exclaimed the dear old lady, wiping her eyes
vigorously, and kissing the Baby's weazened little face, "I guess we
will! It'll do him good, likely's not, bless his heart! Josiah,
mebby"--as the horses started off briskly--"mebby," significantly, "the
boys are hungry after their journey. Just get out the little tin cups
'n' I'll give them a drink o' milk apiece, 'n' mebby a sandwich 'n' a
turn-over as we're riding along. It's a good ways up to the north
pastur'," continued the old lady, as she dealt out the things liberally,
and watched them grasped eagerly by the half-starved little creatures.

"There's plenty, boys; eat all you want. Goodness me! Josiah Hurlbut,"
she whispered to her husband, "they haven't had nothing to eat for a
week--I know they haven't!"

But the chief ecstasy was on the back seat, where the Baby was ensconced
between Tim and Philly, and eagerly swallowing a cup of Aunt Sereny's
rich yellow milk.

"Massy, Phil," cried Tim, admiringly, "see the Baby a-drinkin'! How does
it taste, Baby?--good?"

The Baby nodded, a grave smile settling upon his poor little visage
under the big hat.

"More," he said, weakly.

"More! My gracious!" said Tim, in the wildest spirits--"more! He wants
more, Philly. Hain't et or drinked so much as this for a month, I sh'd
think. Can he have some more, mum?" reaching out a claw-like hand with
the tin cup, which went back brimming full.

Pretty soon the boys began to talk.

"See there!--quick! That's a squirrel, boys--a reg'lar squirrel. Ever
see one before?"

"Trout in that brook, bet you a cent, boys! Won't the rest o' the
fellers stare when we tell 'em what we've seen?"

"Are there more nuts 'n that"--pointing to a heavily laden tree which
they were passing--"in the place we're going to?"

"Humph!" returned Farmer Hurlbut, the sight of whose ponderous fist had
impressed his wild little crew as much perhaps as his kindness and
generosity; "there's more nuts up in the north pastur', where we're
a-goin', than you'll see all the way put together."

In about an hour the north pastur' was reached, and the boys tumbled out
of the wagon amid a jumble of sweet-fern and pennyroyal, and other sweet
woodsy-smelling things.

Aunt Sereny found a comfortable seat near by, and fell to knitting as
usual, and Farmer Hurlbut, going to a thicket close at hand, pulled out
two long stout poles, which he had prepared for this very occasion, and
laid away a week before.

Then Jim Bowker and Sammy Jones, two of the biggest boys, were sent up
two of the best trees, and once well up, they lay flat along the great
branches, and plied the poles vigorously. The glossy brown nuts and
prickly burrs came flying "fast and furious."

The Baby crept timidly out of the wild bombardment, and sat down beside
the ample figure of Aunt Sereny. His tiny hand--the fac-simile of Tim's
only less skinny--grasped her dress firmly. Aunt Sereny put her hand
into her pocket and drew forth unheard-of treasures of peppermints,
sweet-flag root, and caraway-seeds. These the Baby gravely took and

Noon coming ever so much too soon, Aunt Sereny, amid great applause,
suggested something more in the line of refreshments. She accordingly
spread a white cloth over a great flat rock, and set forth a feast
calculated to drive a hungry boy crazy with delight. Even the Baby
fairly laughed aloud.

"I tell you, boys," said Tim, springing to his feet as he heard it, and
even dropping a precious tart in his enthusiasm--"I tell you the Baby
hasn't laughed like that since I can remember. Hi! ain't it jolly?"

The meal fairly over, they lay a little while on the warm dry grass
enjoying the mild sunshine, Aunt Sereny knitting peacefully on. Two or
three boys dozed a little, and the Baby crept up to his old place beside
Aunt Sereny, and gathering up his tiny figure upon her dress, went fast
asleep. She spread a light shawl over him, and drew him closer, amid
affectionate and admiring glances from Tim. Tim adored anybody who was
good to the Baby.

Pretty soon Farmer Hurlbut roused them up to go to the walnut-trees, and
two other boys were detailed for duty in the branches, which they beat
and beat again with their poles. "Shucks" were new things to them all.

"Shure enough," said Larry O'Brien, with a fine brogue, "and now I'll
know what they mane whin they say I don't know shucks--but I do,

This caused an uproarious laugh, and Larry kept on saying witty things,
to the great amusement of all. Not Sydney Smith himself was ever the
source of more delight.

The train was to start at five, and it was nearly that time when the
tired, sunburned, happy little crowd drew up at the railroad station.
Aunt Sereny had been having a whispered consultation with Farmer Hurlbut
on the way home, and when they stopped, she took Tim and the Baby aside.

"Tim," she said, "can't you leave the Baby with us a little while--to
stay a week or two, you know? You tell me where to write, and I'll let
your mother know how he gets along. We'll take good care of him."

Tim gazed at her with open mouth and shining eyes. "The Baby?" he
gasped. "Why--mother--and--me" (slowly) "can't get along 'thout the
Baby. He sleeps with me"--his lip trembling--"every night. Seems 's if I
couldn't sleep nohow 'thout his little hand hold o' mine."

"But he says he'd like to stay," Aunt Sereny answered, coaxingly. "I
asked him"--for the mite had ridden home in Aunt Sereny's lap.

"Does he?" said Tim, brightening. "If he _wants_ to--mebby--well-- D'ye
s'pose mother'd like it?"

But Aunt Sereny settled Tim's doubts, and the train finally rolled away
without the Baby.

There he staid at the farm-house, and grew so strong and well that he
was allowed to remain for many a long year. Tim and his tired,
overworked widowed mother became frequent visitors to the same
hospitable spot, as well as the rest of the boys who had formed the
memorable nutting party. In fact, a nutting party in the north pastur'
became an annual institution, which continues to the present time.



There's going to be a circus here, and I'm going to it; that is, if
father will let me. Some people think it's wrong to go to a circus, but
I don't. Mr. Travers says that the mind of man and boy requires circuses
in moderation, and that the wicked boys in Sunday-school books who steal
their employers' money to buy circus tickets wouldn't steal it if their
employers, or their fathers or uncles, would give them circus tickets
once in a while. I'm sure I wouldn't want to go to a circus every night
in the week. All I should want would be to go two or three evenings, and
Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. There was once a boy who was awfully
fond of going to the circus, and his employer, who was a very good man,
said he'd cure him. So he said to the boy: "Thomas, my son, I'm going to
hire you to go to the circus every night. I'll pay you three dollars a
week, and give you your board and lodging, if you'll go every night
except Sunday: but if you don't go, then you won't get any board and
lodging or any money." And the boy said, "Oh, you can just bet I'll go!"
and he thought everything was lovely; but after two weeks he got so sick
of the circus that he would have given anything to be let stay away.
Finally he got so wretched that he deceived his good employer, and stole
money from him to buy school-books with, and ran away and went to
school. The older he grew the more he looked back with horror upon that
awful period when he went to the circus every night. Mr. Travers says it
finally had such an effect upon him that he worked hard all day and read
books all night just to keep it out of his mind. The result was that
before he knew it he became a very learned and a very rich man. Of
course it was very wrong for the boy to steal money to stay away from
the circus with, but the story teaches us that if we go to the circus
too much, we shall get tired of it, which is a very solemn thing.

We had a private circus at our house last night--at least that's what
father called it, and he seemed to enjoy it. It happened in this way. I
went into the back parlor one evening, because I wanted to see Mr.
Travers. He and Sue always sit there. It was growing quite dark when I
went in, and going toward the sofa, I happened to walk against a
rocking-chair that was rocking all by itself, which, come to think of
it, was an awfully curious thing, and I'm going to ask somebody about
it. I didn't mind walking into the chair, for it didn't hurt me much,
only I knocked it over, and it hit Sue, and she said, "Oh my, get me
something quick!" and then fainted away. Mr. Travers was dreadfully
frightened, and said, "Run, Jimmy, and get the cologne, or the bay-rum,
or something." So I ran up to Sue's room, and felt round in the dark for
her bottle of cologne that she always keeps on her bureau. I found a
bottle after a minute or two, and ran down and gave it to Mr. Travers,
and he bathed Sue's face as well as he could in the dark, and she came
to and said, "Goodness gracious, do you want to put my eyes out?"

[Illustration: "OH, MY!"]

Just then the front-door bell rang, and Mr. Bradford (our new minister)
and his wife and three daughters and his son came in. Sue jumped up and
ran into the front parlor to light the gas, and Mr. Travers came to help
her. They just got it lit when the visitors came in, and father and
mother came down stairs to meet them. Mr. Bradford looked as if he had
seen a ghost, and his wife and daughters said, "Oh my!" and father said,
"What on earth!" and mother just burst out laughing, and said, "Susan,
you and Mr. Travers seem to have had an accident with the inkstand."

You never saw such a sight as those poor young people were. I had made a
mistake, and brought down a bottle of liquid blacking--the same that I
blacked the baby with that time. Mr. Travers had put it all over Sue's
face, so that she was jet black, all but a little of one cheek and the
end of her nose, and then he had rubbed his hands on his own face until
he was like an Ethiopian leopard, only he could change his spots if he
used soap enough.

You couldn't have any idea how angry Sue was with me--just as if it was
my fault, when all I did was to go up stairs for her, and get a bottle
to bring her to with; and it would have been all right if she hadn't
left the blacking bottle on her bureau; and I don't call that tidy, if
she is a girl. Mr. Travers wasn't a bit angry; but he came up to my room
and washed his face, and laughed all the time. And Sue got awfully angry
with him, and said she would never speak to him again after disgracing
her in that heartless way. So he went home, and I could hear him
laughing all the way down the street, and Mr. Bradford and his folks
thought that he and Sue had been having a minstrel show, and mother
thinks they'll never come to the house again.

As for father, he was almost as much amused as Mr. Travers, and he said
it served Sue right, and he wasn't going to punish the boy to please
her. I'm going to try to have another circus some day, though this one
was all an accident, and of course I was dreadfully sorry about it.




Although the game of lawn tennis, which was introduced to the readers of
YOUNG PEOPLE early in the summer, has made giant strides in popularity,
it does not seem to carry its character in its face, for there are still
people to be found who have seen the game and yet have not appreciated
its merits. More than one person has said to me, "I don't see much fun
in knocking a ball over a net for a person on the other side to knock it
back again."

Now there is a great deal of reason in that. To knock a ball over a net
for another person to knock it back again would be very poor fun. But,
as we know, the object in knocking the ball over the net is that the
other person shall _not_ knock it back, which is quite another thing,
and which, indeed, is the essence of the game.

Should this view of the case fail to convince the ignorant persons above
referred to that lawn tennis is a game deserving of respect, and that it
is not, what Dr. Johnson called fishing, the pastime of fools, I would
take them to see a lawn tennis tournament. I would do that, however,
only out of pure good nature, for it would be a great deal more pleasant
to look on at a tournament in company with some one who knows the game.
And so, if you please, I will take my readers to the tournament at the
St. George's cricket ground at Hoboken, New Jersey. The name of the club
suggests that it is English in its origin; and that is a good omen, for
is not old England the home of lawn tennis, as it is also of cricket?

Eight courts are laid out on the carefully prepared ground, which is
refreshingly green even after this long dry summer, and several games
are in progress.

Our artist has chosen for the subject of his illustration on page 41 the
double-handed match between Messrs. Anderson and Henry, of the Seabright
Club, and Messrs. D. and G. F. Miller, of Utica. Though the
double-handed game is very interesting, it does not possess the same
attraction, for players at least, as a single-handed contest, in which
one player has to cover the whole of his court. Not that the young
player who looks forward to taking part some day in a public tournament
should neglect the double game. It is, indeed, a very necessary part of
the practice required to make a player thoroughly at home in the game,
for it teaches him how to "place" his "returns."

Watch the players carefully, and notice the quick decision required to
place the ball beyond the reach of both their antagonists. In a
single-handed game there is only one man's vigilance to outwit. In the
double game there are two, and one of two partners, if they are both
good players, should always be within reach of the ball wherever it may
be placed. Thus you see that a young player who has learned to place his
returns well in a double game will find that part of his work much
easier when he has only one antagonist on the other side of the net.

But while I have been talking about "placing," the crowd has gathered
around a court where a single-handed game is being played. Let us, then,
practice what we preach, and place ourselves where we can see the game.
It is between Mr. Anderson--the same whom we saw playing in the double
game--and Mr. Cairnes, a young Englishman who is on a visit to this
country, and has returned the hospitality he has received by beating the
lawn tennis champion of the United States. Ah, well, we will forgive
him, for he is young--barely twenty-one, judging from his looks--and he
does not know any better. But he can play tennis.

As we take our places, the scorer calls, "Two games all." Anderson plays
up well, and wins the next game, and still another. The doughty
Englishman is getting beaten; he is playing carelessly. But see! It is
very plain that he recognizes the fact that the games are going on too
fast, for as soon as he learns that the score is four to two in
Anderson's favor, his play begins to improve. He wins the next four
games in succession, and so wins the set. And right well did he play.

It is difficult to say wherein lies his great excellence. It is not in
his "service." Service is all very well, and it is very useful to have a
good service, especially when playing against indifferent antagonists;
but among the best players service does not count for much. The "return"
is of very much more importance, if for no other reason than that one
has many more balls to return than to serve. In the first place, you
should make certain that your ball is going over the net. Youth is
ambitious, and ambition every now and then gets a fall; and so the young
player who tries to just skim the top of the net every time is very apt
to drive his ball into instead of over the net. It is much better to
send even the easiest kind of a ball for your adversary to return, for
there is always a chance of his foot slipping, or something of the kind;
or perhaps he will be ambitious, and drive the ball with great skill and
precision into the middle of the net. The English player returned his
balls very closely over the net, but they always went over, and
doubtless his accuracy in that respect is the result of long practice.

Another point in which he excelled was the skillful manner in which he
placed the ball close to the side lines in the back court. This is very
pretty work, but it is also dangerous, for it must always be remembered
that there is not a hair's-breadth between a "good" ball and a bad one,
between just in court and just out. One is success, and the other
failure. For young players there are many opportunities of placing a
ball out of the opponent's reach without playing it right up to the base
line or side lines of the court. In tennis, as in other things, a middle
course is safest for beginners.

Although lawn tennis has sprung rapidly into favor, it is still but a
new game in this country. It takes several seasons' play for a person to
become a first-rate player. By the time most of my readers are old
enough to take part in a public tournament, some of them will probably
play better than the best players of to-day. As time goes on, the
standard of the game grows higher. The best players to-day are men, and
they did not have the great advantage of beginning to learn tennis when
they were boys.

But it is not only a boys' game; it is quite as suitable for girls, and
many girls and grown ladies play very well, in spite of the man who said
in an article on the subject not long ago that all ladies were "duffers"
at tennis. If some of our lady players were to express their opinions of
that man, he would not be flattered by them, even if the ladies did not
call him slang names.

In New York and other large cities there are winter tennis clubs, to
which both ladies and gentlemen belong. Very cold work, perhaps you
think, with snow on the ground, and the thermometer somewhere near zero;
but indeed they care nothing for that. What are snow-storms and chilling
winds to them when they are safely under cover in some hall that they
have hired for one or two afternoons a week? That is how tennis is
played in winter, and if it should be called floor tennis rather than
lawn tennis, the game is the same, and the enjoyment perhaps as great as
in the summer game.

But tennis is, after all, a summer game. Winter has its own sports and
pastimes--skating, coasting, sleighing, and the gymnasium--to which my
readers will devote their hours of recreation. So at the first flurry of
snow they will hang their rackets as trophies over the mantel, and leave
lawn tennis to the enthusiasts until the warm sun and soft rains of
spring shall have spread over the court a carpet of fresh green grass.


We suppose most of our young readers know that the people of far-off
Asia have their folk-lore and their fairy stories just as we have them.
This is one relating to a quarrel about the stupid question of "caste,"
which simply means whether one person is of better blood and position
than another.

There was once a dog and a cat. It was a very rainy day, and some men
were eating their dinner inside their house. The cat sat inside, too,
eating her dinner, and the dog sat on the door-step. The cat called out
to the dog, "I am a high-caste person, and you are a very low-caste
person." "Oh," said the dog, "not at all. I am the high-caste person,
and you are of very low caste. You eat all the men's dinner up, and
snatch the food from their hands just as they are putting it into their
mouths. And you scratch them, and they beat you, while I sit away from
them, and so they don't beat me. And if they give me any dinner, I'll
eat it; but if they don't, I won't." "Oh," says the cat, "not a bit of
it. I eat nice clean food; but you eat nasty, dirty food, which the men
have thrown away." "No," said the dog, "I am high caste, and you are
very low caste; for if I gave you a slap you would tumble down
directly." "No, no," said the cat. And they went on disputing, and began
to fight, until the dog said, "Very well, let us go to the wise jackal
and ask him which of us is the better." "Good," said the cat. So they
went to the jackal and asked him. Said the cat, "I am of the higher
caste, and the dog is of the lower caste." "No," said the jackal, "the
dog is of the higher caste." The cat said, "No," and the jackal said,
"Yes," and they began to fight.

Then the jackal and the dog proposed to go and ask a great big beast,
who lived in the jungle, and was like a tiger. But the cat said, "I can
not go near a tiger, or anything like one." So then they said, "When we
come near the beast you can remain behind, and we will go on and speak
to him." So they ran into the jungle, where there was a tiger who had
been lying on the ground with a great thorn sticking in his foot. When
his aunt, the cat, saw him, she scampered off, for she was dreadfully

The thorn had given the tiger great pain; for a long while he could get
no one to take it out, so had lain there for days. At last he had seen a
man passing by, to whom he called and said, "Take out this thorn, and I
promise I won't eat you." But the man refused through fear, saying, "No,
I won't, for you will eat me." Three times the tiger had promised not to
eat him; so at last the man took out the thorn. Then the tiger sprang up
and said, "Now I will eat you, for I am very hungry." "Oh, no, no!" said
the man. "What a liar you are! You promised not to eat me if I would
take the thorn out of your foot, and now that I have done so you say you
will eat me." And they began to fight, and the man said, "If you won't
eat me, I will bring you a cow and a goat." But the tiger refused,
saying, "No, I won't eat them; I will eat you."

At this moment the jackal and the dog came up. And the jackal asked,
"What is the matter? why are you fighting?" So then the man told him why
they were fighting; and the jackal said to the tiger, "I will tell you a
good way of eating the man. Go and fetch a big bag." So the tiger went
and fetched the bag, and brought it to the jackal. Then the jackal said,
"Get inside the bag and leave its mouth open, and I'll throw the man in
to you." So the tiger got inside the bag, and the jackal, the dog, and
the man quickly tied it up as tight as they could. Then they began to
beat the tiger with all their might until at last they killed him. Then
the man went home, and the jackal went home, and the dog went home.



  The merry wind came racing
    Adown the hills one day,
  In gleeful frolic chasing
    The rustling leaves away.
  In clouds of red and yellow,
    He whirled the leaves along,
  And then the jolly fellow
    He sang a cheery song.

  The merry wind was weary
    At last of fun and play;
  His voice grew faint and eerie,
    And softly died away.
  Far off a crow was calling,
    And in the mellow sun
  The painted leaves kept falling
    And fading, one by one.



Ever since Meg laid her hand on a moderately warm stove, when she was
learning to walk, she has been very much afraid of fire, and no one in
the house is in the least anxious about her playing with matches, for
she could not be hired to do such a thing at any price. Indeed, it was
thought a very remarkable event when, having reached the advanced age of
seven years, she consented to take one of the long tapers made for the
purpose and light the gas in hall and sitting-room.

Her mother was glad to have her do this, thinking that it would make her
careful, and at the same time teach her not to be overtimid. And so it
did, but not in the way mamma expected; for one evening, as Meg carried
her taper under the portière, what should she do but set the fringe on

Seeing that Meg had all her life been in mortal dread of just such an
accident, it was very brave in her, without an instant's hesitation, to
brush the fire out with her two little hands. She did not even scream,
but she was very pale and "trembly" when she went to mamma in the
library, and showing her besmirched hands, said, "It's all over, mamma,
but I 'most set the house on fire." Sure enough, the fringe, scorched
for a distance of two or three feet, proved that it was a narrow

[2] This incident is strictly true, and Meg, now some five years older,
is among the regular readers of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

Upon the whole, it would be well if all young people were as much afraid
of fire and of matches--the cause of fire--as Meg was. Many a family has
had to run for their lives out into the dark night because some heedless
youngster saw fit to take this dreadful creature, fire, for a playmate.


Our artist actually witnessed the incident which he has so cleverly
drawn. The flames had seized on the lower stairways and stories of the
house, so that escape was impossible for the mother and child on the
fourth floor. No ladder could be procured, so one of the most active of
the firemen climbed from one window to another, by the help of sashes
and blind fixtures, until he reached the frightened pair. Others
followed him, stationing themselves in the lower windows. A mattress was
brought out, and held by a score of strong arms under the windows.

Baby must go first, though mamma could hardly bear to have him leave
her arms; and perhaps the fireman had to be a little rough before he
made her loose her hold. It was simple enough to deal with him, however,
and he scarcely had time to squall and kick, so deftly was he passed
down, first to the man standing in the window below, then to the one who
sat on the sill, and finally dropped into the mattress.

Mamma was more difficult to manage, because she was bigger and heavier.
But, on the other hand, she could help a little by holding on to the
sills, and letting go when she was told. So at last she too was steadily
lowered from hand to hand until she reached the mattress and the ground.

If these men had been a little less brave and skillful than they were,
there might have been a sad tale to tell as the result of a boy's
thoughtless experiment with a match. Sad enough a fire always is,
however, for those who lose or suffer by it, and in all large cities the
Fire Department is very carefully equipped and organized.


The old-fashioned hand-engines, such as are shown in the illustration,
with a row of men at the brakes on either side, are all out of use now,
and are seldom seen save in villages and small towns. There even they
are fast giving way to chemical engines, and before many years the old
piano machines will be almost forgotten. Nevertheless, they did good
service in their day, and were manned by as daring a set of fellows as
ever ran to a fire, or broke each other's heads in a street fight.
Thousands of them served bravely on both sides in the war of the
rebellion, but when those that were left of them went home,
steamers--the small cut shows the first one that did duty in New
York--had come in and crowded out the old "machines." Volunteers were no
longer wanted.

Very different affairs were fires in those days from what they are now.
Then the first shout of "fire!" set loose a very bedlam of noises. Bells
rang, every one who was in the street yelled "fire!" and the whole
population rushed madly toward the place where it was supposed to be. It
is a wonder that anything was ever done amidst such a scene of
confusion; but in reality fires were wonderfully well managed.

How different is everything now in all the large cities! In New York,
for instance, there are several fires every day, but most people learn
of them through the newspapers. Not an alarm-bell is rung. Very rarely
is the cry of "fire!" heard.

You are sitting quietly at home, perhaps. Suddenly you hear the sharp
stroke of a peculiarly toned gong. Then there is a thunder of wheels, a
clatter of galloping hoofs, and you rush to the window in time to see a
vision of gleaming brass, flying sparks, dark figures clinging to the
swaying engine, and a pair of noble horses straining every nerve.
Perhaps that may be all you know of a great fire until the next day.

Should you take a car, and follow anywhere from one to ten miles to the
burning building, you will find an immense, quiet crowd, kept out of
harm's way by a strong force of police, while in the cleared space
before the building the tireless steamers are at work, each of them
throwing two or three steady streams of water into the heart of the

Meg's papa told her all about this, and how seldom it is that a fire
nowadays has a chance to make much headway; but her visit to an
engine-house was the most comforting. There she saw the splendid horses,
and the engine in perfect order, with the wood under the boiler ready to
light; and the man on duty explained how the stroke of the alarm-bell
unhitched the horses, if they were in their stalls, and how the handsome
creatures knew just where to go to be "hitched up," and how eager they
were for their race to the fire.

Just as he was quietly showing them all this, a succession of
ear-piercing clangs were heard. Meg's papa knew what it meant, and
catching his little girl up in his arms, hurried with her into an
out-of-the-way corner. The still, well-ordered engine-house was
instantly alive with energy. The horses snorted with excitement, as they
backed out of their stalls and trotted into place. Hurried footsteps
were heard overhead and on the stairs, and in a moment several men were
springing to their stations. One turned on the steam and lighted the
fire; others made fast the few buckles required to attach the harness.
The driver was in his seat, the whip cracked, and away went the already
smoking engine at a tearing pace.

Meg trembled like a leaf when it was all over, and her father was afraid
that she would be more nervously timid than ever. But to his surprise
she said to him as they walked home, "Papa, now I've seen how everything
is done, I shall never be afraid any more."

And just after she said so they met the engine on its way back, for the
fire was already out.

NURSERY RHYMES.--_Continued_.


  A pocket full of posies;
  Hush! hush! hush! hush!
  We're all tumbled down.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Little maid, little maid,
    Whither goest thou?
  Down in the meadow
    To milk my cow.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Seesaw--Jack in the hedge,
  Which is the way to London Bridge?

       *       *       *       *       *


  As I was going up Pippin Hill,
    Pippin Hill was dirty;
  There I met a pretty lass,
    And she dropped me a courtesy.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Goosey, goosey, gander,
  Where shall I wander?
  Up stairs and down stairs,
  And in my lady's chamber.

       *       *       *       *       *


  As Tommy Snooks and Bessie Brooks
    Were walking out one Sunday;
  Says Tommy Snooks to Bessie Brooks,
    "To-morrow--will be Monday."

       *       *       *       *       *


  Georgie Peorgie, pudding and pie,
  Kissed the girls and made them cry:
  When the girls came out to play,
  Georgie Peorgie ran away.

       *       *       *       *       *


  My mother and your mother
    Went over the way;
  Said my mother to your mother,
    "It's a chop-a-nose day."

       *       *       *       *       *


  Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
  Learned to play when he was young.
  And with his pipe made such a noise,
  That he pleased all the girls and boys.

[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]

Now that the leaves are falling, and the wind is whistling round the
eaves and roaring down the chimneys, we must think of pleasant things to
do in-doors. Who likes to toss a bean-bag back and forth? We know of no
exercise so simple, so easy, and so well calculated to develop the
muscles of the arms and chest as this pretty, graceful game of throwing
the bean-bag. Take some strong calico from your mother's piece-bag, and
make a square case of any size you please, sewing it all up except one
little space, into which you must pour your beans. Having done this, sew
up that corner tightly, and your bag will be made. Two or three
bean-bags will be necessary if there are several young people to enjoy
the frolic. A good time for this special game is the last half-hour
before dusk, and if you can coax mamma and auntie to join you, all the

Jack-stones are favorites with many children. Little silk bags filled
with rice are sometimes substituted for stones in this game. They make a
sweet and musical _swishing_ sound as they are thrown up and caught.

The little girls who have china dolls might make very cunning pen-wipers
by taking eight pieces of gay flannel or merino--from mother's piece-bag
again--cutting them into a circular shape, and folding twice, stitch
them around Miss Dolly, who will then look precisely like a fairy in
fluted petticoats.

       *       *       *       *       *


     You have asked the children to tell of their amusements, so we send
     you a game called "Genteel Lady." You must have a number of twisted
     papers made to represent horns. For each mistake that a player may
     make, a horn is stuck in the hair. The game begins by one of the
     party saying to her neighbor on the right hand, "Good-morning,
     genteel lady, always genteel. I, a genteel lady always, come from
     that genteel lady always genteel" (pointing to the person on her
     left hand) "to tell you that she has an eagle with a golden beak."
     This is repeated by the next girl, who must add something to the
     last phrase, but must keep strictly to the formal introduction. It
     is quite likely that she will make a mistake, and if she does, she
     is immediately to receive a horn. After this she will be called
     "the one-horned lady, always one-horned," until she shall receive
     another horn, when she will be called "the two-horned," etc. Each
     person who repeats what has been last said without making a mistake
     must add something--as silver claws, diamond eyes, raven plumage,
     or whatever else she chooses--to the description of the eagle. At
     the end the horns, which are regarded as forfeits, are all

     We like the stories in YOUNG PEOPLE very much indeed.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I have written before to your paper, and shall be very much
     disappointed if this goes into that dreadful waste-basket into
     which my first letter must have gone, for I have heard nothing from
     it. I have taken YOUNG PEOPLE for nearly a year, and think it is a
     splendid paper. I spent my vacation this summer at Hempstead, Long
     Island. I caught several turtles. I visited Garden City, and saw
     the cathedral and other noted buildings. I am very fond of animals.
     I have a black cat named Ned. I had a greyhound named Golden, but
     he died in a fit while I was away this summer. I have also a
     gold-fish. I read the account of President Garfield's boyhood in
     YOUNG PEOPLE. I hope we boys will profit by his example.


       *       *       *       *       *

The following letter will show country boys how a city boy of ten, who
had spent all his life in a large hotel, enjoyed his first visit to a
village where he could play in the fields, and enjoy the society of
other boys in out-of-door sports. He sent an account of his experience
to his parents, who have kindly allowed us to print it in Our
Post-office Box.


     DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,--I am having lots of fun with Harry F.,
     Lester S., Willie R., and Clint H. at recess. These are the boys
     who go to school. At recess we play lasso, and tree-tag, and pussy
     in the corner. Papa, I rode Kit day before yesterday night in the
     dark to Plainfield, and yesterday I rode her to Plainfield and all
     around Robert's house. I went out in the corn field to see Robert
     husk corn. Then when I went home to uncle's, he wanted me to go and
     get the cows; but I could only find the calves, though I looked all
     over for them; then I drove the calves, and uncle and I went to
     look for the cows, but he went afoot, and I went on horseback; and
     I saw one in the corn, and I went there, and I saw four cows, and I
     drove them home all alone, and I was so busy I did not shut the
     bars, and uncle wanted me to go back alone and shut the bars. Dear
     father, I appreciate the popper and corn, and two days ago I popped
     a panful, and the boys and I ate it out in the yard, and had a good
     time. To-day I popped a panful, and Wallace and I ate a little of
     it, and saved the rest, and I have got it now popped. Dear papa, I
     learned to husk corn to-day, and yesterday I helped uncle churn to
     make butter. Oh, mamma, there are lots of girls go to school over
     here, and have a lot of fun. I can ride terribly fast on Kit. I
     borrow Mr. McClellan's saddle and bridle. Oh, mamma, the seat of my
     pants is nearly all torn off, and I have no others. I wish I could
     get them fixed. Can you tell me how I can, mamma? The boys think a
     great deal of me--I know they do. Oh, papa, I guess I will get fat
     pretty soon, because I eat about ten sweet-potatoes, a lot of
     chicken, and toast at every meal. If I stay much longer, I will
     want some more money--about fifty cents.

  Very truly, your son,

       *       *       *       *       *


     I have often thought I should like to write to the readers of
     HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. I live in London, England. HARPER'S YOUNG
     PEOPLE is given to us by a very kind American gentleman who lives
     in London. I have two sisters, named Eleanor and Maud, and three
     brothers, named Francis, Charles, and Edward. We all thought that
     "Toby Tyler" was delightful. I am in the Telegraph School in
     London; I expect some day when I get into an office I shall send
     telegrams to America; I do not think I like any English magazine so
     well as HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. I am very fond of reading the
     letters in the Post-office Box. I was very sorry to hear of the sad
     death of President Garfield, and the day that he was buried I went
     to hear the bells of St. Paul's Cathedral ring. They ring only when
     great people die. They were muffled, and sounded so very solemn! It
     seemed as if one of our own great men had died. I never remember
     anything like it. It seemed as if every one was in mourning.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I want to tell YOUNG PEOPLE what a nice trip we had on Lake
     Michigan this summer. There were papa, mamma, my sister, my two
     aunts, my uncle, and myself. At first we went on the cars to
     Racine; then we went on board the _Muskegan_. At first I did not
     know what to think of finding myself on such a large steamboat. We
     went to Milwaukee, then to Sheboygan, Jacksonport, Escanaba, and up
     to Green Bay. We had fair weather all the time, and that made it
     delightful. At most of the places we got off the boat, and rambled
     about. There was another little girl on the boat just about my
     sister's age. We had lots of fun playing doll and telling stories
     and riddles. One evening papa, that other little girl, whose name
     is Mabel, and myself, were on deck, and began telling stories and
     riddles. There were some little bits of boys and girls there who
     had some knit horse-reins, and liked to have us drive them. We went
     up on the hurricane-deck, and looked upon the water. We came home
     well pleased with our trip.

  S. BELLE C. (aged 9).

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl twelve years old. I have got a little dog named
     Trip; I have a little harness, and I drive him. I have a little
     squirrel named Chickery. I and two of my friends went chestnutting,
     and got six nuts apiece. I have a little sister named Leva. Maybe I
     will take HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE next year. My little friend takes
     it, and I like it very much. I hope I may see my letter printed.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I, too, am twelve years old. I take YOUNG PEOPLE, and I like "Toby
     Tyler" and "Tim and Tip" the best. I have a little bird named
     Billy, and a doll named Jennie. I have not any brothers or sisters,
     but a dear little Cousin Ralph. I go to school, and study reading,
     arithmetic, geography, and spelling.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am ten years old, and I have a little pony, and her name is
     Topsy. My papa says she is buckskin-color, but I think she is
     golden. And I had two pet rabbits, one black and one white, and
     papa had a puppy bird dog that broke loose and ate them both up,
     and I could not find them. One day I went out-doors and found their
     ears. We had a wild canary's nest in a maple-tree in our yard, and
     mamma got one of the birds, and it sings more than our tame one. I
     attend school, and study geography, arithmetic, Fourth Reader,
     grammar, spelling, and writing. I am the youngest in all my
     classes, but still keep a little ahead. I like the stories in YOUNG
     PEOPLE very much.

  ANNA L. P.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I have written to you once before; but not having seen my letter
     published, I thought I would try again. Papa has taken YOUNG PEOPLE
     for my brother Harry and me since the first number came out. We
     take turns about reading it first. Harry has it first one week, and
     I get it first the next week. Papa made that rule because we both
     wanted it at once. We were so anxious to read about poor Toby
     Tyler! Papa read to us out of the paper about the boat that is
     called for him. We have two cats. The older one will not let us pet
     her at all, but the other is very gentle. We once had a cat that
     used to get on grandma's shoulder and take off her glasses, and she
     used to mind two little guinea-pigs we had. If she thought they got
     too far from the house, she would chase them back; and when papa
     brought them home she thought they were kittens, for she used to
     cuddle them up to her; and if they got frightened, they would run
     and get under her. When cold weather came, we sent them to the
     Zoological Garden, as we had no place to keep them, and grandma
     said the gray cat ought to have gone to take care of them. Mamma
     says she sees only one defect in YOUNG PEOPLE; that is, the date is
     not conspicuous enough. I am afraid I am making my letter too long.
     I would like to write more. On Sunday, the 23d of October, I will
     be eleven years old.


As the date is always in the same place, and you know where to look for
it, it does not need to be very conspicuous for bright young eyes like

       *       *       *       *       *


     Frank and I are two little boys who live in Louisville. We take
     your paper, and like it so much! I don't know which I like best,
     "Tim and Tip" or "Talking Leaves"; but Frank likes to read the
     letters from the boys and girls, and we want to tell them about our
     squirrels. We have had them about six months. They live in a large
     tin cage with a wheel, and they are so gentle they will eat from
     our hands, and come out of their house when we call "Bunny." We
     feed them ourselves, and they know us. I hope you will put this
     letter in your Box.


       *       *       *       *       *

     I live in the country about three miles from Scottsville, New York.
     I have for pets one dog named Sport, four cats--their names are
     Jim, Prince, Tramp, and Hayes--one cow named Snowball, one calf
     named Strawberry, and one pony named Nellie. I am staying at my
     grandma's for my health. My grandpa owns a large farm, and keeps
     horses, cows, and other animals. I would like to exchange 100
     postmarks (no duplicates, and some rare), for thirty foreign
     stamps, or forty-five picture-cards (no duplicates). One stone from
     New York, for one foreign stamp. Please write before sending.

  FLORENCE POPE, Scottsville, Monroe Co., N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I wrote to YOUNG PEOPLE a long time ago, but have never seen the
     letter in print, so I will try again.

     I like HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE very much indeed, and I think "Tim and
     Tip" is just splendid. I hope to take this paper another year.

     I have a kitty, and when I go to the shed to feed her, she will
     jump up on a stone that serves as a table, and wait patiently for
     what I have to give her. My little friend Beatrice, two years old,
     is very fond of this kitty, and will come out and say,
     "Good-morning, kitty," and "Good-by, kitty," of her own accord.

     It is fair-day at Oneida, and, if pleasant, Miss Nellie Thurston
     will make a balloon ascension this afternoon at 4 o'clock.

     I am nine years old, and have a sister Christine six years old.


       *       *       *       *       *

     I live on the banks of the Ohio River, opposite Constance, Boone
     County, Kentucky. Just opposite our house is the mouth of the
     little creek which separates Boone County from Kenton County,
     Kentucky. I have a little black dog named Moses, and a cat named
     Mrs. Nellie de Garmo Taliaferro. My father's office is in
     Cincinnati. He brings me the YOUNG PEOPLE every Wednesday, and I go
     to the dépôt to meet him. My name is Bennie E. H., and I shall be
     nine years old the 20th of October.

We hope you had a happy birthday.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I have three brothers and one sister, and myself am eleven years
     old. I have a great big doll, and her name is Mollie; and a cunning
     little one, and her name is Jessie. I let my little brothers play
     with them. My papa is the postmaster. My sister is fourteen years
     old. She would like to exchange flower seeds with some of the
     girls, and she has four different kinds.


       *       *       *       *       *


     We wanted mamma to write and tell you about our dog Gip. When he is
     out-doors and wants to come in, he goes to the front door and rings
     the bell. I wonder if any of the other children who take YOUNG
     PEOPLE have such a smart dog. We have a little goat that came here
     last week, and it follows us all over.


       *       *       *       *       *


     My uncle has taken YOUNG PEOPLE for his "brood of little folks," as
     he calls his nephews and nieces, since the first number. The brood
     are my cousins Willie and Grace, my sister Florence, and
     myself--all of whom are old enough to read--also my two sisters and
     brother, Mattie, Hattie, and Clarence, who are too young yet to
     read, but who like very much to look at the pictures, and to whom
     we read the stories. I have never seen a letter in YOUNG PEOPLE
     from any of its many readers in Lynn, so I thought I would write
     one. My uncle has two fine yellow cats, striped like tigers. Their
     names are Toby Tyler and Jimmy Brown. Every morning Toby goes to
     the door that opens on the stairway leading to my uncle's room, and
     mews and rattles the latch until some one opens the door and lets
     him run up to the apartment. As soon as Toby gets there he jumps up
     on the bed, and wakes my uncle up by pawing him in the face; and
     one morning he sat down on my uncle's face. I am twelve years old.


       *       *       *       *       *


     We have two little kittens, the very prettiest kittens I ever saw.
     We have been rowing a great many times this summer, and I have
     learned to row and to swim.


We wish all the boys, and the girls too, would learn to swim, if they
live near the water. Swimming is easily learned, and once learned, is
never forgotten.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

The first story which I shall relate in outline to the readers of this
column was written a quarter of a century ago by Dr. John Brown, of
Edinburgh. A physician with a large practice, he has found time for
literary pursuits, and his occasional essays, collected into two volumes
of _Spare Hours_, have been the delight of a host of thoughtful and
cultivated people. As in the sketches I shall give you now and then I
must study brevity, I hope those who may have time and opportunity will
go from me to the original story-writers, and read for themselves.


Rab was a huge mastiff, "old, gray, brindled, as big as a little
Highland bull," fierce, kind-hearted, and faithful. He belonged to a
carrier, or what we would call an expressman--a thin, impatient,
dark-haired little man, to whom Rab was entirely submissive. Dr. Brown
being fond of dogs, had formed quite a friendship with this one, which
dated back to the doctor's boyhood, when, seeing Rab attacked by a
savage little bull-terrier, which was madly trying to fight whatever
came in its way, he stepped up to Rab and cut the muzzle which prevented
the great creature from defending himself. Six years after this, when
the doctor was a young medical student, there came a procession to the
hospital one afternoon in October. In at the large gate walked Rab, with
"that great and easy saunter of his. He looked as if taking general
possession of the place, like the Duke of Wellington entering a subdued
city, satiated with victory and peace." After him came the old white
mare Jess, drawing the carrier's cart, in which Ailee, the carrier's
wife, was seated, her husband not driving, but walking at the mare's
head, and leading her carefully along.

There is no _genre_ sketch in the English language which is finer than
the description of Ailee Noble and her husband James. His plaid was
about her. His big coat was carefully tucked around her feet. She had a
sweet pale face, with silvery hair, and dark gray eyes, "eyes full of
suffering, and full of the overcoming of it." He had a swarthy,
weather-beaten countenance, shrewd and keen. She was like a delicate
snow-drop in her unworldliness and purity. She was the victim of a
dreadful malady, a cancer in her breast, and only the surgeon's knife
could cure it. In those days--nearly sixty years ago--chloroform was
unknown as a blessed relief from pain. Ailee was put to bed for that
night, and the faithful husband and dog watched by her side. The dog
reminded Dr. Brown, oddly enough, in his size and dignity, of a famous
Baptist preacher, Andrew Fuller, with his look of sombre command, as "of
thunder asleep, but ready." Next day the operation was performed. The
beautiful old woman bore it with perfect patience and silence; and when
it was over, the surrounding students, though accustomed to see people
suffer, wept like children. The husband "happed" her up, and carried her
to her room again, Rab following.

"I'll hae nane o' yer strynge nurse bodies for Ailee, Maister John,"
said James. "I'll be her nurse, an' I'll gang aboot on my stockin' soles
as canny as pussy."

For several days she seemed to do well under his kind care. Then she
grew worse, wandered in her mind, thought she had in her arms her "wee
Mysie, forty years and mair" in heaven; at last came to herself, said
"James," and with a long loving look for him, a glance for the kind
young doctor, and one for Rab, then another satisfied gaze into her
husband's face, she shut her eyes, and fell asleep in death.

There is little more to tell. Poor James did not long survive his wife.
By the fall of the first snow, the two were in the same grave. Rab was
taken by the carrier who succeeded to the business, but he would not
eat, he would not leave the stable where old Jess was kept, nor would he
let his new master come near him. At last that master had to kill him.

"I was laith to mak awa wi' th' auld dowg," said this man, "but I could
doe naething else."

And says our author: "I believed him. Fit end for Rab. His teeth and his
friends gone, why should he keep the peace and be civil?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Marie G. Hamblin proposes that the boys and girls who read YOUNG PEOPLE
shall emulate Secretary Blaine, and learn to repeat in their order the
names of the sovereigns of England, and the dates of their respective
coronations. She suggests that all who do so shall send their names,
accompanied by the signatures of their parents or teachers, to the
Postmistress, that the Editor of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE and Dr. Vincent
may know that they are trying to acquire useful knowledge. The
Postmistress approves of the plan, and gives the remainder of 1881 as
the time in which all who wish may endeavor to thus exercise their
memories. The names of the diligent students will be duly printed in
this column.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many persons erroneously think that a letter if left unsealed will be
sent by the Post-office Department for one cent. They write their
letter, leave it open, and affix a one-cent stamp to the envelope. In
all such cases the recipient is compelled to pay the additional postage.
And while this may not be an affair of great importance to an individual
who receives an occasional letter, it involves a large expenditure when,
as in the case of Harper & Brothers, letters are received by the
thousands weekly.

Full letter postage is at the rate of three cents per every half ounce
in America. Letters to Europe cost five cents per half ounce. Little
readers will please remember this, and remind their elders, if they
forget it.

       *       *       *       *       *


  Along the river's summer walk
    The withered tufts of asters nod,
  And trembles on its arid stalk
    The hoar plume of the golden-rod.
  And on a ground of sombre fir
  And azure-studded juniper
  The silver-birch its buds of purple shows,
  And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild rose.


  The ash her purple drops forgivingly
  And sadly, breaking not the general hush;
  The maple swamps glow like a sunset sea,
  Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush;
  All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze
  Of bushes low, as when on cloudy days
  Ere the rain falls the cautious farmer burns his brush.


     What School of Design can vie with the autumn colors? The leaves
     are not dipped in one dye, as at the dye-house, but they are dyed
     in light of various degrees of strength, and left to set and dry
     there.--HENRY D. THOREAU.

  The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
  Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
  Heaped in the hollows of the grove the autumn leaves lie dead;
  They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.


       *       *       *       *       *


     DEAR POSTMISTRESS,--Will you admit an old lady into your pleasant
     circle? I wish to say a word or two about the poor cat Augusta C.
     dislikes so much. Probably one reason why most people like dogs
     better than cats is that dogs like people best, and cats like
     places best. A dog will follow his owner to new places, but usually
     a cat will stay at the old place, even if she is the only thing
     left, unless she is blinded and carried away by force, and then she
     will be frightened and confused for several days, though all her
     old friends may be with her. But a dog only wants his old friends
     with him, and he will stay almost anywhere. Cats are very
     interesting, though they are not quite so loving. I have a cat
     which a few years ago swallowed something which "stuck in her
     throat," and the poor creature was badly troubled by it for a long
     time. She could not lap either milk or water, and I was afraid she
     would die. I tried to feed her with a spoon, as I have often fed
     lambs, but did not succeed very well; her teeth were too sharp. As
     I sat watching poor Katherine's efforts one day to drink a saucer
     of warm milk which I had given her, I thought of trying to feed her
     with a bottle. I put the milk into one which would hold a small
     tea-cupful, and took her in my lap to feed her. Well, she and I
     "made a mess" of it the first time. But after one or two trials
     more, I succeeded in teaching her to drink from the bottle without
     spilling the milk. Every time I thought she ought to be fed--which
     was morning and night--I would get the bottle ready, and say,
     "Katherine, do you want your milk?" If she was in a sound sleep,
     she would spring up and mew in reply, and stand up on her hind-legs
     like a rabbit. Then I would stoop down to her and hold out my left
     hand, and she would lean her "elbows" on it, and put her paws on
     the "shoulders" of the bottle, I holding it in my right hand, and
     tipping it as she drank the milk, until she had taken the whole.
     She would frequently mew for more, and follow me around until I
     would give her another drink, when she would lick her chops, wash
     her face, and lie down for a nap.

     When drinking she would sit on her haunches, straight up, and put
     her little paws around the bottle in the most comical way
     imaginable. One could not keep from laughing to see her. If I
     attempted to take it away before she was done, she would run her
     nails out and hold on with quite a grip. I fed her in this way for
     more than six weeks; and it was such a funny sight that the
     neighbors would come in and ask me to feed her, and friends from
     quite a distance would ask after my cat, and beg to see her eat. I
     fed her longer than was necessary on this account, for she
     recovered from the trouble after a while, and is as well now as
     ever she was, only she is getting old. I sometimes tempt her with
     the bottle now, just to see if she remembers her old
     accomplishment. But Katherine is a very wise cat. She would use the
     bottle when it was "prescribed" for her. When it was no longer
     necessary, she seemed to prefer the natural way of drinking.


       *       *       *       *       *

We place before the C. Y. P. R. U. this week a variety of instructive
and entertaining articles. The sketch of Charlotte Corday, from the pen
of one of our most able American historians, will recall the lesson
taught by the terrible French Revolution; a "Dangerous Plaything" will
show the boys and girls what strong measures are taken in our large
cities to check the ravages made by fire; and "Lawn Tennis" will give
them an idea of another new device in the way of an out-door game for
developing weak muscles and cultivating health and strength. As for the
article on our second page, entitled "Luck," we trust that it is going
to do a great deal toward inducing our young readers to cast that stupid
word out of their vocabulary.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.


1.--1. A dictionary. 2. Part of a shilling. 3. A girl's name. 4. A
letter. 5. An animal. 6. An atom. 7. Transit. Centrals read downward
spell the name of a partly civilized people.

2.--1. A mean parasite. 2. A precious gem. 3. To yell. 4. A letter. 5.
An interrogation. 6. To form the texture. 7. A peculiar appearance of
the eye. Centrals read downward spell the name of a monster of the
Northern seas.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.


  My whole is a familiar adage.
  My 1, 2, 3, 9, 13 is the home of a minister.
  My 14, 20, 2, 7 must never be retained.
  My 19, 11, 9, 18, 13 has brought thousands to poverty.
  My 21, 20, 9, 13 is the pride of the garden.
  My 16, 17, 20, 9, 18 is a terror to the silly.
  My 8, 20, 16 is a faithful friend.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.


1. A city of the United States. 2. A body of water. 3. Beheld. 4. To
brown. 5. A preposition. 6. A letter.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.


1. A letter. 2. A Spanish coin. 3. A morose man. 4. A puzzle. 5. Part of
a ship. 6. A rod. 7. A letter.

  R. O. BERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 5.


1. A letter. 2. An animal. 3. Prongs. 4. Girths. 5. A genus of plants.
6. One of the osseous fishes. 7. Opinion. 8. To perch. 9. A letter.


       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.

  C H A S S E U R
  L A S H E R S
  A S P I R E
  S P E R E
  H I R E
  I N S
  N G

No. 2.

Kite, hue, habitual, chest, jot. The house that Jack built.

No. 3.

Shut the door.

No. 4.


       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Mamie G. Henderson,
Ray W. Osborne, George Sylvester, C. S. F.

       *       *       *       *       *

[_For Exchanges, see third page of cover._]



[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

This is a very simple and funny little toy which any boy or girl can
make without a great deal of time or trouble. You must trace Fig. 1 on a
piece of white or black paper, but black is better. After cutting it
out, paste it on a piece of white card-board. Now cut out the round
holes, which are meant for eyes, and the four square holes A, B, C, and
D. Figs. 2, 3, and 4 must be traced on a piece of stiff card-board, and
cut out. The lower piece (_a_), which represents the trunk, is put
through hole A of Fig. 1. Now put Figs. 3 and 4 through the holes C and
D; then run a thread through the little round holes of Figs. 2, 3, and
4, overlapping Figs. 3 and 4 behind Fig. 2, and knotting the threads so
as to form a pivot. Now put _b_ through hole B, and pass it through the
little hole near the upper edge of the card, as shown in Fig. 5.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.]

[Illustration: FIG. 4.]

Pull the trunk down as far as you can, and mark with your pen through
the eye-holes two little round dots for eyeballs, as shown in Fig. 2.
Then mark out the lines of the head, back, etc., with a little white

[Illustration: FIG. 5.]

Now by pulling _b_ up and pushing it down, we have an elephant like Fig.
5, which will move his tail, trunk, ears, and eyes as naturally as any
elephant which has been born and brought up in the circus.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Leaf Photographs=.--A very pretty amusement, especially for those who
have just completed the study of botany, is the taking of leaf
photographs. One very simple process is this: At any druggist's get an
ounce of bichromate of potassium. Put this into a pint bottle of water.
When the solution becomes saturated--that is, the water has dissolved as
much as it will--pour off some of the clear liquid into a shallow dish;
on this float a piece of ordinary writing-paper until it is thoroughly
wet. Let it become dry in the dark. It should be of a bright yellow. On
this put the leaf; under it a piece of black soft cloth and several
sheets of newspapers. Put these between two pieces of glass, and with
spring clothes-pins fasten them together. Expose to a bright sun,
placing the leaf so that the rays will fall upon it as nearly
perpendicular as possible. In a few moments it will begin to turn brown;
but it requires from half an hour to several hours to produce a perfect
print. When it has become dark enough, take it from the frame and put it
in clear water, which must be changed every few minutes until the yellow
part becomes white.


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