Title: The Pansy Magazine, Vol. 15, Dec. 1887
Author: Various
Language: English
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  $1.00 a Year.      DECEMBER, 1887.      10 cts. a No.



THE PANSY

EDITED BY “PANSY” MRS. G. R. ALDEN

“PANSIES for THOUGHTS”

D. LOTHROP COMPANY BOSTON, MASS., U.S.A.

Copyright, 1887, by D. LOTHROP COMPANY. Published monthly. Entered at
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  _Volume 15, Number 5._      Copyright, 1887, by D. LOTHROP COMPANY.
                 _December 3, 1887._

THE PANSY.


[Illustration: CHARLIE IS DISCOURAGED.]


A DARK EVENING.

[Illustration: H]E was just discouraged, and that was the whole of it.
He sat close to the stove, leaned his ragged elbow on his knee, and his
cheek on a rather sooty hand, and gave himself up to troubled thought,
the two books which had slipped from him, lying unheeded on the floor.

Let them lie there; what was the use in trying to study? Here was the
third evening this week that he had been held, after hours, when he
wanted to go to the night school and find out how to do that example!
He might just as well give up first as last.

There was a loud stamping outside, and the door of the little flag
station burst open, letting in a rush of spiteful winter air.

“Halloo!” said a boy of about fourteen, muffled to his eyes in fur.

“Halloo yourself,” said the boy by the stove, without changing his
position more than was necessary to glance up.

“Has the six o’clock freight gone down yet?”

“Not as I know of; I wish she would be about it; I’ve been waiting on
her now an hour after time.”

“Lucky for me she is behind, though; I guess I can catch a ride into
town on her, can’t I? I’ve been out to Windmere, and missed the five
o’clock mail; I set out to foot it, but it is rather rough walking
against this wind; especially when you have to walk on ice. I’d rather
be toted in on the freight, than to try it. Do you suppose they will
give me a lift?”

“You can sit down and wait, and try for it, if you like,” and the boy
glanced toward a three-legged stool.

“I’d give you this chair only it hasn’t any bottom,” he said, with a
dreary attempt at a smile.

“The stool is all right. Do you have to wait every night for the
freight?”

“No; not much oftener than every other night; it isn’t my business to
wait at all, but as often as three times a week the fellow in charge
wants me to do that, or something else, after I’m off duty.”

“So you fill up the time with reading; that’s a good idea. What have
you here?”

The visitor stooped and picked up the fallen books.

“Arithmetic and History! You are studying, eh? Well, now, I call that
industrious. Where do you go to school?”

“Nowhere. I pretend to go to the evening class at the Twenty-third
Street Station, and sometimes I get there twice in the week, and
sometimes only once. It’s a discouraging kind of studying. I’ve been
after one example for two weeks and can’t get it.”

“Whereabouts are you? Ho! that old fellow; I remember him. I can show
you about it, there’s just a mean little catch to it; but you’ve done
well to get so far along.”

Then the two heads bent over the book, and over the row of figures on
the margin of a freight bill; and presently the face of the discouraged
boy lighted with a smile; he saw through the “catch.” Then there was a
little talk between the two.

Ralph Westwood learned that the boy was an orphan; was working at
the freight depot beyond his strength and on very small pay, because
times were hard, and boys plenty; that he had a little sister in the
Orphans’ Home, and the ambition of his life was to learn, and become a
scholar, and earn money to support the little sister. He went to school
regularly while mother lived, and worked between times to help support
himself; and mother wanted him to be a scholar, and thought it was in
him, but she had been dead for two years, and things were growing worse
with him, and sometimes he was discouraged.

Then the freight came, and Ralph Westwood caught his ride into town,
and had only time to say:—

“Don’t give it up, Charlie; who knows what may happen? Christmas is
coming.”

“Christmas!” said Charlie to himself with a bitter smile; what could
that bring to him but more work, because of an extra train, and late
hours and scanty fare, and not even time to run up to the “Home” and
see little Nell? Didn’t he remember how it was last Christmas?

As for Ralph Westwood he waited only to brush the snow from his
clothes, and wash away the stains of soot from his hands, which must
have been left when he shook hands with Charlie, then he sought a
handsome library where a gentleman sat reading. Here he did not even
wait to reply to the cordial “Good evening!” which greeted him, save as
his polite bow was a reply, then he dashed into business. “Uncle Ralph!
I have found your boy for you.”

“Indeed! that is quick work! Where did you find him?”

“I blundered on him; the very one. I didn’t know why I should have
missed the five o’clock train, and he didn’t know why he should have to
do overwork to-night. I hope we shall both have a glorious reason why
it worked out before our eyes.”

Then he drew a low chair in front of the lovely grate fire, and told
his story.

That was three weeks before Christmas. A great deal can be done in
three weeks. Ralph Westwood and his Uncle Ralph did a great deal, and,
at the end of the time, knew almost more about Charlie Watson than he
knew of himself.

The end of it all, or, more properly speaking, the beginning of
it all, came to Charlie on Christmas eve: an invitation to Dr.
Westwood’s elegant home, to meet seven boys, all of whom were in the
Sabbath-school class which Charlie had just joined.

I wish I had time to tell you about the dinner-table to which they
all sat down. Roast turkey, of course, and cranberry sauce, and
chicken-pie, and jellies and tarts, and all the elegancies of an
elegant dinner, the like of which none of them had ever seen before.
At each plate was a bouquet of roses. Think of roses at Christmas, for
eight hard-working, homeless boys!

Some people might think they didn’t like those roses with all their
hearts; but some people don’t understand some boys. Slipped into each
bouquet was a slip of paper which said on it “Merry Christmas!” in
beautiful writing, and then followed wonderful things. One paper was
a receipt for a year’s house rent, for one of the boys who lived with
his mother, and had hard work to meet the landlord’s agent each month.
Another had an order on a certain tailor for a full suit of clothes,
such as it could be plainly seen he very much needed: every one had
something. When Charlie Watson read his, he turned red and pale by
turns, and stammered and trembled, and knew not what to say.

It was longer than the others, and it took him some time to understand
it all; but at last he made out that he was to enter the Fort Street
Grammar School as a pupil, on the Tuesday after New Year’s, and that
his home was to be at Dr. Westwood’s office, which he was expected to
keep in order, in return for his board and clothes.

What an amazing chance had come to him! Do you wonder that he trembled
and stammered?

But, after all, I don’t know that he was any happier than Ralph
Westwood, who hovered about him in great satisfaction, and in one of
the pauses of his duties as assistant host, found a chance to murmur,
“I say, Charlie, aren’t you rather glad the six o’clock freight was
late, that night?”

                                                    PANSY.


A HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU!

  A HAPPY Christmas to you!
    For the Light of Life is born,
  And his coming is the sunshine
    Of the dark and wintry morn.
  The grandest Orient glow must pale,
  The loveliest Western gleam must fail,
    But his great Light,
    So full, so bright,
  Ariseth for thy heart to-day,
  His shadow-conquering beams shall never pass away.

  A happy Christmas to you!
    For the Prince of peace is come,
  And his reign is full of blessings,
    Their very crown and sum.
  No earthly calm can ever last.
  ’Tis but the lull before the blast:
    But his great peace
    Shall still increase
  In mighty, all rejoicing sway;
  His kingdom in thy heart can never pass away.
                           FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL.


ARCHIE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

  TWENTY-ONE, two, three, four and five!
  Just a quarter, sure’s I’m alive!
  And that will buy the funniest doll,
  Rubber and worsted, for Baby Moll.

  That takes all of my ready cash,
  And breaks my bank all into smash;
  You little tin bank, you’re never full;
  I can’t work much nights after school.

[Illustration: ARCHIE.]

  These days are so short the light don’t last,
  And Christmas is coming so fast, so fast!
  I won’t ask father to give me a cent;
  He works too hard for bread and rent,

  But mother must have a Christmas gift;
  O dear! who’ll give a fellow a lift?
  Dear mamma! her hair is pretty and brown,
  And her smile so sweet, with never a frown.

  I’ll get her something, I will! I will!
  But how’ll I get it’s the question still.
  I know!—I’ve got such a splendid plan;
  ’Tis good enough for a grown-up man.

  I think my present will be just grand;
  ’Tis this: I’ll write, in my nicest hand,
  A pledge that liquor I’ll never drink;
  That I’ll never swear—and then I think

  I’ll write that tobacco I’ll never use,
  In tobacco pipes or tobacco chews.
  I’ll get an envelope, clean and white,
  And on it mamma’s name I’ll write.

  And I’ll copy it out so nice and fair,
  And sign my name at the bottom there:
  “Archibald Spinner!” O what a name!
  But Grandpa wears it, and ’tis no shame.

  “Archibald!” Mamma will like it so.
  “Archie!” she says when I’m good, I know,
  But I think ’twill please her—I know it will!
  Her dear brown eyes with tears will fill,

  But behind the tears there will be for me
  The happy twinkle I love to see.
  So, “Archibald Spinner,” the road is long,
  You must make your mind up good and strong

  Before you put down in black and white,
  The pledge that the angels in Heaven will write.
  Yes, I’m going to do it! I’ve counted the cost:
  There is _all_ to gain, and nothing lost.

  Now Christmas may come—come slow, or come fast—
  I’m ready to meet it, ready at last;
  Who in this town has a finer show
  Than “Archibald II.,” I’d like to know!
                      EMILY BAKER SMALLE.


“WE TWELVE GIRLS.”

BY PANSY.

    THE SEED IS THE WORD OF GOD.

    THE HARVEST IS THE END OF THE WORLD, AND THE REAPERS
    ARE THE ANGELS.

    SO SHALL IT BE AT THE END OF THE WORLD: THE ANGELS
    SHALL COME FORTH, AND SEVER THE WICKED FROM AMONG THE
    JUST.

                                    MORRISVILLE, _December, 1887_.

  DEAR GIRLS:

I took that first verse for mine: not because it was short, but because
the talk we had in Sunday-school kept me thinking about it. We were
planning the next Sunday’s lesson, and one of the girls said she didn’t
see how Bible verses could be called seeds: that set Mrs. Wheeler
off into an explanation; she told some lovely stories about how Bible
words dropped into human hearts had borne flowers and fruit; then she
suggested that we girls try it, and see what fruit we could raise for
Christmas.

[Illustration: Polly put the Kettle on

EMMELINE IS CONVINCED.]

As you may imagine, I liked the plan ever so much, for it made me think
of you all; and I decided to take just that verse and see how many
seeds I could sow. I had a half-dozen plans which, if I had carried
them out, would have been splendid fruit, I am sure; and would have
made a lovely letter to write you, but they were all spoiled, and all I
can do is to tell you about it.

Last Tuesday was a lovely winter day, just the one for beginning some
of my beautiful plans, and I had been wishing I could get Aunt Helen to
go down town with me to help me do some shopping. I thought of asking
her, but she is a rather new auntie, you know, and I didn’t quite like
to.

Just after dinner mamma asked me if I didn’t want to take a basket of
tea rolls to Grandma Dunlap. She isn’t my grandma, but a very nice
old lady whom everybody calls grandma; she is quite poor and people
send her things very often. I like to go there; the little house is so
cunning, and everything as neat as wax, and old-fashioned.

I asked mamma if I must hurry back, and she said, “Just as you please;
if you want to take a walk in this crisp air, there is nothing to
hinder you from being gone for a couple of hours.”

Then up spoke Aunt Helen, “But if you _should_ happen to come back in
time to go out shopping with me, I have some Christmas errands which I
think you might like to help about.”

Just think how glad I was! I said, “O Aunt Helen! that is just exactly
what I want; and could you find time to give me a little Christmas
advice?”

She laughed and said she was good for any amount of advice.

I put on one of my very prettiest dresses and my best hat, so as to be
ready to go with Aunt Helen; and then I started for Grandma Dunlap’s
as fast as I could; I said it would not take me over a half-hour to go
there and back.

O girls, I had such lovely schemes. I wish I had time to tell you about
them, but of what use would it be to tell now that they are fallen
through? I had a five dollar gold piece of my very own, and I was going
to lay it out for Christmas in what I hoped would be seeds, bearing
fruit for Jesus. And don’t you think I didn’t do it at all! I found
Grandma Dunlap in bed; she had a hoarse cold and a headache, and so
much rheumatism that she could not even turn over in bed.

“I managed to keep up until after breakfast,” she said, “and then
I went right back to bed, and this stiffness came on me, so that I
haven’t been able to stir since.”

The cunning little kitchen hadn’t been swept that day; and there wasn’t
any fire on the hearth. Grandma said it happened that nobody had been
in to see her. Now of course you know, girls, what came to me right
away; that I ought to sweep the room and make a fire and get her a cup
of tea and something to eat. But I am ashamed to tell you that I said
to myself: “Well, I can’t do it; Aunt Helen will be waiting for me,
and besides I have my best dress on, and mamma does not like me to do
housework in this dress. And besides all that, if I don’t buy some of
those things _right away_, it will be too late to carry out my plans.”
I told Grandma Dunlap I was sorry she was sick, and I would tell mamma,
and have something done for her, and then I took my sun umbrella and
turned toward the door; when up came that verse which I was working by,
“The seed is the word,” and along with it came the verse, “Even Christ
pleased not himself.” And another, “If Christ, so loved us, we ought
also to love one another.” And then, piling on top of that, came the
Golden Rule about doing to others as you would have them do to you;
and, O dear! I don’t know how many more there were; seeds, you know,
which had been dropped in my heart, and were trying as hard as they
could to spring up and bear fruit and I was trying to choke them. I
stopped short, with my hand on the door latch and turned around, and
the queer little tile over grandma’s chimney which has painted on it
in funny old-fashioned letters, “Polly, put the kettle on,” seemed to
speak to me as plainly as though my name had been Polly, instead of
Emmeline.

Grandma’s grandson painted the letters there; he was going to be an
artist if he had lived; but he didn’t: and she hasn’t any relations in
the world. At last I said, “Wouldn’t you like a cup of tea, Grandma?”
How I did hope she would say she couldn’t think of drinking a drop of
tea, nor eating a mouthful, and that all she wanted was to be left
alone. But she didn’t; she smiled on me and said: “I do feel pretty
faint, Emmie, and if you could give me a bite of your mother’s tea roll
I’ll try to eat it, but I haven’t any tea in the house.”

Well, of course there wasn’t any use in standing there and trying to
make believe that because I had on my best dress I ought not to work;
I knew well enough that mamma would rather have the dress spoiled than
to have Grandma Dunlap suffer, so I just told her that I would go out
to the corner grocery and get a little tea and come back and make her
a cup right away. I didn’t know people ever bought less than a pound
of tea at a time, so I got a whole pound, and it cost a whole dollar.
Did you know, girls, that good tea was so expensive? I never was so
astonished in my life. Then I found out that there wasn’t any butter
nor sugar; and I knew mamma cooked a fresh egg for people when they
couldn’t eat much; and I bought a dozen at the grocery that the man
said had just come from the country, and they were forty-five cents a
dozen; it must cost a great deal of money to keep house; I had no idea
what an expensive thing it was. Just the few things which I _had_ to
get for Grandma Dunlap, cost two dollars and sixty-seven cents! Butter,
it seems, is very expensive stuff, too. The grocer sent the things
right away, and I hurried back, and turned up the skirt of my dress,
and put on a great gingham apron of Grandma’s and made the fire, and
filled the little tea-kettle, and while it was making up its mind to
boil, I swept and dusted the room; then I made Grandma just a lovely
piece of toast, for mamma had sent a loaf of bread, as well as the tea
rolls, and cooked her an egg, and made her a beautiful cup of tea;
then I fed her, and she said she believed she never had had anything
so good in her life before. Then I had to wash up the dishes, and put
everything in order, and fix Grandma’s bed, and bring in some wood,
and go over to Mrs. Barker’s to ask if Jane, when she came from the
factory, would mind coming over and spending the night, and by the time
I had reached home, Aunt Helen had been, and got back; just as I knew
she would be; and mamma said: “Why, child, what in the world kept you
so? I was beginning to be frightened.” They laughed at me a little,
when I told my story, for buying a whole pound of tea, and two pounds
of butter; but mamma said I did right, of course, not to think about my
dress when there was work which ought to be done: and she sent word to
papa to have our doctor go around and see Grandma, and said as soon as
she could leave Baby in the morning, she would go herself.

And, girls, that’s the whole of the story; I have none of the beautiful
things to tell, because I spent more than half my money, and I can’t do
them now; and besides, Aunt Helen doesn’t go away down town shopping
very often.

So my plans are all upset, but some way I don’t feel so very badly
about it; though I would have liked ever so much to try how those seeds
I had in mind, would grow; maybe I can try some of them some other time.

There is just a little bit more: at first I thought I wouldn’t tell
you, but I believe I will. Grandma Dunlap said a very strange and sweet
thing to me just as I was going away. She asked me to bend down so
she could kiss me, and then she said, “You have given the Lord Jesus a
beautiful supper to-night, Emmie.”

At first I was frightened; I thought she did not know what she was
saying, but she looked at me with smiling eyes, and said: “You don’t
know what I mean? Didn’t you know there was a lovely ‘inasmuch’ in his
Book for you? Find it when you go home, Emmie.”

I found what I think she meant. Do you girls know the verse? “Inasmuch
as ye did it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye did it
unto me.” Not that Grandma Dunlap is one of the “least,” she is a dear,
sweet old lady that anybody might be glad to help, but I am sure that
was what she meant; and it made me not care very much about the rest.
This isn’t much of a story; it is only to explain to you why I have no
story to tell.

If I ever should do any of the nice things I planned, I’ll tell you
about them. Until then, you must “take the will for the deed.”

                                   Your loving schoolmate,
                                                 EMMELINE MORROW.


“WHOSOEVER.”

  THERE are children on the floor,
  Conning Bible lessons o’er.

  “Which word all the Bible through
  Do you love best?” queried Sue.

  “I like Faith the best,” said one;
  “Jesus is my word alone.”

  “I like Hope;” “and I like Love;”
  “I like Heaven, our home above.”

  One more smaller than the rest—
  “I like Whosoever best;

  “Whosoever, that means all—
  Even me, who am so small.”

  Whosoever! Ah! I see,
  That’s the word for you and me.

  “Whosoever will” may come—
  Find a pardon and a home.
              —_Gleanings for the Young._

[Illustration: TELLING CHRISTMAS STORIES.]



  _Volume 15, Number 6._      Copyright, 1887, by D. LOTHROP COMPANY.
                 _December 10, 1887._

THE PANSY.


[Illustration: IN THEIR OWN ROOM.—ARRANGING CHRISTMAS CARDS.]


UP GARRET.

(_More about A Sevenfold Trouble._)

CHAPTER I.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

[Illustration: T]HERE is no denying that it was very hard for Margaret
Moore to give up spending the winter with Aunt Cornelia, and, instead,
stay at home and wait on her step-mother through a tedious illness.
When once she had made up her mind to it, she thought the battle of
life was ended and all would hereafter go smoothly with her. Surely
she could meet and conquer anything after that. And who can tell what
she might not have done if she had kept close to Jesus? but young
disciples—and old ones, too—wander from him and forget that it is he
they are to trust, and not their own good resolutions.

Margaret forgot this, and so fell into many snares. In the first place,
she began to feel she was very good. Instead of thinking about Jesus,
what a wonderful Saviour he was, she thought about herself and wondered
if everybody did not think she was a self-denying, noble girl to bear
disappointments and perform disagreeable duties so patiently. She felt
very strong and was sure she should never be cross or angry again. And
indeed for a time everything went well. She was patient when waiting on
her step-mother and kind to her brothers. Even Johnnie had not power to
put her into a rage, although he put burs in her hair and untied her
apron strings. There was one thing Margaret chafed under, and that was
having Amelia Barrows, her step-mother’s sister, come to keep house for
them. Her good resolutions in no wise extended to that person. She had
made her mind up very hard that she should not call her “Aunt Amelia.”
“She was not her aunt, and never could be,” and “she should not be
under orders to her;” not that she would not treat her well, but she
should be dignified and give her to understand that she was not such
a very little girl. “Thirteen and a half was nearly fourteen—almost a
young lady, she was.”

Amelia Barrows was a young woman with eyes and brows as black as
Margaret’s own, and a will quite as positive. So it was to be expected
that there would be some jarring.

The hardest part of it all to Margaret was that she was obliged to
share her room with Amelia. It was a large old house, but there were
not a great number of chambers, because they were all large except the
hall bedroom. When the minister came Mrs. Moore gave that to him for
his library. So there really was no other place for Amelia. Margaret
knew it could not be helped, and yet it was so hard to feel that her
room was not her very own private room any more. She prided herself
greatly on it, and she really did deserve great credit for its cheerful
prettiness.

It was only a plain, square room with white-washed walls and a straw
matting on the floor, but there were two pleasant windows with cheap
white muslin curtains, and the bed was daintily dressed in white and
blue. The rocker was covered with blue cretonne, and there were blue
mats on the bureau. A bright home-made rug on the floor, small pictures
on the walls, and a set of shelves in the corner filled with books;
then, in winter, there was always a pleasant sense of warmth because
the stovepipe came through from the sitting-room. Altogether, it was
quite a cosey place and Margaret was always glad to flee to it and
shut herself in from all annoyances. She thought it the prettiest,
pleasantest room in the world, and one reason was because it was always
in order. Carefulness, when once learned, becomes a habit, and is
easier than carelessness. Young as Margaret was when her mother died,
she had been taught by her to sweep and dust her own little room, and
to hang her clothes at night on hooks placed within her reach, and
always to put a thing in its place after using it. She had, besides,
inherited dainty tastes and neat ways from her mother, so it was not
such a task for her to be orderly as it was for some others.

And so it was with a pang that she saw Amelia walk into her room and
take possession with the air of one who had a right there.

It is not easy work to wait upon a sick person, so you must not
suppose that Margaret had nothing to do but sit within call in her
step-mother’s room handing her something occasionally. She had to take
the place of a nurse, young as she was, in the best way she could, for
Amelia had her hands full with the housekeeping. It was hard work, and
Margaret was often very tired. There was the room to be put in order
every morning, and Mrs. Moore was a very particular housekeeper; not a
speck of dust, or spot on window or mirror, escaped her keen glance.
There was much running up and down-stairs, too, for hot water and
cold water; there was liniment and mustard and draughts to be applied
by turns to the aching limbs, and sometimes nothing helped; the pain
grew worse instead of better, and the patient was not patient, but
let fall sharp words at Margaret’s blunders, whereupon poor Margaret
blundered still more, and did not give soft answers. Some days, though,
everything went well, and her step-mother felt that Margaret really was
very different from what she used to be. She was gentle and patient and
tried hard to please. The reason was plain; those were the days when
she remembered to get her verse from the Bible and think about it, then
asked Jesus to keep her, and remembered, too, when temptation came to
call to Him to help her. But some mornings she forgot all about it, or
she spent too much time curling her hair, or trifling in some way till
it was too late, and she had to hurry down-stairs with all speed. There
would be time for it after breakfast, she thought, but then it was put
off from hour to hour, and perhaps she ended by not doing it at all.
When this happened she was fretful and unhappy; nothing went right with
her. God made the body so that it cannot go without food at regular
times, and keep in order. He made the soul in the same way. It must get
food from the Bible, and by thinking about God and speaking to him, or
it cannot be a healthy soul. This poor little Christian knew she must
eat her breakfast or she would feel faint and weak by ten o’clock, but
she had not learned that she must not starve the other and better part
of herself. So it was no wonder that she did not always do right.

One reason why it was particularly hard now was that two of her best
friends were away. Elmer Newton’s older brother was obliged, from ill
health, to spend the winter in the South, and wished to have Elmer with
him. Mrs. Duncan felt anxious about her sick brother, and at the last
decided to accompany them and remain a few weeks, which lengthened into
months. This made a lonely, gloomy time for Margaret, she had come to
depending so much upon their help and counsel. She felt as if there was
nobody to go to with her troubles and doubts. Mr. Wakefield was always
kind, but she stood in a little awe of him because he was the minister,
and so, unless strongly excited, was too timid to talk freely with him.

When a girl of thirteen resolves to be dignified toward any body it
means that she is going to make herself very disagreeable whether she
knows it or not. Amelia Barrows was not an ill-natured young woman, and
if Margaret had tried she might have made a friend of her. As it was,
Margaret forgot that she was herself several years the younger. She
assumed airs of importance, and found fault. She laid down laws about
her room, and called Amelia to account if a brush or a chair was not in
its exact place.

“See here, young woman!” Amelia said one day, losing all patience,
“you’d better stop your high airs. A piece of this room belongs to me
while I stay here, and I’m going to do exactly as I please in it. I
don’t want to be in it, or in this house, either, but I’m here, and
we’ve both got to stand it. I never wanted my sister to marry your
father any more than you did,—not as I have anything against him,—but I
told her she might as well put her head into a hornets’ nest as to try
to manage three saucy young ones. No wonder she’s sick!”

There is no telling what Margaret would have said then if Amelia had
not gone out and banged the door after her. She was angry enough to
have said anything. To be called “a saucy young one” when she had borne
everything, and was almost as tall as a woman; it was too much!

“O, dear!” she sighed, bursting into tears, “I wish she wasn’t here.
She’s perfectly horrid!”

When she went down to the well-cooked dinner a couple of hours
afterward she forgot to ask herself how they could possibly get along
comfortably without Amelia.

There were afternoons when Amelia had leisure to stay with her sister
and Margaret was at liberty. One day she went to take a walk, and was
sauntering slowly along when Hester Andrews tapped on the window and
beckoned her in. Margaret hesitated. She had not been going much with
Hester of late, but she finally went into the house. “You poor thing!”
Hester said, meeting her with a kiss, “I wonder if you have got out at
last! It is just too bad for you to be shut up in the house all winter,
waiting on somebody who’s nothing to you; all the neighbors say it’s a
shame, and mother says that it is entirely too hard for you.”

[Illustration: SHE MUST BE ALONE SOMEWHERE.]

Poor Margaret! She had been trying all day to get the better of her
discontent and ugly feelings. Now, they sprang up anew. She looked
about the pleasant parlor where Hester sat at her fancy work. Hester
seemed to her to have everything she wanted, and to do just as she
pleased. How different it was with her! How hard her life was! It had
not occurred to her how hard till Hester put it into words.

“If it was your own mother, now,” Hester went on, “why of course you
would expect to do all you could, but now, it’s just dreadful. I’d like
to see my father put a step-mother over me if my mother was gone—and
make a slave of me waiting on her! I’d go out and scrub for a living
first.”

Margaret ought to have known, by this time, that Hester always did her
harm and not good, and have had courage enough to shun her company. She
went into that house in a good frame of mind; she came away feeling
that she was a much-abused girl: one who had a bitter lot; and she
pitied herself.

If Satan had hired Hester to do some ugly work for him, to spoil
Margaret’s peace and draw her away from God, it could not have been
better managed, for, besides all the wicked things she had said, she
did something more. As Margaret was about to leave,—after having poured
into Hester’s sympathizing ears a long story about Amelia and all she
had to bear from her,—Hester said, “Wait a minute, Mag. I’ve got a
perfectly splendid book, and I’ll let you take it, if you haven’t read
it. You’ve got to have something to cheer you up or you’ll die.”

Margaret seized it eagerly. She saw at a glance it was a novel. She
had read enough of them to spoil her taste for more solid reading,
and to know that she liked them far better than anything else. She
felt guilty in taking it, because she had promised Elmer when he went
away to read only what would be of benefit. How did she know, though,
she told herself, but there was something good in this book? She
remembered, too, with a twinge of remorse, that she had not yet touched
the books Mrs. Duncan left for her to read, except to look through
them and pronounce them “dry.” She meant to read them before the lady
returned, but just now she must have a real story to cheer her. Anybody
who has read “Madam How and Lady Why,” “A Family Flight,” and “Harry’s
Vacation,” knows of what delightful reading Margaret had deprived
herself all this time.

The next morning when the room was in order and Mrs. Moore was taking
a nap, Margaret brought her basket of work and drew up to the fire,
planning for a good time, not with her mending, though. “The Deserted
Wife”—Hester’s book—was in the bottom of the basket, well covered with
stockings. The fact that it was so hidden, and that she drew a tall
rocker between the bed and herself, proved that her conscience was not
altogether clear. However, she was soon lost in her book. She did not
raise her eyes or move a muscle, except to turn over the leaves for a
long time; she even forgot to breathe except by irregular gasps; she
read with feverish haste, because her step-mother might waken at any
moment and require her help, and she must know what happened next.

If Hester had but placed a live coal in her hands instead of this book!
She would have dropped that instantly and have burned only her fingers.
This tale of sin and shame and crime might leave scars on her soul
forever.

Mrs. Moore had an unusually long sleep, for two hours had passed away
when Margaret was startled by her voice, saying,—

“Seems to me it is cold here. Has the fire gone out? Where are you,
Margaret?”

Sure enough, the wood fire had burned to ashes, and the room was quite
chilly. Margaret hid away her book and went for kindlings. They were
wet, and the fire smoked and sulked, but did not burn for a long time.
Her father came in to dinner before the chill was off the room. He
noticed it, for it was a raw, windy day, and told Margaret, rather
sharply, that her mother’s room ought not to become cold like that, and
there was no need of it if she had attended to the fire as she should.
Margaret could never bear to have her father speak sternly to her.
She went off to her room in a tempest of tears, telling herself, amid
sobs—as foolish girls do at such times—that there was nobody to love
her.

This was only one of the many difficulties she brought herself into
during the next few weeks. She plunged into a perfect whirlpool of
novel reading. As fast as one book was devoured Hester provided
another. She read “The Fatal Marriage,” “The Terrible Secret,” “A
Bridge of Love,” “Lady Gwendoline’s Dream,” and “Lord Lynn’s Choice,”
besides many more. She read while she was dressing, and snatched every
moment through the day. She even sat up nights and pored over those
fascinating books, when she should have been sleeping. Sometimes she
stole out in the evening and walked up and down the street with Hester,
and talked them over. So she constantly lived in another world. She was
in a frenzy of eagerness to get through whatever she was doing, and
drown all her senses in a book. As a natural consequence, nothing went
well with her. She hated her lot and its duties. She longed to get away
and live with the beautiful, unreal people she had read about.

Novel-readers are usually cross. Poor Margaret was very cross. She
disputed constantly with Weston, and boxed Johnnie’s ears when he
teased her. He turned everything into rhymes, so when he had succeeded
in putting her into a rage, he would leave off singing,

  “Aunt Ameliar,
   She’s a pealer,”

and would dance about Margaret, shouting in her ears,

  “Mag is mad,
   And I am glad.”

This would make Margaret very angry, and sometimes the two had what
Amelia called “a scuffle.” She would interfere at last and declare, as
Johnnie ran off laughing, that Margaret was the “worst of the whole
pack if she was a church member. She would rather be nothing than a
hypocrite.”

And Margaret in these days was impertinent to her step-mother and
jerked things about in a way that is very trying to a sick person. She
left undone all she possibly could, allowed great holes to come in her
stockings, and went about slip-shod, with the buttons nearly gone from
her shoes, and did not take the “stitch in time” that “saves nine.”
There were worse neglects, too.

Since this fatal disease of novel-reading had come upon her she did
not read her Bible scarcely at all. On Sunday afternoons she held it
a while and gazed out of the window, then went hurriedly through a
chapter without knowing a word that was in it. As if the Bible would do
one any more good than the geography unless its words were understood
and treasured up.

It was the same with prayer. She forgot it entirely, or she murmured
a sentence or two while she was running down-stairs in the morning or
after she was in bed at night. It was mere form, and not true praying
at all.

Mr. Wakefield had been sadly perplexed about Margaret. He felt sure,
from what he saw and heard, that all was not well with her. She seemed
to avoid him, and whenever he had an opportunity to speak with her she
said as little as possible, and got away as soon as she could. What
evil influence could be at work upon her? Not her step-mother’s. He
felt sure that if Mrs. Moore but knew how, she would be glad to help
the girl. One evening as he walked homeward he was thinking about
Margaret, and wondering what he could do to help her. As he came near
Mr. Andrews’ house somebody came out of their gate and ran down the
street just in front of him. As she passed the lamp-post, and the
light fell full upon her, he saw that it was Margaret. As she turned
in at her own gate a book slipped from under her arm and fell to the
ground, but she did not know it. She hurried up the steps and closed
the door after her. Mr. Wakefield picked up the book, slipped it inside
his coat, and went up to his own room; then he lighted the gas and
sat down to see what sort of a book it was which would surely help or
hinder this young Christian. He read enough to satisfy him that he had
found the clue to Margaret’s difficulties. What soul could thrive on
such mental food? “Satan is at the bottom of it!” he said, half-aloud,
flinging the book from him. He sat a long time with his face between
his hands, thinking.

The next evening, after tea, Mr. Wakefield lingered in the sitting-room
and asked Margaret to try some of the pieces in the new Sabbath-school
hymn-book. Margaret’s cabinet organ had been her mother’s, and was now
a source of much pleasure to herself. She had learned to play sacred
music nicely, so she and the minister often sang together. Johnnie
sang a few minutes and then ran off. When they were left alone, Mr.
Wakefield stepped into the hall and came back with the book he had
picked up the night before.

“Margaret,” he said, “can you imagine to whom this belongs? I picked it
up on the street last night.”

Now Margaret had been greatly troubled about the book all day; she knew
Hester would be angry with her if it were lost, so it was with a sense
of relief that she read the title, “Disinherited.”

“Oh! I’m so glad you found it,” she exclaimed, then stopped and
blushed. She had a feeling that perhaps Mr. Wakefield would not quite
approve of this sort of reading, and she had not meant to let him know
that she ever read such books.

She felt very uncomfortable, and stood with her eyes on the carpet,
waiting for him to lecture her severely, but he did nothing of the
kind. When she looked up, his face and his tones were kind as he asked,—

“Do you love to read, Margaret?”

“Better than anything,” promptly answered Margaret.

“Do you like books of this sort—novels?” he continued.

She studied the pattern of the carpet a moment, and twisted one of her
curls, then said, almost defiantly,—

“Yes, sir; I do.”

Mr. Wakefield forgot that he had meant to be very calm and gentle, and
he said almost fiercely, as he walked back and forth,—

“O you poor child, I wish I could have saved you from this. Margaret,
do you know what a horrible thing this novel-reading is; how the thirst
for it is like the thirst for liquor? It drives out the love of Christ
from the heart. It ruins souls! But there! I did not mean to frighten
you,” he said, as the tears gathered in Margaret’s eyes. “Sit down and
let us talk the matter over calmly. Let me tell you how near I came to
being ruined by that trap of Satan’s myself.”

Just here the door-bell was heard, and Johnnie brought in Deacon Grey
who had called to see the minister, while Margaret slipped out of the
other door.

She flew, rather than ran, up-stairs. She tip-toed softly through the
hall, for she did not wish any one to see her just then. As she went
by a door which stood ajar, she heard her own name, and unconsciously
paused. Her step-mother’s voice was saying:—

“We’ve got to make some different arrangements. Margaret gets worse
every day. I’ve tried to be patient, but some days she acts like a
little fury. Amelia says she sits up nights to read novels. I talked to
her about it, and she just the same as told me it was not my affair.
I thought it was all nonsense, her joining the church. What do such
children know about it? I guess you had better send her to your aunt’s
if she wants her. We can get along somehow.”

Then her father’s voice groaned out,—

“I’m sure I don’t know what is going to become of her.”

Margaret waited to hear no more. She turned to go into her own room,
but Amelia was there; growing desperate, she went back into the dark
hall and softly opening the door that led up garret, groped her way up
the narrow stairs. She must be alone somewhere. It was a long, wide
garret stretching over the whole house. This was the old homestead of
the Moore family, and “take it up garret,” had been said of all the
lame furniture and not-wanted articles for a whole generation. It was a
cheerful place by daylight; a capital place for a romp; but to-night it
looked “pokerish.” The tall chimneys reared themselves like grim giants
at each end; old hats and coats hung from the rafters, and the moon,
looking in at the gable window, made dancing shadows on the floor, of
the long, bare branches of the elm-tree.

Margaret had never been up garret in the dark before. She would have
been afraid if she had not been in such a tumult. She flung herself
upon an old chest by the window, and cried out her mortification and
anger in long, deep sobs. The moon beamed down in a kindly way, and the
eye of God looked upon her in love and pity, but the poor child did not
know it.


THE CONE.

YOU may plant the cone of a California Pine in a vase of earth, and
cover it with a glass, and set it in your window to catch the sunbeams,
and keeping the earth moist the pine will grow until it reaches the top
of the glass, and it will search all around to find some way out of
its prison, and will press with all its vital force toward Heaven. But
the glass resists the pressure, and those little branches turn back to
earth, the stunted pine soon withers to the very root.

But plant that cone in its native soil, and give it showers and
sunshine, and it will lift its branches higher and higher, for
thousands of years, until it forms the loftiest pile of verdure on the
face of the earth. So a man may plant his hopes on a little spot of
earth, and close himself in with the covering of earthly pleasures, and
for awhile he may long to break through his prison walls and come forth
to a freer life. But, in the end, if he keeps his covering on, his
growth will be downward and dwarfed. But let him break forth from the
contracted circle of a worldly life, let him cultivate hopes worthy his
immortal destiny, let him look upon God as his Father, and himself as
the heir of boundless creation, and he shall grow in greatness and in
joy; “he shall be made a king and reign forever!”

  “If thou cans’t plant a noble deed
  And never flag till it succeed
  Though in the strife thy heart shall bleed,
  Go on, brave soul, thy hour will come—
  Thou’lt win the prize, and reach the goal.”
                                —_Selected._

[Illustration: LYING IN WAIT.]



  _Volume 15, Number 7._      Copyright, 1887, by D. LOTHROP COMPANY.
                 _December 17, 1887._

THE PANSY.


[Illustration: OUR TIGER.]


OUR TIGER.

[Illustration: N]OW, dear children, do not expect a terrible story of a
wild animal, for our Tiger was only a dog.

When Jennie and I were little, we teased our papa for a dog to play
with, and one night our hearts were made glad by his bringing one home
to us. It had been living in one of the large freight depots in Boston,
and had been so teased by little urchins, that often lounge about such
places, that he was fast getting to be very cross and snappish, so it
was thought best to get rid of him.

He never outgrew his dislike for boys, and would not allow them to
touch him at all, but would often chase them, and sometimes bite them
if they came on the premises. This hatred extended even to the youngest
children, and from a little boy baby he would walk away in disgust,
while he would allow a little girl to pull him about without a word of
complaint.

At one time we had an old cat which was determined to rear her three
little kittens in the closet of mamma’s room. The kittens were
repeatedly carried back to the cellar, and as often Mistress Puss
would find some way to take her family back to the closet. Tiger had
evidently been watching the whole operation, and decided to take
affairs into his own hands, as you will see when I tell you what
happened.

One day, Bridget, the cook, saw him go through the kitchen with
something in his mouth. She followed carefully after him, and what do
you think she found? You cannot guess, I know, so I will tell you.
Tiger had brought down the kittens, one by one, in his mouth, and
carried them into the back yard, where having dug a hole for each, they
had been placed, and carefully covered with dirt. Bridget rushed into
the house, and said to us, “Oh! do come out in the yard, Tiger has made
a cat’s cemetery.” We hurried out to see what she could mean, and found
her words were true. There stood Tiger looking at his work, seeming to
feel very proud to think he had found such an effectual way of keeping
the kittens out of mamma’s closet.

Tiger was not always so cruel as this, but sometimes showed great
fondness for other animals. My papa kept many sheep, and one spring
there were two little lambs born that were disowned by the mother
sheep. Of course, it would not do to let the little things die for want
of care, so they were brought to the woodshed, and put under my mamma’s
protection. They were soon named Dicky and Biddy, and being fed often
with warm milk from a bottle, they grew rapidly. From the first Tiger
showed a great liking for the pet lambs, and would stretch himself out
on the floor by the side of the basket, where he would remain for hours
at a time.

One day after Dicky and Biddy had grown quite strong he got them out
of the basket on to the floor. How this was accomplished we could
never quite tell, but I am quite sure they had some way of making each
other understand, so that he coaxed, persuaded and encouraged them to
go beyond the narrow limits of the basket, and see more of the world.
After a while they were not contented to roam about the shed, but
extended their journeys to the yard, and sometimes away down the street.

This last habit would have proved a very troublesome one to us, if it
had not been for Tiger’s assistance in bringing them back. We had but
to say, “Tiger! Dicky and Biddy have run away. Go find them,” and away
he would dash down the street after them. When he overtook them they
would all stand for a few minutes as though there were an explanation
of the case being given, and then he would turn around and run home
with both lambs meekly following him. I have watched him many times,
and I never knew him fail to bring them back.

My papa used to go to Boston every day and return at evening on the
horse-cars, and Tiger could usually be found at the gate to meet him.
Although these cars were constantly passing the house, Tiger never made
the mistake of going to meet an earlier or a later train, but a few
minutes before the customary time for my papa’s arrival, Tiger could be
seen going leisurely down the walk to be in readiness for the expected
greeting.

At last Tiger commenced to get old, and did not like the active sports
of his youthful days, but much preferred to stay in the house and
lie by the fire. Being fond of the company of the family, he would
often creep into the sitting-room, and quietly settle himself on the
hearth-rug, when mamma would sometimes say, “There is some one here
whose room is better than his company.” Without another word Tiger
would get up, and, with tail down, and a sidelong glance at mamma,
he would sneak, in a crestfallen manner, to the door to be let out.
Finally when he got to be quite old he was sick and died, and it was
one of the sad days of my childhood, when we buried him under the
apple-tree in the orchard.

                                                  CORA E. DIKE.


GRANDFATHER.

“GRANDFATHER” is the name of an old parrot, owned by Mr. W. H. Seward,
Jr., of New York. This parrot has been a great traveller in his day,
but now lives quiet at his home on the Hudson River. His master is
very fond of him, and so are all the family; and he is the pet of all
visitors who go to the house.

Several years ago, when there was a dreadful war in our beloved
country, Mr. Seward lived in Washington, where his father then held the
office of Secretary of State.

At that time the “John Brown Song” was all the rage. The very boys in
the street would sing, as they went along, “John Brown’s body lies
moldering in the grave,” and other lines, ending with the chorus,
“Glory, hallelujah!”

“Grandfather” would listen and try to sing it; but all he could learn
was the “Glory, hallelujah!” which amused the family very much. After
a while he seemed to forget even this, although he learned many new
things.

Many years passed. Mr. Seward had gone to his own home on the Hudson
River. The war was over, and the old campaign song of “John Brown” had
passed out of the people’s minds.

The aunt of Mr. Seward, who had lived with him in Washington, and had
not seen the parrot since, came to make the family a visit; and in
asking after the health of all of them, said, “Don’t tell ‘Grandfather’
I’ve come; I want to see if he will remember me.” Then she went into
the room where the parrot’s cage hung, and going up to it, said
“Good-morning, ‘Grandfather.’ How do you do? Do you know me?”

“Glory, hallelujah!” said he.

                                                  —_The Nursery._


THE POPLAR ST. PANSY SOCIETY.

BY C. M. L.

CHAPTER II.

[Illustration: T]HE brave girl was now full of hope that a good day was
about to dawn for the P. S. P. S. Uncle John was there. He had said as
much; and what could not he do?

The members must each be visited and urged to attend the meeting and
hear what Uncle John had to say.

She would undertake it. Of course they would be so glad to hear that
the Society was now to be revived and go on finely again. So she
thought.

With a light heart and face full of sunshine she started on her way.

The first ring brought a servant to the door, only to say that the
children had just gone away for some days. The next door opened
promptly as she still held the knob in her hand, but only to assure her
that Carrie was not well—probably could not go out for weeks. The third
call found no one at home.

A fourth was answered with, “My! I thought the P. S. P. S. was dead.
But I’ll see what mamma says. Maybe she’ll let me come.”

A little further on Jennie met an old member and laid before her Uncle
John’s plans for a meeting, and all about it, only to receive a stare
and, “Who is your Uncle John?” And the inquirer, without waiting to be
told, went skipping on her way.

Sometimes Jennie was told, “Don’t get me to any more P. S. P. S. poky
meetings;” or, “Oh! I’m invited to a card-party the very night of your
meeting. Of course I must go. And there’ll be dancing and ice-cream,
and ever so much fun;” or, “Mamma says I can never attend any more,”
etc., etc.

A sunny sky is sometimes overcast and the rain falls instead of beams
of light.

Do not blame Jennie if she cried. It was such a sharp disappointment.

Thus far not one word of encouragement. Every one seemed to frown
upon her, and all the laughing she met or saw on either side of the
streets through which she passed, seemed to be at her expense. She was
mistaken, but a heavy heart often feels a sting where there is really
no stinger.

What shall she do?

“It’s no use, Jennie; I told you so,” came from one of the committee
boys, who happened to follow her track and overhear some of the rebuffs
received by Jennie, and who now came up by her side to put the last
straw upon her breaking heart. “What’s the use?” he went on. “They
say you are making yourself ridiculous, and—” and he was about to add
another straw when they turned a corner and met Uncle John coming
towards them. Without noticing her face, he took Jennie by the hand
and turned up another street, leaving her companion to go his way.

Uncle John went on to say how he had thought of little else besides the
Poplar Street Pansy Society and now he was all ready for the meeting.

[Illustration: SNOW HOUSES.]

A little further on the other member of the committee was met, who
reported that he had called upon some of the others, but no one had
promised to attend the meeting.

But blessed Uncle John cheered Jennie by saying it was always darkest
before the day and that no matter how matters had turned out this time,
it might be just the contrary to-morrow.

So the tears were wiped away, and the young heart said, “I’ll try
again, for Jesus’ sake.” That night she went and told Jesus. The next
day there was joy in store for her. Not one laughed or mocked. Some
said they would come and bring others.

Sure enough. Jennie must needs bring in twice as many chairs as were
arranged for the meeting.

Everything being ready, Uncle John began:

“A long time ago there lived in one of our large cities a—Mr. Riddle.
He was a banker. But no matter about him. I am now going to describe
another member of the Riddle family, and if you will sharpen your wits
and be wide-awake some of you good guessers can guess who or what he
is, and I will promise you he will take you into copartnership and let
you share his riches.”

At this point every eye began to open at the thought of suddenly
growing rich.

“He was born before Methusaleh,” continued Uncle John, “and”—the eyes
opened still wider—“he lives now;” at which not only were the eyes open
to their utmost, but many mouths, and questions came thick and fast:
“Born before Methusaleh?” “Lives now?” “Do you really mean it just
so?” “How can it be?” “Who ever heard of such a thing?” “Is not it a
conundrum, or a puzzle, or a riddle, or”—

“Yes,” from Uncle John; “and if you will listen closely and do some of
the best thinking of your life you will surely guess my riddle.”

“And share the riches you spoke of?” asked one.

“And share the riches, just as I said.” And here Uncle John looked
around, silent and amused at the perplexed faces of the young folks.

Then he continued: “This Mr. Riddle will probably live hundreds of
years more. He was and he is a banker, richer than all other bankers,
the Rothschilds thrown in to boot. There isn’t a place in all the world
where he has not a bank. Some are hundreds of feet in the earth; some
as high in the air; some, built of iron; some, of silver, tin, glass,
paper, dirt, ice, clouds, coal and much more of which I may tell you
more by and by. This is enough now. Don’t ask me any more questions
to-night. We will sing a verse of a hymn, and have a short prayer, and
then you must all go promptly home and to bed and be up early to-morrow
morning and do all the sharp thinking you can get time for, and come
again in the evening at seven o’clock, and I will tell you more about
this puzzling banker, Mr. Riddle.”

Then Uncle John’s rich voice led, and, “Praise God from whom all
blessings flow,” filled the room and swelled hearts with new and
strange thoughts.

Then they all joined in “Our Father,” etc., and the meeting was out.


HOW BENNIE WAS TEMPTED.

[Illustration: B]ENNIE crawled out of his bed that morning with his
mind full of the thought of apples.

“The harvests are getting mellow!” so Jack Burnes had announced the
day before, and every boy knows just what that means to all the boys
who are so unfortunate as to have no harvest apple-tree to climb and
shake. After the climbing and shaking comes the scrambling down and the
picking out of the fairest and best, and then comes the stuffing of
pockets and the gradual, though not very slow, process of transferring
from the pockets to the stomach. To all such unfortunates it means an
indescribable longing, an unutterable desire to climb somebody else’s
harvest apple-tree! It means an uncontrollable appetite which only
harvest apples can satisfy. You all know how Bennie felt. There was no
apple-tree in his father’s garden; how could there be when there was no
garden! The place which Bennie called home had no advantages in that
direction, being two or three rooms in a rickety old tenement house.
Now Bennie went to Sunday-school, and he had learned the Lord’s Prayer,
and he never forgot to repeat it as he lay down at night upon his not
very luxurious bed; and I think that Bennie understood what it meant
when he prayed “Give us this day our daily bread,” for he had sometimes
known what it was to want for daily bread, but when he repeated “Lead
us not into temptation,” his ideas of that for which he asked were
rather vague. That morning he started out with hair uncombed, face
unwashed; with a ragged coat and battered hat and walked directly
towards temptation in the shape of Mr. Vinton’s harvest-tree with its
loaded limbs hanging over the wall. To be sure he knew that trespassers
were threatened with the constable and the jail, but then he thought
maybe some apples will have dropped over the wall into the road in
the night, and if I get there first why “I’ll have them if there are
any. What’s in the road belongs to folks as finds ’em first!” And so
he hastened along until he stood under the overhanging branches. There
were no “finds” on the ground, and as Bennie looked up into the tree
the thought of climbing up the wall and filling his pockets came to
him. Why not? There were plenty of apples; the Squire would never miss
a few; as for getting caught, it was too early for any of the family to
be about. That sign was meant for boys who wanted to carry off a lot of
apples; he meant to take only a few. And so reasoning, dallying with
temptation, poor Bennie was overcome!

Not more than five minutes later Bennie lay helpless upon the ground,
half-buried under the broken branch and the fallen sign.

“It is a wonder you weren’t killed outright!” said the Squire’s man
who came to pick him up. “As it is I guess the harvest apples and the
Astrachans and the pippins, too, are safe from you for this year! Where
do you live, youngster?”

A broken arm and a sprained ankle! not long in the doing, but what a
long, weary time was the undoing!

“The little rascal! serves him right!” said Mr. Vinton when told of the
accident. “Send Dr. Grant down to set the arm, and tell him to attend
to the boy, but don’t let May hear of it. She will be in a worry if she
gets hold of it.”

But when was there a case of suffering among the poor, especially in
her vicinity, that May Vinton did not get hold of sooner or later? It
was not many days before Ellen appeared at Bennie’s poor home with a
basket of necessaries and delicacies for the boy’s comfort, and asking
if there was anything further needed. In the basket was a quantity of
great mellow-looking, yellow harvest apples; but when Bennie saw them
he turned his face away and said, “Take them away! I don’t want to
see any harvests, ever! It was good of Miss Vinton to send them, but
I can’t bear them! It seems just as if they had printed all over them
‘Thief! thief!’”

Poor Bennie, his sin had found him out!

                                                   FAYE HUNTINGTON.

======

  OH, dear December, hurry on,
    Oh, please—oh, please come quick:
  Bring snow so white,
  Bring fires so bright,
    And bring us good St. Nick!
                            —_Selected._


THE COMPLAINT OF SANTA CLAUS.

  THE snow lies deep on the frozen ground,
    And the Christmas night is cold,
  And I shine before the rime so hoar—
    Can it be I am growing old?

  Long years ago when the Christmas chimes
    Made merry the midnight sky,
  When the carolers’ call filled houses and hall,
    And wassail and mirth ran high;

  When the harlequin mummers reeled and danced,
    And the great Yule log blazed bright;
  When the walls were green with a summer sheen,
    In holly and yew bedight;

  When the faces of all, the young, the old,
    Were brimming with sparkling cheer—
  Aye, those were the times when Christmas chimes
    Were the merriest sounds of the year!

  I snapped my fingers in Jack Frost’s teeth,
    While the snow was wavering down,
  And the icicles hung from my beard I flung—
    My beard that was then so brown!

  And I wrapped myself in my grizzly coat,
    And lit my pipe with a coal
  From Hecla’s crest, where I stopped to rest,
    On my way from the Northern Pole.

  My reindeers—O, they were brisk and gay—
    My sledge, it could stand a pull;
  My pack, tho’ great, seemed a feather’s weight,
    No matter how crammed and full!

  My heart it was stout in those good old days,
    And warm with an inward glee;
  For I thought of the mirths of a thousand hearts,
    Where the little ones watched for me.

  So I gathered my sweets from far and near,
    And I piled my cunningest toys
  (Unheeding the swirls) for the innocent girls,
    And the rollicking, roguish boys.

  But the times have sobered and changed since then,
    My merriment flags forlorn;
  My beard is as white as on Christmas night
    Of old was the Glaston thorn.

  Tho’ my wrinkled-up lips still hold the pipe,
    No longer the smoke-wreath curls;
  But saddest to see, of sights for me—
    My frolicsome boys and girls

  Have grown so knowing, they dare to say—
    Those protesters wise and small—
  That all saints deceive, and they don’t believe
    In a Santa Claus at all!

  Ah, me! ’tis a fateful sound to hear;
    ’Tis gall in my wassail cup;
  The darlings I’ve spoiled, so wrought for and toiled,
    The children have given me up!

  My heart is broken. I’ll break my pipe,
    And my tinkling team may go,
  And bury my sledge on the trackless edge
    Of the wastes of the Lapland snow.

  My useless pack I will fling away,
    And in Germany’s forests hoar,
  From an icy steep I will plunge leagues deep,
    And never be heard of more.
                     MARGARET J. PRESTON.


INTRODUCTIONS.

[Illustration: H]IS name is Bobby Williams, and he is the boy who
stands with smiling face, and hands in pockets, watching the huge snow
ball being rolled to its place.

He has been doing something besides watch; not a boy in the crowd
worked harder than he, until he was red in the face and quite out of
breath, and two others came to take his place; then stood Bobby in the
biting northeast wind, watching.

You should have seen that same boy at midnight, or a little later.
Sitting bolt upright in the big chair in his mother’s room; a hurried
fire burning in the grate; his feet in hot water up to his knees, his
hands in hot water up to his elbows, spoonfuls of disgusting stuff
being poked down his throat every few minutes, and his very wail in
protest,—so hoarse that you would have been in danger of mistaking it
for the voice of the big dog out in the back kitchen.

It seemed as though the doctor would never reach there, and when he
came, as though he did nothing; and when something was really done, and
Bobby was somewhat relieved, it seemed as though the weary night would
never be gone.

But it was, at last; and Bobby, pale and limp, with flannel about his
neck, and a smell of pork and oil in the air, was tucked into his
mother’s bed, and listened to the merry jingle of the school bell.

Then said the tired mother: “Bobby, how was it all; did you get very
warm yesterday, playing?”

“I guess I did!” replied Bobby hoarsely; “I never was so hot in my
life! We was rolling a great big snow-ball; the biggest we ever made.”

“And when you stopped rolling, what did you do?”

“I stood still and watched the other fellows, four of them; it was as
much as they could do to move it an inch.”

“Stood still in the sharp wind, all in a perspiration, I suppose! And
did you have your overcoat on?”

“No, ma’am,” said Bobby hoarsely, his cheeks growing red for shame. “I
forgot.”

“And don’t you remember, Bobby, how often I have told you not to stand
still, out in a cold wind, when you are warm?”

Said Bobby, “I forgot.”

Now the truth is, that you are very well acquainted with Bobby, for
that night’s work for father and mother, and grandma, and auntie, and
the doctor and himself is a fair specimen of what Bobby can do for the
discomfort of the world; and the words on his lips in excuse for all
sorts of heedlessnesses, and even downright disobediences, are always
“I forgot.”

Oh, me! What a “forgetter” has Bobby!

                                                            PANSY.

[Illustration: BOBBY WATCHES THE “OTHER FELLOWS.”]



  _Volume 15. Number 8._      Copyright, 1887, by D. LOTHROP COMPANY.
                 _December 24, 1887._

THE PANSY.


[Illustration: COCKATOO

AN AUSTRALIAN CHRISTMAS.]


THE OLD BRIMMER PLACE.

BY MARGARET SIDNEY.

CHAPTER II.

[Illustration: “Y]ES, dear.”

Mother Brimmer smiled and nodded, and Rosy ran off for a basket.

“What are you going to do?” cried Cornelius, seeing her turn over the
turkey drumsticks in the platter, when the basket, lined neatly with
brown paper, was all ready and waiting on a chair. So Mother Brimmer
began to explain.

“Oh! now, I say that’s too bad,” cried Cornelius, “to give away a lot
of things to those fellows who pitched into us in our shop, and egged
me most to death, besides making me sprain my ankle. Don’t let her do
it, ma,” he begged.

“But Mr. Plumtree made them sorry about fighting in the shop,” said
Rosy, continuing her selection of pieces, “and they had to work awfully
hard at the farmer’s where he bound them out; and now they’re all so
poor, I don’t suppose they’ve had the least bit of a Thanksgiving
dinner.”

“They don’t deserve any,” said Cornelius stoutly. Even Jack looked as
if he thought Company’s sentiment wasted.

“I told her she might,” said Mrs. Brimmer quietly, the guests looking
on with no words to offer.

“Look at her,—she’s putting in an awful lot,” shouted Cornelius,
hanging over the turkey platter. “Rosy, don’t give ’em _that_.”

“That” was half of an apple tart, rich and red, and juicy.

“Probably the first they’ve ever tasted,” said the minister softly.

Jack rubbed the toe of his boot back and forth over the polished wooden
floor, Miss Clorinda gave a mild sniff of disapproval of the way things
were going on, but by pinching herself, she managed to keep still;
Corny alone, keeping up the other side of the argument.

“It’s a perfect shame, when it’s the first time we’ve ever had a
Thanksgiving,” he cried, with a red face and indignant eyes, “to pack
off all those nice things to a lot of dirty, mean old Corner boys.”

Mother Brimmer still kept silent.

“Jack thinks so.” Corny whirled around and pointed to the senior
partner triumphantly. “He knows; and you ought to do as he says, Rosy.”

Company’s little right hand dropped to the side of the basket, while
her round face took on a pained expression as she looked at Jack.

The big boy flushed up to his dark hair, and he dropped his eyes to the
floor to follow the working of his uneasy boot. He longed to say “I
think it’s ridiculous, when we are all working so hard, to give away
such things to those idle, good-for-nothing Corner boys,” but a verse
from the Bible came ringing through his ears. For a moment, he thought
the parson must be repeating it, and he glanced up quickly. No; there
he sat in the high-backed chair looking at him silently. Then Jack
remembered it was in church that very morning that he had heard the
words “Do good to them that hate you.”

Here was the direct command from the Master. Jack in the past year of
work and responsibility, had drawn very near to his Heavenly Father; at
the last, glad to enroll himself as a member of the Church of Christ.
And, yet, on this blessed day of thankfulness for the wealth of mercies
that had been showered upon him, he was avariciously shutting his heart
to the good impulse that would help some of God’s poor, needy ones,
up into the range of human sympathy and love. They might be wicked;
all the more reason that he should do what he could to bring them to
love the good. Mean, contemptible fellow that he was to even look his
disapproval to what Rosy was doing!

Jack threw back his head, and Cornelius gave a long breath of delight.

“Go on, Rose,” said the big boy of the family, “and I’ll help you.”
Thereupon Jack sprang forward, and seized an orange and laid it in the
basket, and followed with two or three handfuls of butternuts.

“Ow—ow!” cried Corny in despair.

“Come on, Corny,” cried Jack, his color deepening into a bloom to match
that in Wild Rose’s cheeks, and his dark eyes dancing with delight, “if
you want any hand in this basket; see, it’s almost full.”

And the next thing that Corny knew, he was tucking in the drumsticks
of the chickens, that he had fondly hoped to pick clean on the morrow;
and Jack had saved himself from being the one to pull down the sweet
impulses of his younger brother and his little sister, into the mire
where all was hateful and of evil growth.

“I suppose,” said the parson, when all the packing was done, even to
the tying of the string across the cover, “that you don’t want my
company on your walk over to the Corners—eh, Jack?”

“Don’t we, though,” cried the boy, never the least bit afraid of the
minister; now, warmed up to self-forgetfulness, in a mood light-hearted
enough for anything.

“Yes, sir, we do!” echoed Corny, whipping out his knife to cut off the
string-end. “That’ll be just gay, if you’ll come.”

“Suppose we all accompany the basket party,” proposed Miss Peaseley
slowly, and taking her feet away from the cheerful blaze of the
snapping hickory; “that is, those who care to,” she added, with a
thought in time for the widow and her daughter, and lame Joey Clark.

Joey looked wistfully across at his sister; but she shook her head, and
he sat back obediently in the depths of his chair.

“Want to go, Joey?” asked Mr. Higginson.

“Yes, sir,” Joey’s thin cheek glowed at once, and his eyes sparkled.

“Now, I feel just like a ride on this cold afternoon,” declared
Parson Higginson, jumping up, and swinging his arms. “I’m going over
cross lots to ask Farmer Hooker to lend me his green wagon and Betty
the mare. Want to go, Jack and Corny, and help harness?” Both boys
signified without any hesitancy, that they did.

“Joey, you have the first invitation,” said the parson, nodding over at
the lame boy; “get all bundled up in fine style,—and all you others,”
waving his ministerial hands merrily toward the group; “follow suit,
and we’ll pick you up in about ten minutes—oh! here’s my coat; thank
you, Jack, and Rosy, for my hat. Come on, boys!”

And so, what was supposed to be rather a hard and unwelcome duty of
trudging down to the Corners with a heavy basket containing some of
the Thanksgiving goodies, turned out to be, under the minister’s
management, the most royal frolic of the season, and one well suited to
wind up a Thanksgiving party with.

And then came Christmas.

There was no party at the old Brimmer place, of course. Mother Brimmer
would have held up her hands in amazement at such an idea. One festive
occasion was quite enough to indulge in for a year, and the memory
of it would follow each day of the twelvemonth, with inspiration to
heartier work than ever.

“It’s Thanksgiving all the year,” said Corny one day, well along in
December. “Didn’t we have a good time? I haven’t got the taste of those
pies out of my mouth yet,” and he smacked his lips.

“Those were the most economical pies I ever made,” said Mrs. Brimmer,
laughing, “they last so long.”

“I’m going to pretend,” said Corny, nailing away vigorously on his
mother’s washboard, which a rainy day had allowed him to mend, “that
we’re going to have some more on Christmas.”

“Better not,” said Mother Brimmer wisely, “for you’re not going to, and
when the time comes you’ll be disappointed.”

“No, I sha’n’t, Mamsie,” said Cornelius decidedly, “’cause I know you
aren’t going to make any. But I remember just how they tasted, and when
I’m pretending we can have ’em all over again, it’s ’most as good as
eating any.”

“It’s a very cheap way of getting a nice dish,” said Mrs. Brimmer,
cutting up her meat for the stew, “but I don’t think sham pies are as
good as the plain boiled dinner we’re going to have Christmas.”

Cornelius pounded away a few moments in silence; then he said, “I
suppose we ought to do something for Christmas; that don’t take money,
I mean,” with an anxious glance at his mother.

“Well, now, children,” said Mrs. Brimmer, neatly dividing an obdurate
joint, “there, that’s done. I’ve been thinking about Christmas, and a
plan has come to me.”

“Don’t tell till Jack comes,” cried Rosalie, over in the corner busy
with her ironing holders. “O, Mamsie, do wait!” she begged in alarm.

“Jack knows about it,” said Mrs. Brimmer; “he and I talked it all
over the night you two went to singing-school. And he wanted me to
tell you both as soon as I could get a good chance. Now’s the time, I
think, seeing Roly Poly is having her nap, and we three are all quiet
together.”

“O, Mamsie! what is it?” cried Rosy breathlessly; and, dropping her
sewing, she ran up to her mother’s side, Cornelius also deserting his
washboard.

“Go right straight back,” said Mother Brimmer, clapping the potatoes
into the kettle, “and pick up your work—dear me! can’t you hear just as
well when your fingers are busy, pray tell?”

Thus reproved, they hurried back again. “Now tell, do, Mamsie,” they
begged, once more in their places.

“Well,” said Mrs. Brimmer slowly, “it’s just this; Roly Poly must hang
up her stocking the same as usual, of course.”

“But do let it be a better one this year,” cried Corny, “old turnip
dolls, and such make-believe stuff as it was last Christmas!” he added
contemptuously.

“Roly Poly had a beautiful time,” said Rosy, “she’s been talking of it
most every day since. Don’t you remember what fun it was seeing her
pull out the things?”

“And the doll, I’m sure, was a wonderful affair,” said Mother Brimmer,
“and lasted much better than a store one would have done.”

“And when it wrinkled it looked just like an old woman,” said Corny,
with a shout at the remembrance; “and how funny it was to hear Roly
Poly call it her baby.”

“And wasn’t the molasses candy with the butternuts meats good,”
observed Rosalie reflectively, “and the furniture you and Jack made for
the dolly—oh! I think that was so pretty.”

“And the mittens Mamsie knit her; I forgot them,” said Corny. “Yes; it
was pretty good, after all. But we’re richer now, and we ought to give
her a better stocking this Christmas,” he added decidedly, with quite
an air.

“I don’t know about being richer,” said Mother Brimmer cautiously, and
giving a final stir to the several ingredients in the kettle, she put
on the cover, took down her pans and set about moulding her bread; “our
expenses increase every year as you children grow older; and it isn’t
right to plan taking anything that isn’t actually necessary, out of
the nest-egg. Roly Poly will need every bit we can give her toward her
education by and by.”

“We aren’t being educated,” said Corny deliberately.

Mother Brimmer turned away from her bread-board, looked at him keenly,
then sent a swift glance over to her one girl.

“And that’s just what I want to talk about this morning. You’re going
to have a chance at it, if you both agree to the plan.”

It was impossible for the children to work now; and the needle and the
hammer dropped, while Mother Brimmer went on.

“Mr. Thomas will come here every evening for an hour, for a dollar a
week, and teach Jack and both of you; and I’m to have the chance of
listening and asking questions, so you might as well call me a scholar,
too.”

Neither of her auditors said a word, but stared into the strong face,
out of whose mouth was issuing such wonderful words.

“There will have to be hard work on your part to make every minute
tell,” said Mother Brimmer, “as you’ve got to keep your books by you
and study when you get a chance. But the most important of all, is to
keep saying the things you learn, over and over to yourself, so that
you can’t forget them; I wouldn’t give a cent that any child of mine
should get anything into his or her head, that can’t stay by them,” she
added, with a scorn to match that of Cornelius’ own.

“We never’ll forget what we once learn,” cried both Corny and Rosalie
in one breath. “But how are we going to pay for it, Mamsie?”

“Well, now to pay for the lessons, we shall all have to sacrifice
something,” said Mrs. Brimmer, drawing herself up to her full height,
and looking resolutely at them.

“We can give up our play—afternoons,” said Corny slowly, his black eye
steadily on her.

“Never!” exclaimed Mrs. Brimmer, bringing her hand down on the table
with emphasis, “those mustn’t be touched, whatever we do; that’s
decided.”

“What can we give up?” cried Rosy, in astonishment.

“We’re saving everything as close as can be, now,” said Cornelius, with
a decided nod. “Jack turns every penny twice over before he’ll begin to
think of spending it, and then he claps it into the bank. What in the
world can we save more, ma?”

“I said ‘sacrifice,’” replied Mrs. Brimmer, very distinctly. “We shall
have to draw out some of the nest-egg. This will come hard, because all
of us have been working diligently to put the little fund there, and
every cent taken away from it reduces the interest.”

Cornelius began to look grave at once. Rail as he might at Jack’s
regard for every penny, the accumulation of the deposit in the bank
was is dear to the heart of the younger boy, who had no delight so
great as an errand that took him past the large, red building, over
whose door was the magical word—Bank. To stand here a moment and
reflect that nearly one hundred dollars was recorded on the books to
the credit of Brimmer Brothers and Company, repaid for many hours
of toil and self-denial. Now, if they had a teacher, some of that
slowly-accumulated money must be used.

[Illustration: JOEY. (_See Baby’s Corner._)]

It was to be a sacrifice, as the mother had said.

“But,” Mrs. Brimmer’s tone changed to a ringing one of hopefulness
and courage, “the money thus taken out and used, will be the best
investment possible; better than a ten per cent interest for all of us.
Think of it, children; an education for you and for me!” and for one
little moment, the barriers of a pent-up longing, that had possessed
her heart for years, were dropped.

[Illustration: JAMIE. (_See Baby’s Corner._)]

“Mother,” they cried, “let us have Mr. Thomas come just as soon as he
can!”

“He can’t come till Christmas Eve,” said Mrs. Brimmer. “But he’ll begin
then, and be glad to, for he’s too poor to go home for a vacation. So
he told me yesterday, when I stopped into the District school.”

“Is that where you went, Mamsie, in the afternoon, when you put on
your Sunday shawl and bonnet?” asked Rosy, who hadn’t recovered from
the astonishment produced by seeing such preparations made for a visit
about which there was no attending conversation.

“Yes, child; I asked Jack about it, first; and then he wanted, if Mr.
Thomas could do it, to have me tell you and see if you would like
to fall into the plan. If Mr. Thomas couldn’t do it, why, then, you
two wouldn’t have any disappointment to bear. But he can. O, what a
Christmas we will have!”


THE RAILROAD ON MT. PILATUS

IF the Rigi Railroad is worthy of being considered an extraordinary
and wonderful piece of work, the latest undertaking of this kind—the
building of the railroad on Mt. Pilatus—certainly ought to attract the
attention of engineers and of the travelling public. This new road
differs essentially from its older rivals in the construction of its
roadbed, as well as of the rolling stock. The ruggedness and steepness
of the mountain, together with its great height (sixty-eight hundred
and eighty-two feet, against fifty-nine hundred and five, in the case
of Rigi), offered much greater obstacles than the roads previously
built, and required an entirely different system. The restless spirit
of man is always glad to set for itself some new task, and consequently
men were found who, equipped with the necessary capital, were willing
and able to carry out this tremendous undertaking. When a portion of
the road had been completed, all fear in regard to strength and safety
were removed, for it was thoroughly tested every day, the locomotives
going as often as it was necessary to that part of the road on which
they were at work, carrying materials of all kinds, weighing from
twenty thousand to twenty-two thousand pounds. The southeastern side
of the mountain was chosen for the road, which begins at Alpnach-Stad,
between the Hotel Pilatus and the Eagle Hotel (one thousand four
hundred and forty-eight feet above the level of the sea). From there
it climbs in a northerly direction to the Aemsigenalp, then westward
to the Mattalp (fifty-three hundred and fifteen feet above the sea),
and after much winding reaches the plateau of the Hotel Bellevue on
Mount Pilatus (sixty-eight hundred and eleven feet above the sea).
The road is about two and three quarters miles long, and the total
height climbed from the shore of Alpnacht Bay to the Hotel Bellevue
is fifty-three hundred and sixty feet. The grade is from eighteen to
forty-eight per cent., which is scarcely exceeded by any rope road. In
the middle of the line, at Alp Aemsigen, there is a switch. Seventy-two
hundred and sixty-seven feet of the entire road consists of straight
stretches, curves with radii of from two hundred and sixty-two feet
to three hundred and twenty-eight feet, constituting the remainder.
The road includes a viaduct, three short tunnels and one long one. The
width of the track is two feet seven inches. The foundation consists
of a wall covered with plates of granite and loose material, and
on this the superstructure is firmly anchored. The tooth-bar—which
is placed midway between the rails and is somewhat higher than the
latter—consists of soft steel, and is provided with a double row of
vertical teeth, which are milled out of the bar. The cogged wheels
on the cars, which engage the toothed bar, are arranged in pairs at
the right and left of the same. The axles of these cogwheels are not
horizontal with the level of the road, as in the Rigi system, but
perpendicular to the same, this arrangement making it impossible for
the cogwheels to become displaced. The locomotives and cars form a
train with two running axles and four cogwheels engaging the toothed
bar. The boiler and engine are behind or below the cars, which latter
accommodate thirty-two passengers. Brakes can be applied to all of
the cogwheels, and besides this there are two clamps at the upper
running-axle, which clutch the head of the rail, thus preventing
the upsetting of the cars by the wind. The weight of the loaded
cars is about twenty-one thousand pounds, and one trip up or down
can be made in about eighty minutes. The idea of the Pilatus road
originated with Edward Locher, under whose supervision and control the
road has been built. The engine was invented by Mechanical Engineer
Haas.—_Illustrirte Zeitung._

======

RECENT discoveries have settled the vexed question of the former
existence of lions in Australia. Bones from the Wellington Caves, New
South Wales, are regarded by Professor Owen of the British Museum, as
being those of a marsupial or pouch-bearing lion, fully equal in size
to the existing African species. These remains were found in connection
with those of the Tasmanian Tiger and Tasmanian Devil. Quite curiously,
Professor Owen many years ago expressed the conviction that certain
ancient herbivorous animals of Australia must have been kept in check
by a co-existent race of lions.—_Selected._


VALUE OF ARABIC NUMERALS.

FEW people, probably, have any adequate idea of the great difficulties
in which arithmetic would be involved were it not for the happy
invention of the Arabic numerals. Here is a very simple little sum in
addition put Roman fashion.

The reader will find it “a nice amusement,” as the model papa always
tells his daughters, to work it out as it stands without having
recourse to Arabic notation:

    MDCXLVIII
       MCCXLV
     DCCXXXIX
  MDCCCLXXXIV

None of these figures reach two thousand, and yet what a hopeless task
to sum them up without an abacus! But that is, indeed, a small matter.
Here are two better tests of the impossibility of arithmetic without
Arabic notation:

Multiply (all in Roman figures) MDCCXLIV by DCLXXXIV, and divide
MCCXLIII by XLV. Nothing could be simpler than these two sums, and yet
it requires considerable intellect and very close attention to work
them out on paper with the Roman symbols.—_Cornhill Magazine._


BABY’S CORNER.

[Illustration: J]OEY and Jamie are two little bits of boys.

They live in a nice house and play under a big tree.

One little boy is just as old as the other little boy.

When they stand up to see how high they are, Joey is no bigger than
Jamie. They are twins.

They look as much alike as peas in a pod. Only Joey has big black eyes
and Jamie has blue ones.

They have good times playing when they are good. Sometimes they are
naughty. Joey is naughty most.

One day last summer they were playing by the little brook where the
flowers grow. The water said “tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,” as it ran over
the stones.

They were happy for a little while. They picked flowers and put their
fat hands in the cool water.

But at last Joey began to pick up stones and throw them. One little
white stone hit Jamie’s blue eye. It hurt him. He cried. Mamma came and
took him on her lap and kissed his eye.

Then it felt better.

Joey sat in mamma’s lap a long time and ate some big red cherries. They
were sweet and good.

[Illustration: SOME BIG RED CHERRIES.]

Mamma was sorry that she had to punish poor naughty Joey. He had to be
tied up in his little chair. He had no cherries. He cried very hard.

Joey will throw no more stones at his little brother.

                                               MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

[Illustration: DISTRIBUTING THE CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.]



  _Volume 15, Number 9._      Copyright, 1887, by D. LOTHROP COMPANY.
                 _December 31, 1887._

THE PANSY.


[Illustration: IMAGE OF BUDDHA.—(_See Lotus Lilies._)]


A BOY FROM THYATIRA.

[Illustration: T]WELVE years ago a little boy, only thirteen years old,
stood bidding his mother good-by.

He was going a long journey with strangers across the ocean, to stay a
good many years. He didn’t know how long it would be before he should
see his dear father and mother again.

He had very black eyes and hair, and beautiful white teeth, and his
skin was somewhat darker than yours when you’ve been playing bareheaded
in the sun. For the rest, he was a little Armenian boy, born and reared
in Turkey, and speaking the Armenian language. His father was a native
preacher in Thyatira.

And now this boy was to take a long, long journey to America to be
educated, so that he might come back to work for the Jesus whom he
loved so much.

It was very hard to say good-by for so long a time, but at last it was
over, and the boy went down to the great ship that was to carry him
over the ocean, trying to choke back the tears that would rise when
he thought of his home and father and mother and playmates, and the
missionaries whom he loved so much. So he knelt down by his little bed
in the ship, and begged the dear Heavenly Father to go with him. Then
there came a sweet verse to him to cheer him: “Fear thou not, neither
be thou dismayed, for the Lord thy God is with thee, whithersoever thou
goest.”

He was very much bewildered when he landed in this country, at all the
bustle and hurry, and the strange language.

He was put immediately into school, and went to work at the English
language.

“Did you find it hard?” I asked him, not long since.

“Hard! I should think I did,” he answered. “Your language is so queer!
See that horse tied to a tree. It is ‘fast.’ And yet if he is running
at full speed you call him ‘fast.’ That window is locked. You say it
is ‘fast,’ but so is the young man that smokes and drinks, and wears
flashy neckties and carries a cane. It was a great puzzle to me at
first. It has taken me all these twelve years to learn it.”

The boy has worked hard, and is a fine scholar.

Five years ago he went back to his own country and spent a year in
Smyrna among the Greeks, and now if you chance to have the pleasure of
spending an evening in his company, he may take his guitar and sing to
you the wild, sweet melodies of the Greeks, with their soft, musical
syllables, and I’m sure you’ll be delighted with them.

Perhaps, too, he may give you the Turkish call to go to Jerusalem, and
describe the caravan of Armenians as they start on their pilgrimage to
the Holy City, with a young man ahead on a beautifully-adorned camel,
his head thrown back, his hands clasped at the back of his neck, and
singing out the weird call which means something like this:

“Come all ye people! Let us go up to visit Jerusalem! It will please
all the saints! I have sold all my vast estates to fit me out for the
journey. I have given up everything! Be not behind your leader! Come,
let us go up and we shall be saved!”

He will tell you, too, of his little brother, who has just started to
this country to be educated. How often he will jump upon some barrel
or box in the street and imitate the Mohammedan call to prayer, with
such exactness that his mother is obliged to pull him down quickly and
take him into the house lest some angry Mohammedan should seize him and
punish him for his fun.

The young man is now studying medicine and expects to return to his own
country soon, to begin work for his Master.

Shall we not all pray that his work may be blest, and that many may be
brought to Jesus through him?

                                                  GRACE LIVINGSTON.

======

THERE is a little fable which says that one digging in the earth found
a lump of fragrant clay, and asked, “Whence thy fragrance?” “One laid
me on a rose,” was the answer. So he who lies on the bosom of Christ
and abides in Him will be struck with His fragrance, His spirit of
love and holiness, and wherever He goes will shed rich spiritual
influence.—_Presbyterian._


NOT LOST ON THE AIR.

A VERY interesting incident occurred in the early ministerial life of
Mr. Spurgeon, and which he verified to the person who made it public.
Thirty years ago or more, he was invited to preach in the vast Crystal
Palace at Sydenham. Would his voice fill the immense area? Resolving
to test it, he went in the morning to the Palace, and thinking for a
passage of Scripture to repeat, this, as he reached the stage, came to
mind: “It is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that
Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” Pronouncing the
words, he felt sure that he would be heard, and then repeated the verse
in a softer tone. More than a quarter of a century later Mr. Spurgeon’s
brother, who is also a pastor, was called to the bedside of a man, an
artisan, who was near his end.

“Are you ready?” asked the pastor.

“O, yes!” answered the dying man, with assurance.

“Can you tell me how you obtained the salvation of your soul?”

“It is very simple,” said the artisan, his face radiant with joy. “I am
a plumber by trade. Some years ago I was working under the dome of the
Crystal Palace, and thought myself entirely alone. I was without God
and without hope.

“All at once I heard a voice coming from Heaven which said “It is a
faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came
into the world to save sinners.” By the meaning of these words I was
convinced of sin; Jesus Christ appeared to me as my Saviour. I accepted
Him in my heart as such at the same moment, and I have served Him ever
since.”

God honors his Word. Suppose Mr. Spurgeon had used a secular sentence
to try his voice? What surprises await the faithful when results are
known.—_The Watchword._

======

“NEW MEXICO is peopled largely by a superstitious, ignorant race,
intensely bigoted, and under the almost absolute sway of a degraded
priesthood, who have a deadly hatred of the spelling-book as well as of
Christian instruction.

“For centuries the people have dwelt in isolation, separated from
civilization by vast reaches of barren, waterless, cactus-bearing
plains. During these centuries they have made no advance either
mentally or morally, but have sunk deeper and deeper into the sloughs
of ignorance. The mission schools established among the Mexicans are
centres of light from whence radiate many cheering rays. The people are
awakening to a sense of their degradation, and give evidence of their
desire for improvement. Many are anxious to learn English and to have
their children educated. A little plain furniture, such as chairs,
tables and bedsteads, is finding its way into their houses, and more
attention is paid to dress and cleanliness.”

New Mexico is about as large as all the New England States together,
with New York and New Jersey.


LOTUS LILIES.

[Illustration: T]HE lotus lily is spoken of as “the peer-less flower of
Farther India.” From an article, which is too long to give you entire,
I shall cull some interesting items about this flower for your benefit.

It is a kind of water lily, and is considered a wonderful flower by
the people of the countries in which it is found. In Egypt it was once
considered sacred to their gods, and in India the Hindoo gods are often
represented as seated upon the expanded flower. In China and Japan it
is closely connected with Buddha, and has a large place in the worship
of that god. In China the lotus lily symbolizes womanly beauty, the
small feet of women being called _kin leen_, or golden lilies.

The petals of the lotus lily are rose-pink, growing brighter and
redder toward the tips, where one can almost imagine the life-blood
of the flower is oozing out, and will soon drop upon the white mat
of the table. Opening the rosy lips, the golden heart of the flower
is disclosed surrounded by a silky fringe of the stamens of the same
bright hue, edged with pure white pollen. The leaves of the plant are
dark-green, almost round, and lie or float upon the bosom of the lake.
The stems are like long green serpents, rearing their spiral forms
from the black ooze beneath the water, and holding aloft their banners
of green and blossoms of beauty and fragrance.

But notwithstanding the fact that the plant is held sacred, many of the
Chinese cultivate it for sale. The fragrant blossoms reach a diameter
of ten inches, and find ready purchasers. The seeds are used as an
article of food; sometimes eaten raw, sometimes ground and made into
cakes.

The fleshy stems are used as a vegetable, while the fibres of the
leaf-stalks serve for lamp-wicks.

The ancient Egyptians used to inclose the seeds in balls of clay or
mud and cast them into the Nile, and in due season the plant appeared,
followed by buds, flowers and seeds. Does that make you think of a
Bible verse?

[Illustration: ON THE NILE.]

In Siam the lotus lilies grow in great profusion, and one may sail for
miles along the rivers through flooded fields covered with the lotus
blossoms, which the natives are gathering for market.

Then there are the royal lotus gardens of Bangkok. These are several
miles from the king’s palace. There is a carriage road leading out from
the city, and these gardens are a famous place for picnics. At the
grand funeral ceremonies of the Queen of Siam, one of the companies
which walked in the procession carried tridents, the triple tips of
which were each crowned with the white lotus. Every year thousands
of real and artificial lilies are floated on the rivers and sea as
offerings of the water spirits.

They are launched at night, with little wax tapers burning, and they
are loaded with offerings to the gods.

Many beautiful fancies cluster about the lotus, and many songs have
been written, which you may appreciate the more if you happen upon
them, for knowing something about the beautiful fragrant flower
“trembling on the crystal tide.”


THE YEAR OF OUR LORD.

THE following incident which occurred, as will be seen, many years ago,
has lately been published, and is from the experience of Mr. Duncan, a
well-known missionary to the Indians of British Columbia. He says:—

“I was teaching the Indians to write letters, and, as a matter of
course, began at the name of the place at which the letter was
supposed to be written. About that step there was nothing to call forth
any remark from the Indians. Next came the name of the month. That
elicited some smiles, but no questions. Then was added the day of the
month, which also caused some interest, but no surprise. When, however,
I added 1860 for the year, immediately the Indians inquired what did
those figures mean, and why was the year so named? For a moment I was
stunned at the answer which the question called for. Never before had I
realized the startling meaning of those figures in connection with the
Gospel, and how severely they witnessed against the Christian Church.

[Illustration: BEIRUT.]

“The Indians seemed at once to seize with awe the information I offered
on the subject, and their looks but too plainly indicated both
reproach and astonishment that the message of God should have been
withheld from them so long.

“I felt both ashamed and humiliated for my race, and wondered how so
many generations of Christians since the apostolic age, could have
dared, as they have done, to so willfully and fatally neglect, or, at
best, but trifle with their Lord’s commission.”


“THE EVENING STAR.”

IN the large playground of a Christian school in Beirut is an arbor
where several girls of the school were accustomed to meet just at
sunset for a prayer meeting. They had organized this meeting by
themselves, and one day the teacher asked, “What do you call your
meeting?”

“Oh! we call it the ‘Evening Star,’ because when the sun sets the
evening star comes out, and so, when the sun sets our little meeting is
held, and we have named it the Evening Star.”

“And what do you pray for at the ‘Evening Star’?” asked the teacher.

“Oh! we pray for our teachers; but especially we pray for a new heart.”


GOWAHATIS.

[Illustration: I]N the western part of the State of New York there is
a territory known as the “Cattaraugas Reservation.” This is the home
of the Senecas, one of the tribes of the Iroquois, or Six Nations
of Indians of Western New York. There were six tribes that in the
early history of our country formed a confederacy or union, and were
sometimes called the Huron-Iroquois; one tribe was called by the
Dutch “Sinnekaas,” which at length became “Senecas.” A secretary of
the board of missions connected with one of the leading religious
denominations visited the Reservation a year or so ago, and he tells
us many interesting facts connected with these Indians and concerning
the work of the missionaries among them. Fifty years ago most of these
people were benighted Pagans worshiping false gods, but to-day there
is probably not a dozen persons among the four thousand who have any
veneration for heathen worship. This does not mean that all love and
serve the Lord Jesus Christ. When you say that you live in a Christian
land or in a Christian community, you do not mean that all the people
in the land or in the community are real Christians, but you mean that
all or at least the most of the people believe in Christianity.

Now how did it come about that these ignorant worshipers of false
gods have become a Christian nation? You are not surprised to learn
that it has been brought about through the efforts of a few earnest
and faithful missionaries who have given their lives to the work of
lifting up this people. But it is the story of Gowahatis that I started
to tell you. She was the step-daughter of Red Jacket, a noted Seneca
chief, who received his name from wearing a scarlet coat given him,
during the Revolutionary War, by a British officer. Red Jacket was
bitterly opposed to the Christian religion, to missionaries, schools
and teachers. This step-daughter, Gowahatis, was called “Aunt Ruth” by
the missionaries.

Her Indian name was significant of her position as leader of a certain
dance performed by women alone. It was very honorable, and constituted
her a sort of “chief” woman. Both mother and daughter strongly
sympathized with Red Jacket in his opposition to the introduction of
the religion of the pale faces, until, having been induced to listen
for once to the preaching of the missionaries, they perceived its
superiority to their faith and desired to know more of the wonderful
salvation which the Son of God had wrought out for all men—Indians as
well as white men. They went again, but this coming to the ears of
the old chief, he positively forbade them, threatening that if they
disobeyed he would leave his family at once. The mother was very much
alarmed, and for a time she ceased her visits to the mission house.
But after a time she and her daughter took their blankets out into the
woods one Saturday evening and hid them. The next morning they walked
away from the house slowly, as if going out to the woods, and when they
came to the blankets they threw them hastily over their heads, and by a
circuitous path made their way to the meeting.

There they heard the words, “God so loved the world that He gave His
only begotton Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish,
but have everlasting life.” This brought them to decide, once for all,
to take the Gospel and risk the loss of all things. This was a great
step; Red Jacket would do what he had said: he would leave the family;
this they knew. He was a very distinguished man; as his wife and
daughter they had been much noticed and had received many presents, but
they would renounce all for Christ and everlasting life.

They joined the mission church, were very earnest Christian women,
they remained faithful unto death, and exerted a powerful influence in
bringing others to Christ. A year or two after Red Jacket returned to
his wife, and acknowledged that he had done wrong in leaving, adding
that he did not think that she was any the worse for being a Christian.

Dear Pansies, this thought came to me as I heard the story of these
Indian women: they heard the truth once and were interested, twice and
accepted.

How many times have you heard it? Have you accepted Christ?

                                                      FAYE HUNTINGTON.


THE PERSECUTED BANNERMAN.

    [In one of the missionary magazines I read this
    note: “There is one story in the foreign missionary
    department of this number which none of our young
    readers should overlook.... It is a first-rate story to
    read and talk about in the family.” Turning over the
    pages I found, as I had expected, that the editor’s
    suggestion was a good one, and then I immediately
    became desirous that all you young people of the Pansy
    should have a chance at the story, and here it is,
    clipped for your benefit.—FAYE HUNTINGTON.]

NG-HIN-KI a young man of more than usual ability and energy joined the
Third Presbyterian Church in Canton in September, 1881. His foster
mother was bitterly enraged at him for so doing, and all his brothers
were greatly displeased. They made strenuous efforts to prevent him
from attending church and from performing his religious duties, but
without success.

Their persecution, especially that of his foster mother, became
so bitter that in the spring of 1882, he was given the place of
door-keeper in one of our chapels, one hundred and thirty miles from
Canton, receiving for his services two dollars and fifty cents per
month. In the autumn of the same year he received a letter from an
elder in the Third Church, advising him not to return to Canton, as his
foster-mother and brothers had brought a charge against him of being
_unfilial_, which in China is a very serious crime. Their object was to
get him discharged from his position as bannerman. Instead, however, of
remaining away from Canton, he at once returned, saying he would go at
once and meet the charge. He found on arriving that all his property,
one shop and three dwelling-houses, had been sold for fourteen hundred
dollars. He was brought before a military officer and ordered to light
three sticks of incense and place them before an idol. He was told that
if he obeyed, the draft for fourteen hundred dollars lying upon the
table would be restored to him, but if he refused he would lose not
only that and his monthly allowance, but his betrothal, which had cost
him three hundred dollars, would be made null and void, altogether that
which he would forfeit would be what is for a Chinaman a comfortable
and permanent livelihood. Sign and save, refuse and lose. He refused
and was cast out penniless. He entered the training school, and after
three years of faithful study was appointed to preach. He is now doing
a useful and encouraging work three hundred miles from Canton, at Sam
Kong, near Lien Chow. Until near the close of last year this man’s
relatives refused to have anything to do with him, when, much to his
delight, a great change took place. They became not only willing to
welcome him home, but to hear him make known the Gospel. It came about
in this way: one of his brothers at a tea-shop had seen a member of the
Third Church, also a bannerman, telling the people about Jesus.

One of the company in anger struck him a blow in the face, telling
him he need not come there to preach to them. He smiled and went on
with his discourse. Ng-hin-ki’s brother was much surprised. He knew
the speaker was naturally high-tempered, was physically strong, and
was no coward. In fact he knew perfectly well that what prevented the
bannerman from striking back was not fear, but principle. This won his
admiration for the man and respect at least for his message and was the
occasion of bringing about in his family the changed feeling mentioned
above.


A PRODIGAL SON.

I HAVE opened one more school, a mile from the road. I had to walk that
distance. Those burning days it was pretty severe, as the road lay over
sand hills and plowed fields. The school was so nice, the children so
happy, one could not remember the discomfort.

An old Mohammedan priest tried to break it up, and did compel some to
withdraw their children, but the school is secure.

Several women came in to see Miss Sohiba and watch the school. The
Bible lesson began from a picture of the Prodigal Son, hung on the
wall. An old lady listened; her face sobered, tears filled her eyes;
finally, amid broken sobs, she declared—

“O, Miss Sohiba, that is my boy! That is my boy!”

Most touchingly she told how he had gone, how she had watched and
waited for him, but he never came back.—_Extract from Miss Pratt’s
letter from India._

[Illustration: THE TOWER OF KOUTUB, PLAIN OF DELHI.]


SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT.

The address of Mrs. G. R. Alden (Pansy), is Winter Park, Orange Co.,
Florida. All contributions for THE PANSY magazine should be sent to
that P. O., and _not_ to the Publishers, D. Lothrop Company.


ALL ALONG THE LINE.

_Conducted by_

R. M. ALDEN.

[Illustration]

    We have to thank many of our readers, this month, for
    helping us in this Department. Let others follow their
    example, and begin this part of the winter’s work.
    Address everything for us to R. M. Alden, Box 17,
    Winter Park, Orange County, Florida.

WE hear from the Secretary of a Band in India of how they are educating
two Mexican girls, whom a missionary has taken to educate for teachers.
Who knows what great food this seed may start?

A MISSION BAND in Brighton, Massachusetts, made over one hundred
dollars in a fair held last May. There were fancy articles and
refreshments sold. Twenty dollars were voted to the “Fresh Air Fund,”
and twenty more to some home missionaries in the West. [We are indebted
to Miss Bessie Cotton for the report.]

HAVE the readers of THE PANSY heard of the natives of the Charlotte
Islands, ignorant and benighted, who gave, one Sabbath, one hundred of
their blankets, valued at one dollar and twenty-five cents each, toward
the erection of a new church? If we consider the resources and ideas
of this people, it was truly a great gift, and a good example for any
Americans. [We have to thank Adella F. Coy for calling our attention to
this most interesting item.]

AT Nolo, Iowa, there is a very busy mission band, of nine members,
which is making up a box for a hospital in Council Bluffs. They are
earning money in various ways. Some gather eggs and have one out of
every dozen, some have raised chickens, one little pigs. One boy’s
father offered him ten cents apiece for all the squirrels he would
catch on the farm. But so many poor nut-crackers became prisoners that
the price came down to two and one half cents. The Band held a Lawn
Festival, at which they sold various refreshments, and made thirteen
dollars. They are knitting stockings, hoods, and mittens, dressing a
doll and piecing a comforter. Success to all who “are not weary in
well-doing.”

IN the streets of large mission stations of Japan, there are rooms open
all day, in charge of the missionaries, where the heathen may learn
of the true religion. A countryman entered one of these stations and
had a long talk with one of the missionaries,—whom it was our pleasure
to meet this summer. When he went home he was a Christian. Some weeks
afterward the missionaries received a letter from him. He wrote: “We
have here a church, Sabbath-school, prayer-meeting, etc., all composed
of one member. I get along nicely, except for the Communion Service.
And if you could send me by mail a bit of the bread you use could I not
have a service all by myself?” The bread was sent, and some time later
the convert wrote back how much he enjoyed the Communion Service, all
alone, with Jesus.

THE young people of a certain church in the West, had a chance not long
since to give an object lesson and did it well. One of their number
who had been long absent from home, soon after her return, made an
entertainment for her friends; delightful music was to be expected, and
some other enjoyments of a special character. The invitations were sent
out for Friday evening; to the lady’s disappointment, one, and another
and another, of those whom she specially wanted, politely declined
the invitation; they were sorry not to be with her; under other
circumstances nothing would give them greater pleasure, but for that
evening they had a previous engagement. On being pressed as to what it
was, they explained that it was the evening for their regular young
people’s prayer meeting! Their friend was so astonished at this reply,
that she took some trouble to learn whether the young ladies had known
of one another’s intentions in declining her invitation, and found that
each had acted without knowing what the other meant to do. Don’t you
think she must have decided that in the minds of some people the prayer
meeting was an important place, and the engagement to attend it was not
to be lightly broken?

[Illustration: The P. S. CORNER]

MERRY CHRISTMAS to all my Blossoms! Glad am I to be able to give you
this happy greeting once more. And to the many new faces which I greet
for the first time, the wish is just as hearty; may each of you have
this month, not only the merriest, but, in the truest sense of the
word, the best Christmas you ever enjoyed in your lives.

Shall I tell you how to make sure of this? I dare say you know, but I
will just repeat the thought to keep it before your minds. In the first
place, let each of you make a Christmas gift, very costly and very
precious, to the best friend you have. Now I see many sorrowful faces,
and hear low, regretful voices: “You would like to, but you have no
money to spend, or at best but very little, and cannot afford anything
costly.” Is that what I hear you say? Mistaken, every one of you. The
most costly and precious thing in the world, is the strong true heart
which has its home in your body, my boy—or my girl. I want you, this
Christmas month, to give it away to the Lord Jesus Christ.

No matter if you have done it before. I am glad to know that many of
you have. Just renew the gift. Choose some quiet hour, and go alone,
and, on your knees, say: “Lord Jesus, I give myself anew to Thee, in
return for Thy great Christmas gift to me. I give Thee my time, and my
strength and my will. I ask Thee to direct me all day, and every day,
in the way in which Thou wouldst have me go. And I promise to use my
tongue to speak for Thee, and my hands to work for Thee, and my feet
to do errands for Thee, and my heart to love Thee.”

I wonder how many will use this prayer, and mean each word in their
hearts? Just so many will be sure to have a happy Christmas, and a
happy year.

One other thing: Some of our Blossoms have been transplanted during the
year that is past. God has sent his angels and gathered them to bloom
in His upper garden, where flowers never wither. Now, while we are glad
for them, shall we not remember the homes from which they have gone?
The dear fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters, who cannot,
sometimes, keep the tears from coming, because they miss their darlings
so? Will not every Pansy Blossom ask the dear Lord to help and comfort
these sorrowing hearts?

Now, just one thing more: What can you do on Christmas Day which will
make somebody else happier than he or she could possibly have been if
you had not done it?

Think it out, my Blossoms, “something for each of you now to do.” Then,
set to work and do it; then write and tell me all about it, and I’ll
weave all your letters into a story for next year’s PANSY.

                                                 Lovingly,
                                                       PANSY.

======

_Annie and Florence._ No doubt your game, “Jack Throws,” is a good one
but as it has a diagram, and as our printer cannot always prepare such,
it may fail to appear. Sorry.

_Alice L. Snow._ Send a copy of your Queer Story for examination. You
did capitally on the geographical puzzle. “A Christian since eleven
years of age.” So glad I am of this. I trust the Saviour is glad, too.
Is it your constant aim to make Him glad?

MYRTIE A. B. Your Queer Story almost, not quite, correct. Don’t be
discouraged. The effort has done you great good, making you a better
speller. And you don’t have to go “three miles” to the Queer Story
school. You must teach your puss better manners when you are working at
your lessons.

_Mamie Fuller._ You must keep some of the writing you do now while you
are six years old, and put it by the side of what you do when you are
sixty. I guess you will see great progress. And I hope you will come
very near the Lord Jesus in that time.

_C. R. Richmond._ A picnic in a beautiful grove; five hundred present;
a brass band; oranges, ice-cream, lemonade; talks by Revs. King and
Adams; a bountiful dinner following, etc., etc. It seems as though
Master Colin and his companions must have gone home with sunny hearts
and faces, and in love with the S. S. Did you?

_Minnie Locket._ When a dear little Pansy writes as well as ever he or
she can, they need not ask me to excuse their penmanship or anything
else about the writing. All I care to know is that they do their very
best. No one can do more, and so there is no room for an excuse. Do
your best, Minnie, every time, and you will not be ashamed.

_Jessie P. Davis._ Whenever your PANSIES fail to come, write to D.
Lothrop Co., 32 Franklin Street, Boston, Mass. Do not think that any
Pansy can be so small as not to be missed. The baby is the smallest
body in the house. Don’t you think it would be missed?

_H. C. Withey._ The monkey game you send must be very funny, but its
length and the difficulty of “doing” it here will explain why it does
not appear in the PANSY. Perhaps you will try again, and send something
very short and easily played. The Pansies will be interested in
anything of that sort from Africa.

_Lolo Keeling._ Don’t despair whatever may come. Carry your failures to
Jesus. Try again. Triumph will come.

_M. Nellie Lindsey._ Thank you for remembering to write to me many
times, even if you did “forget to send them off.” And what in the
August magazine pleased you so much besides that letter?

_Fannie W. Ambler._ Let me commend you for plain writing. The Queer
Story is well done, though with some mistakes. Try again, my dear.

_M. Lillie Read._ Your Queer Story is much like Fannie’s, almost, but
not quite, right. Never mind; there’s another for you. Don’t be afraid
of it. Don’t be cast down over any failure, but up and at it again.
Train the baby to be a true Pansy. I’m so glad you make any progress.

_Nellie Wright._ “Nine years old.” Said and done a thousand things or
more in that time. Now, suppose you live to be ninety,—my dear uncle
has just died at ninety-two,—and you keep on saying and doing, then how
many thousand will it be? But all the better if it be all for Jesus’
sake. I like Florida, and you must like Kansas, which gives you “lots
of corn and fruit.”


BIBLE READING FOR DECEMBER.

(_Christ._)

  Dec.  1. Ps. xxiv: 7-10; 1 Cor. ii: 8.
   “    2. Mi. v: 2; Matt. ii: 3-6.
   “    3. Is. lx: 6; Matt. ii: 7-12.
   “    4. Hos. xi: 1; Matt. ii: 13-15.
   “    5. Jer. xxxi: 15; Matt. ii: 16-18.
   “    6. Is. xi: 2 and xlii: 1; Matt. 3: 13-17.
   “    7. Is. ix: 6; Luke ii: 11.
   “    8. Is. liii: 4; Matt. viii: 16, 17
   “    9. Is. liii: 5; 1 Pet. ii: 24.
   “   10. Is. liii: 7; Matt. xxvii: 12-14.
   “   11. Is. liii: 9; Matt. xxvii: 57-60.
   “   12. Is. liii: 10; Luke iii: 6.
   “   13. Matt. iv: 18-22.
   “   14. Matt. iv: 23-25.
   “   15. Matt. ix: 18, 19, 23-26.
   “   16. Matt. xi: 25-30.
   “   17. 2 Cor. v: 14, 15, 17.
   “   18. Rom. viii: 1, 2, 17, 18.
   “   19. Rom. viii: 35, 37-39.
   “   20. Rom. xv: 1-3.
   “   21. Rom. v: 1-2.
   “   22. Rom. v: 7-9.
   “   23. John xviii: 33-40.
   “   24. Luke ii: 8-14.
   “   25. Luke ii: 15-20.
   “   26. John xix: 1-7.
   “   27. John xix: 8-12.
   “   28. John xix: 13-16.
   “   29. John xix: 17-22 and xx: 31.
   “   30. Mark xvi: 19; Lu. xxiv: 51; Acts i: 9.
   “   31. Acts i: 10, 11; Matt. 24: 42-46.


EXTRACTS FROM PANSY LETTERS.

DEAR PANSY:

From a tiny child, May, if told to do anything, would do it just a
little differently. If told to put a thing on the table, she would
say, “I dess will put it on lounge,” and when I answered, “No; on the
table,” she would skip along, laughing, “I dess will put it on chair.”
But doing a little differently from mamma’s way and God’s way will end
in many a heartache Pray that mother and child may yield impliably to
the dear Father’s will.

                                                 MAY and her MAMMA.

P. S. May sends six cents for the organ, earned by washing and wiping
dishes.

======

DEAR PANSY:

This is one of my compositions:

A PAPER OF NEEDLES.

First, a coil of steel wire, twenty-four inches long. This cut through
the middle by scissors into little curved bundles, long enough for two
needles. Straighten and point them—on a grindstone. They are pointed at
both ends. They must now have their eyes opened. Needles, like puppies
and kittens, are born blind. They are stamped with a heavy die that
leaves the print of two needles’ heads and eyes at the center of the
wire. Then the eyes are opened with a double punch.

                                                   HARRY B. HAYES.

======

DEAR PANSY:

My fault is that I am ready to give, but not to take advice. I am
president of a society. One member chooses another to write about;
others read or recite selections. I attend Shurtleff Grammar School.

                                                 NELLIE F. TREAT.

======

DEAR PANSY:

When I read answers to letters, it seems to hit me. I will try to be
more patient with brother and sister. I am a church member, and I very
much wish my cousin were. It is hard sometimes to talk about Christ. I
talk about other things readily. Why?

                                                   BLANCHE E. TREAT.

======

DEAR PANSY:

As to how we spend our evenings: we play games and speak pieces, and we
have lots of books and papers. We like THE PANSY. Papa got THE PANSY
for us and we did not know it till we got the mail. Mamma gave us
“Young People at Home,” which you wrote, and which we like much. _Maud_
and _Mabel Davis_, my sisters, are writing; so I thought I would.
Mamma does not like to have me tease my little brother Romie. I will
try not to do so.

                                                   ALICE.

======

DEAR PANSY:

Badges received in time to organize. They are lovely. They will help us
to remember our faults. We meet at each other’s homes weekly and read,
sew, sing, pray, and play THE PANSY games. “Monteagle” is splendid.
Hope the trip will help Dilly get well, and she will help naughty Hart
get better. What a good woman Mrs. Hammond is to have such a bad boy. I
guess he’ll come out right.

                                                   MABEL S. KAGEY.

======

DEAR PANSY:

I send a small sum for the organ. I sent sixty cents to D. Lothrop
Company, and received “A Girl’s Room.” I would not part with it for
twice that. Every girl should have it. The book gives me an idea what
to do with things. I am much interested in “Around the Family Lamp.”

                                                   EMMA FISK.

======

DEAR PANSY:

Our mission band is “The Cheerful Givers.” Mrs. Prof. Jewett is the
teacher. She is nice. We like her—at least I do, and we all think the
others ought to. We have mite boxes to put our pennies into, to buy
maps of the world. I am not failing to mind my badge.

                                                   MABEL HICKS.

======

DEAR PANSY:

I am eight and cannot write well. I tried last week. The words were
hard to spell. I got tired. Tears came, so did mamma, and said, “Wait,
I will help you.” I have taken your paper since I was a bit of a girl,
and love it, and can hardly wait till it comes.

I have many, many, many naughty traits. Send me a badge. It may help
me. Mamma and my good auntie read THE PANSY to me, and they enjoy it as
much as I. Papa died before I was three years old. I want to be good
“For Jesus’ sake.”

                                                   ANNIE T. DANA.

======

DEAR PANSY:

Your answer to my last did me a world of good. I have it in my album,
as one of my most precious treasures. I’m determined to grow up a
useful Christian woman—thanks to the “Whisper Motto” and the influence
of PANSY and my mother. Mamma has no ambition for her children but that
they become genuinely good. When we are determined to be so, she wishes
us to join some church. There are six, and as merry and happy as the
“Little Peppers” of whom dear Margaret Sidney wrote so sweetly.

                                                   BLANCHE CRAWFORD.

======

DEAR PANSY:

I enclose five cents. I earned it for the organ fund by learning the
multiplication table.

                                                   MINNIE LOCKWOOD.

======

DEAR PANSY:

We have almost finished a bed-quilt and are making holders to sell; in
that way to raise money to buy cotton and lining. Every week a word is
given out. We learn a Bible verse with that word, to repeat at the next
meeting.

                                                   GERTIE CURRIER.

======

DEAR PANSY:

Please print my letter, as it is the first I have written to any paper.
I got a good many Christmas gifts, among them a canary. I named her
Soldie. I want to join the P. S. My fault is getting angry. I mean to
try real hard and break that horrid fault. I would like a badge. I
think you are real lovely. I would like to see you. I am your constant
reader and loving little friend. No one helped me about my story.

                                                   ELIZA W. HOLLAND.

ELIZA’S STORY.

(_Ella’s Lesson._)

Ella Smith was six years old. Her mother told her to take care of the
baby while she went up street. Ella went into her mother’s room for the
baby. The bureau drawer being open, she thought she would take a peep.
Naughty Ella! in it lay three large oranges. How good they looked! She
said to herself, “I will just touch them.” They felt so mellow she took
two large bites. When her mother came, she punished Ella. Never did she
peep into her mother’s drawer again.

DEAR PANSY:

I am trying to overcome my fault, which is putting off, and not
starting the moment I am spoken to. I like the whisper motto. I have
your picture and think very much of it. I have a pansy bed, and when I
look at it, it makes me think of the Pansy Society.

                                                   ULA COOK.

======

DEAR PANSY:

I think the games published in THE PANSY are lovely. We children, this
spring, in our yard, planted some seeds, and in three days they began
to show themselves. We planted the seeds in June and now they have buds
on them.

                                                   RITA E. BOARDMAN.

======

DEAR PANSY:

I have five dolls, Mabel, Phœbe, Sallie, Mollie, and Nannie. I love
Phœbe the best. I have had her almost two years. I have two cats, Mrs.
Kitty Clyde and her son Tom. We have a dog, too. His name is Nero.

                                             ROSALIE T. CANFIELD.

======

DEAR PANSY:

Perhaps some of the Pansies would like to hear of my two little horned
toads, about an inch and one half long. I have them in a wire-screen
cage. I have a big black beetle in the cage with them, and they don’t
seem to like him very well. I feed them with cornmeal and flies.

                                               OLLIE CUTTER CLARKE.

======

DEAR PANSY:

Thank you ever so much for the badge. I think it has helped me some,
but I left it in Denver when I came to Leadville to spend the summer.

                                                   ORLENA BEGGS.

======

DEAR PANSY:

I lend my PANSIES to my friends to read. I found ninety-eight mistakes
in the Queer Story of August PANSY.

                                                   SADIE M. KNIGHT.

======

DEAR PANSY:

Willie Hicks, a dear little fellow in Africa, six months only, has gone
to his heavenly home. Each Angola station has its representative in
Heaven; but with Melville Cox, we say, “Though a thousand fall, let
Africa be redeemed.” My bed is a bamboo frame, a canvas cot laced to
it, set on low horses. I am learning how to use tools. I want to make
a desk and case for my little library. I have no PANSY books. If I had
money they would be here soon.

                                                   HERBERT C. WITHEY.

======

DEAR PANSY:

   I walked in my garden to-day;
   Many wee faces looked up
   From their shady retreat.
   Some had eyes dark or blue;
   Some, curls of golden hue;
   Dressed were some in velvets rare,
   Or quaint, gay frocks,
   These babies dear.
   I asked them to come and live with me;
   Gayly they laughed,
  “Pansies are we.”

                                  E. EDWARDS.

======

DEAR PANSY:

I am so ashamed of myself I don’t like to write to you. I beg your
pardon. I have not worn my badge much, and I have not written to you.
It is all because I am so neglectful. I will try to wear my badge more.

                                                   MAMIE THOMPSON.

======


DEAR MRS. ALDEN:

We have a beautiful location. Looking south, we see the little valley
with Keiser Creek, like a thread, bright and clear; on either side, the
rocky hills, with pines, separated by deep ravines. Away beyond the
foot hills, overtopping all, is the Yellowstone or Snowy Range, lifting
up their white tops on the hottest days, as if in derision. Rocks are
everywhere. “The Rockies” are rightly named. Several miles down the
river is “Pompey’s Pillar,” on the rocky face of which is carved the
name of Wm. Clark, 1806, the explorer. Not far is the battle-ground, on
which the gallant Custer and his men lost their lives by the Indians.

                                                   LUE J. ROSEAU.

======

DEAR MRS. ALDEN:

The Carmans gave us a concert. The church was full. Every one was
delighted. They stayed all night at our house and sang. So we had a
free concert. It makes me think of an angel to look at Miss Nellie
while she sings. Davie is such a sweet, manly boy. I wish there were
more such boys. I don’t know of any. I like Mr. and Mrs. Carman, too.
They are all beautiful singers. Davie is fourteen, and superintends a
mission Sabbath-school. While reading Docia’s Journal, I decided for
Christ.

                                                   EDITH M. HILLBRANT.

======

DEAR PANSY:

When your kind letter came, Auntie Alice Ferree was here from Kansas
City. She used to live in Greensburg, Ind., and knew you, and wishes
to be remembered. I showed my badge to Gov. St. John. He sends kindest
regards.

                                                   LENA PUGH.

======

DEAR PANSY:

I counted one hundred and sixty-six mistakes in the Queer Story. I have
written to ask you to write a letter and put it in THE PANSY. I could
not find A Sevenfold Trouble, in one of the PANSIES. Call me Aurelia
from Mass. There are so many Lizzies.

                                                   LIZZIE A. POTTER.

======

DEAR PANSY:

I found one hundred and fifty-seven mistakes in the Queer Story. [Send
a copy corrected.—Ed.] I have two pets, a bird and a kitten. The kitten
is black, yellow, and white. Her name is Pansy. My bird is cardinal;
his name, Mac. Good-by!

                                                   MABEL DYNAM.

======

E. Smith’s letter, with badge, sent to Roberts, Ill., has returned.

A letter signed Jonnae J., 2617, Park Ave., St. Louis, Mo., received.

Henry P. Austin’s letter, sent to South Paris, Me., with badge, comes
back.

S. H. Sterling writes from Philadelphia, Pa., without street and number.

The above persons should immediately write, giving full name, street,
and number, and write very plainly.


THE QUEER STORY.

PRESCILA ALDON lived in a verry valuble pavilian in Tenessee. She was a
buisy gerl, driveing her Shettling pones from hous too hous and carying
lillies, raisens, robbins, rabits, aggs and menny other plesent an
prety presants two sutch as wer in nead.

She wasent a fraid nuther off takeing a litle troubble whar thar was
opertunity of makeing her nabours hapy.

She desided to oregonize a socity of Pansys. Consequensely she was
going an comming hear an thare verry ofen and writeing leters, hopeing
two recieve manny menbers like other socitys. She securred meny honary
nembers two. So she ocupied herself til Febwary, wen the aniversary of
the socity came. Then it was reccomended that the anniversity should be
selebrated by an entetainment of adreses, resiting peaces, musec, bone
fiers, ice creems, punkin pise and chickins and that all Pansys should
ware thare bages and collors and that no teaseing or plaging boy be
aloud too com til he promiced too lieve everry folt to home an bring
towells and sope to cleen the durty dishes.

Sence sum wouldent concent, thay wer not permited two com. But the
selebration was a grate sucess an Prescila was hapy.

[Mabel L. Thomas and Maude Lincoln have mastered the mistakes of the
Queer Story.]


THE STENOGRAPH.

A CONTRIVANCE, by M. M. Bartholomew of New York, weighing about three
pounds, costing forty dollars, about the size and shape of a man’s
hand, with five different keys and a roll of narrow paper, something
like a spool of silk, designed for “fast writing,” is the Stenograph;
so named, because that is the meaning of the word in Greek.

This queer little creature can make its mark, that’s all. But it can do
it so quickly and put it in so many different places and orders when
its fingers are touched by wire and spry human fingers that it can
write all your pen can write and do it in a fraction of the time, while
the operator’s eyes are looking away into the face of the speaker whose
words are being taken down.

Then, you can learn to “make it talk” in three months!

Suppose, now, some of you Pansies manage in some way to own a
Stenograph and teach the dear to mind the moment you speak to it. It
would be a delight to you to play upon it as upon your piano. Besides,
it would probably make music for your pocket. There is money in it.
You would be in demand at conventions and other places as a reporter
of speeches and sermons. And you could command good pay, if you were a
good stenographer.

Who knows but some of you will get your “bread and butter” by means of
this queer little creature?

                                                   C. M. L.


NEW BOOKS.

(_Published by D. Lothrop Company._)

TRUE MANLINESS. By Thomas Hughes. Price $1. I want to say a word about
this book to a certain dear little girl I know who has a whole dollar
with which to buy papa’s Christmas present, and who cannot decide what
to buy. She knows papa likes books better than almost anything else,
but then, how should a young girl know what book to select for a man
who has gray hair?

My darling, I feel sure papa would like this very book. It is the
reason I selected it from a large number of others, to tell the Pansies
about, because I thought of you and your dollar. A very pretty book
in a deep maroon binding, with three hundred pages of reading matter,
and all of it put in paragraphs so that a busy man, who has but a few
minutes to read, can seize this volume, get some sweet and helpful
thoughts from it, during the five minutes when he is waiting for the
mail, or for the street-car, and then go on his busy way. Just the
thing for your hurried papa, don’t you see? In fact the book belongs
to a set, named “The Spare Minute Series,” gotten up for just such
waitings as I have described.

“Would the book be ‘nice’ for you to read?”

Well, no, little girlie, I’m inclined to think it would be rather
“grown-up” for you, because, you see, it was written to help your
grown-up papa and mamma. There are bits in it that you would like; and
your fifteen-year-old brother would often read words in it that would
please and help him. I open the book at random, and find these words
under the heading of “Courage.”

“After all, what would life be without fighting, I should like to know?
From the cradle to the grave, fighting, rightly understood, is the
business, the real highest, honestest business of every son of man.

“Every one who is worth his salt, has his enemies, who must be beaten,
be they evil thoughts and habits in himself, or spiritual wickednesses
in high places, or Russians, or Border-ruffians.”

Don’t you know your brother said, only a few days ago when he got cross
and things went wrong, that he felt as though he should like to _fight_
somebody?

Here is his chance, with directions how to carry out his wish.

A CHAUTAUQUA IDYL. By Grace Livingston. Price 75 cents. The queerest
little Chautauqua story you ever read! All about a new Chautauqua which
is to be; one in which the birds and the flowers, and the fishes, and
the squirrels, and all that lovely out-door life at which we look on,
are deeply interested, as indeed they may be, for they are the prime
movers. You couldn’t guess who leads the music, nor, for the matter
of that, who gives lessons in Theology! A book full of lovely summer
secrets, just right for the little people to read during the winter
evenings.

Pictures? I should think so! Lovely ones; almost every page in the book
is illustrated. Some of your little brothers ought to send for copies
for Christmas presents for the sisters, or cousins, who always expect
books from you.

Would it do, I wonder, to tell you a secret?

I mean you boys and girls who have read, and who love, “Grandpa’s
Darlings?”

The truth is, this Grace Livingston is the very little “Gracie,”
Grandpa’s own darling, who has grown up to be a young woman, and the
first day she had a chance, she wrote this book, all about a queer,
sweet, new Chautauqua; just to pay her “Auntie Belle,” for telling all
sorts of funny things about her when she was Grandpa’s Darling.

SCRIPTURE BIRTHDAY BOOK. Price, $1.00. I thought I was tired of
Autograph Albums, but this pretty little book bound in green and gold,
containing a carefully-selected Bible-verse, and a verse of a hymn, for
each day in the year, with a blank space for friends to write their
names, gives me a great deal of pleasure. I think I should like to
write in such a book as this. I’m sure I should like to give each of my
young friends a Christmas present of a copy; and I would ask them to
please learn the verse for each day. The one for the first day of the
New Year is: “Sing unto the Lord with thanksgiving, for consider how
great things he hath done for you.”

[Illustration: He giveth snow like wool: He scattereth the hoar-frost
like ashes.—PSALM cxlvii. 16.

FROM THE “SCRIPTURE BIRTHDAY BOOK.”]

And the accompanying verse is:

  “Man’s life’s a book of history;
     The leaves thereof, are days;
   The letters, mercies closely joined;
     The title is, Thy praise.”

Ah! there are pictures in it, too; one for each month. The first one
shows us such a lovely snowy world, that I will have it copied for you
to see.



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Don’t be cajoled into buying the various Liquid Glues which are being
put on the market; some with high-sounding names; others imitating our
trade-marks and name as near as they dare; their only cry is: “Just
as good as LePage’s.” It is the best recommendation that the =RUSSIA
CEMENT CO.= could have of the merits of their glues. Labels of our CANS
are black and yellow; BOTTLES, red, yellow, green and black, with a
line of blue.

_We have just commenced manufacturing our NEW PATENT CAN—which has the
following advantages: The top can be turned on or off readily by the
fingers—each Can has brush fastened to the inside of cover, and a wiper
to take off superfluous glue. This arrangement enables the amateur or
artisan to carry a small can in the pocket ready for immediate use,
without danger of soiling from brush or can. The NEW PATENT CAN is in
3 sizes:—Half-pint, gill and half-gill.—Regular Cans, pint, quart,
2-quart and gallon. Bottles, two sizes, as heretofore: 1 oz. and 2 oz._

=Be sure and get the GENUINE LePAGE’S,=

MADE ONLY BY THE

RUSSIA CEMENT CO., Gloucester, Mass.


[Illustration: YOU CAN’T AFFORD

  TO
  LET
  YOUR
  CUSTOMERS
  GO TO
  ANOTHER
  STORE
  FOR WHAT
  THEY WANT

  EVERYBODY
  WANTS
  THE GENUINE
  ARTICLE
  NO SHORT MEASURE
  NO “ACID”
  NO HUMBUG
  IN GLUES
  MADE BY THE

  RUSSIA
  CEMENT CO.

THE STRONGEST GLUE IN THE WORLD.

TWO GOLD MEDALS

LONDON 1883

CONTAINS NO ACID AWARDED

NEW ORLEANS 1885.

  RUSSIA CEMENT
         CO


LEPAGE’S LIQUID GLUE

ALWAYS READY FOR USE

MANUFACTURED BY THE RUSSIA CEMENT CO.

FOR SALE EVERYWHERE

AT THE WORLD’S EX’B’N. AT NEW ORLEANS JOINTS MADE WITH IT ENDURED A
TESTING STRAIN OF OVER SIXTEEN HUNDRED POUNDS TO A SQ. INCH.

DON’T Be Deceived by the host of Imitators who are flooding the
market, copying our labels and trade name even, saying they make a
LIQUID GLUE JUST AS GOOD AS the RUSSIA CEMENT CO’S. The ONLY GENUINE
LePage’s Liquid Glue is manufactured solely by the RUSSIA CEMENT CO.,
Gloucester, Mass.

TO LIVE WITHOUT

LEPAGE’S LIQUID GLUE

IN THE HOUSE FOR REPAIRING YOUR FURNITURE, GLASS, CHINA, IVORY, BOOKS,
LEATHER, MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS, STATUARY, &c. &c.

IT IS UNEQUALLED. TRY IT.

Sample by mail 20 cents (stamps). Mention this journal.

_Russia Cement Co._ GLOUCESTER, MASS.]


=PARKER’S= ’88 STAMPING OUTFIT

With it you can stamp more than =1000= PATTERNS

[Illustration]

Exceeds in value all other outfits,

=$1.00.=

Sent anywhere by mail, prepaid.

This outfit contains book teaching =every known Method of stamping=,
price 25 cents; Box Best Powder and Pad, 15 cts.; Materials for
Indelible Stamping on Plush, Felt, etc., 15 cts.; Materials and
Instruction for =Parker’s New Method= (copyrighted), =No Paint=, =No
Powder=, =No Daub=, 50 cents; New =1888 Catalogue= (showing all the new
stamping patterns), 10 cents; and =Illustrated Wholesale Price List=
of Embroidery Materials, Infant’s Wardrobes, Corsets, Jewelry, and
everything ladies need.

[Illustration] SAVE MONEY BY BUYING AT WHOLESALE. [Illustration]


PARKER’S LAST INVENTION.

=A SET OF DESIGNING PATTERNS.=—With this set any one can design
thousands of beautiful pieces for Embroidery, Tinsel Work, Painting,
etc. =No experience needed=—a child can do it. An Illustrated Book
=shows how= to make patterns to fill any space; all the flowers used
in embroidery represented. Every one who does stamping wants a set,
=which can be had only with this outfit=. This outfit also contains
=TWO HUNDRED or more Stamping Patterns ready for use=. The following
being only a partial list:—=Splasher Design, 22 in.=, 50 cents; Roses,
12 in., and Daisies, 12 in., for scarf or tidies, 25 cents each; Wide
Tinsel Design, 12 in., 25 cents; Strips of Scallops for Flannels,
wide and narrow, 30 cts.; Braiding Patterns 10 cts.; Splash! Splash!
“=Good Night=,” and “=Good Morning=,” for pillow shams, two fine
outline designs for tidies, 6x8, 50 cts.; =Tray Cloth Set=, 50 cts.;
Teapot, Sugar, Cream, Cup and Saucer, etc.; Pond Lilies, 9x12, 25
cts.; 2 Alphabets, $1.00; 2 Sets Numbers, 30 cts.; Patterns of Golden
Rod, Sumac, Daisies, Roses, &c., Tinsel and Outline Patterns, Disks,
Crescents, &c.


COUPON FOR ONE DOLLAR.

In addition to all these and many other patterns we enclose a =Coupon
good for $1 worth of patterns= of your own selection chosen from our
catalogue.


THE MODERN PRISCILLA. 1 Year.

=The Modern Priscilla= (the only practical =fancy work journal= in
America), by arrangement with the publishers, will also be sent free
for one year.

  =The Great Value of this Outfit is in Good Useful Patterns.=
      =T. E. PARKER, Lynn, Mass.=


THE MODERN PRISCILLA

[Illustration: THE MODERN PRISCILLA

Devoted exclusively to =LADIES’ FANCY WORK=.]

Published monthly, at 50 cts. per year. Descriptions of new fancy work
appear every month; all directions for knitting or crocheting carefully
corrected. Everything beautifully illustrated.

=Miss Eva M. Niles says=: “I think your paper a little gem.” =Get up a
Club. Great Inducements!! Send stamp for premium list.= Club rate is
now 25 cts. a year, or =5= for =$1=. Get 4 subscribers and have your
own free. Address,

=Priscilla Publishing Co., Lynn, Mass.=


SAVE MONEY.

Embroidery Material, Infant’s Goods, Kid Gloves, Corsets, Laces,
Ruchings, etc., at =WHOLESALE PRICES=.

  Sent anywhere by mail.

  POSTAGE ALWAYS PREPAID.

25 Skeins Embroidery Silk, 11 cents. Box of Waste Embroidery Silk,
worth 40 cents, for only 21 cents. Felt Tidies, all stamped, 10 cents.
Linen Splashers, all stamped, 18 cts. Felt Table Scarfs, 18x50, all
stamped, 48 cents. Ball Tinsel, 8 cents.

=T. E. PARKER, Lynn, Mass.=


How some of them look and what they amount to.

[Illustration: ALL AMONG THE LIGHT-HOUSES]

Mary Bradford Crowninshield takes two boys and a girl along to use
their eyes and ears and ask questions. A very rich book. $2.50.

[Illustration: A MIDSHIPMAN AT LARGE

CHARLES REMINGTON TALBOT]

Talbot writes as bright a story as ever was written; and this is one of
his best. $1.50.

[Illustration: LOOK ABOUT CLUB

BY MARY E. BAMFORD]

They study spiders and butterflies, chickens and rabbits, fishes and
frogs, the folks on the ground and the folks in the air. $1.50.

[Illustration: The MIDNIGHT SUN, The TSAR AND THE NIHILIST.]

Dr. Buckley goes himself to Russia and other northern European
countries and brings back report of what is going on there. $2.50.

[Illustration: ROYAL GIRLS

Mrs. Sherwood]

Mrs. Sherwood takes her story to European Courts and the people in it
practice manners there. $1.25.

[Illustration: DAYS AND NIGHTS IN THE TROPICS

By FELIX L. OSWALD]

The collector of curiosities goes on his quest with his eyes wide open
and notebook in hand. You may read on any page you happen to light on,
and stop if you can. A book of adventures and hunters’ yarns. $1.50.

[Illustration: WIDE AWAKE

D. LOTHROP COMPANY BOSTON.]

Indescribable mass of instruction and entertainment—so much, so
various. The cheapest book of the year. $1.75 in boards.

[Illustration: BABYLAND

D LOTHROP COMPANY BOSTON.]

The prettiest baby-book, the solidest mother-book—just look at these
children. 75 cents.

[Illustration: THE STORY OF THE AMERICAN INDIAN

BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS]

Keen as a sea-story. Gathers the myths, and tales and authentic
accounts and sifts and weighs and puts a book to be read in place of a
score to gather dust. $2.50.

  The bookstores have them; or send to the publishers,
  D. LOTHROP COMPANY, Boston.


IN THE SELECTION OF

=A CHOICE GIFT=

For Pastor, Parent, Teacher, Child, or Friend, both elegance and
usefulness will be found combined in a copy of =Webster’s Unabridged=.

[Illustration: =WEBSTER’S UNABRIDGED DICTIONARY=

=IN VARIOUS STYLES OF BINDING=]

Besides many other valuable features, it contains

=A Dictionary=

of 118,000 Words, 3000 Engravings,

=A Gazetteer of the World=

locating and describing 25,000 Places,

=A Biographical Dictionary=

of nearly 10,000 Noted Persons,

=All in One Book=.

3000 more Words and nearly 2000 more Illustrations than any other
American Dictionary. Sold by all Booksellers. Pamphlet free. =G. & C.
MERRIAM & CO.=, Pub’rs, Springfield, Mass.


=BIRD MANNA= restores the song of cage birds and keeps them in perfect
health. Sent for 15c. in stamps. Sold by Druggists. Bird Food Co., 400
N. 3d St., Phila.


TRUE STORIES OF AMERICAN WARS. From Records and Famous Traditions.
Ill. Boston: D. Lothrop Company. Price, $1.25. The twelve capital
stories that make up this volume will furnish a rich feast for
patriotic and venture-loving boys and girls. The statement upon the
title-page that they were drawn from old records and family traditions
is literally true; each story has its appropriate basis of fact, and
some of them are very slightly embellished indeed. In every family
of the older States there are legends of the old Indian wars which
have never been written; and records of suffering and privation, of
deeds of daring and heroism, which to-day seem almost incredible. And
fresher and more vivid than these are the tales of the Revolution, the
battles, skirmishes and marches in which our ancestors participated,
comparatively few of which have been told outside the family circle
or the localities where they occurred. There is not a town along the
shores of Connecticut and Massachusetts but has its traditions, and
something more than traditions, of deeds that took place during the
later war of 1812, as stirring, perhaps, as any of those of older
times. From this great mass of material the authors represented in the
volume have drawn the narratives they have here set down. Among them is
the story of the capture of the British General Prescott, in command
at Newport, by a picked party of Americans under Colonel Barton,
one of the most daring exploits of the Revolution. Another is the
narrative of the raid of the Indians upon Royalton, Vt., in 1780, when
the village was burned and several of the inhabitants murdered. Other
sketches are entitled, “A Revolutionary Turncoat,” “The First Blow for
American Liberty,” “Joel Jackson’s Smack,” etc. Most of the stories are
illustrated.


STORY OF THE AMERICAN INDIAN. By Elbridge S. Brooks. Boston: D. Lothrop
Company. Price $2.50. The North American Indian has been for years a
problem and a paradox. With manners and customs analagous to those of
almost every nation of civilized antiquity his origin remains as great
a mystery as ever. The owner and lord of a continent, his possessions
have shrunk to nothing and his native freedom has faded away into a
state of sullen vassalage. Theorized over and speculated about by
scholars and scientists, made the text of many a disquisition by
philosophers and economists, used now as a hero and now as a fiend by
romancer and poet, and played with as a shuttlecock by philanthropist
and politician, his story has never yet been fully told, nor the record
of his power, his progress and his decline been given in anything like
historic detail.

The material devoted to the several phases of the Indian’s history is
very great, but no consecutive record exists in all this material, and
one who wishes to follow the course of the red-man’s rise and decline
has heretofore been unable to intelligently select from the accumulated
record enough connected material to present a satisfactory survey
of the case. Of late years the public conscience has been aroused
to something like interest in the Indian; his wrongs are admitted
and, almost too late, measures for his help and his reclamation
find listeners and supporters. The American sense of justice has
developed into something like a determination to see justice done to
an unfortunate race, and official mismanagement of Indian affairs as
well as border tyrannies over a fallen foe arouse more indignation
and protest than have yet been known since the days of discovery and
conquest. It is with the desire to place before the American public
a rounded record of this conquered race at precisely the time when
inquiry and interest in them are both awakened that Mr. Brooks has
prepared and published his “Story of the American Indian.” The volume
has no pet theory to advocate, it advances no solution of the Indian
problem. It seeks only to place before the readers of the land the
story of an injured race in strong but simple language and in brief but
direct detail.

The many and conflicting theories as to the Indian’s origin have
been sifted and debated, and what seems the most practical and the
simplest explanation is given. The condition and culture of the red-man
through a thousand years of supremacy before the era of discovery are
thoughtfully stated. The story of colonial mistreatment and of national
indifference are told and the real story of the Indian is here set
down in the plainest but most forcible manner. The story is told in a
style that will interest both young and old alike, and the earnestness
of its telling can hardly fail to arouse interest and awaken sympathy.
As the record of a race that has yielded to the dominant energy of its
conquerors, the book merits more than passing attention and must stand
as a glimpse at a life that has long since lost its manhood and its
identity, and the story of a race that has fallen victim to the vices
rather than the prowess of a higher civilization.


=DOBBINS’=

ELECTRIC SOAP

=Is for sale everywhere, and has for twenty years been acknowledged by
all to be=

THE BEST FAMILY SOAP IN THE WORLD.

In order to bring its merits to the notice of a still larger
constituency, we have recently reduced our price, keeping its quality
unchanged, and offer the following

BEAUTIFUL PRESENTS,

free of all expense, to all who will preserve and mail to us, with
their full address,

THE OUTSIDE WRAPPERS TAKEN FROM THIS SOAP.

    For Fifteen complete wrappers we will mail a beautiful
    book, 56 pages, lithographed cover,
  =Short Hints on Social Etiquette,=
    the cash price of which is forty cents; or a new and
    beautiful set of seven Cabinet Portraits of
  =D’Oyley Carte’s Original English Mikado Company, Fifth Avenue
    Theatre, New York City.= For Twenty-five complete
    wrappers we will mail a copy of the most Beautiful
    Panel Picture ever published, entitled,
  =“The Two Sisters.”=
    The original painting is owned by us, and cannot be
    copied or duplicated by any other firm, and hence is
    worthy a place in any house in the land. For sixty
    complete wrappers we will mail a copy of
  =Short Hints on Social Etiquette=
    and
  =Worcester’s Pocket Dictionary, 298 Pages.=
    The Housekeeper will find on a trial, _according to
    directions_, that the washing does not require HALF
    THE QUANTITY of DOBBINS’ ELECTRIC SOAP that it does of
    _any other_; that there is a great saving of time and
    labor in its use; that it saves the wear and tear of
    the clothes on the washboard, and does not cut or rot
    them to pieces, or hurt the hands, as adulterated soaps
    do.
    =IT DISINFECTS CLOTHES WASHED WITH IT,=
    leaving them thoroughly cleansed and sweet, instead
    of adding a foul odor of rosin and filthy grease.
    [Illustration] It washes flannels _without shrinking_,
    leaving them soft and nice.

              Respectfully,
            I. L. CRAIGIN & CO.,
  =Manufacturers Dobbins’ Electric Soap.=
  No. 119 S. 4th St., Philadelphia, Pa.


=400 RECITATIONS=

AND READINGS. We will send to any address on receipt of 30 cents, a
handsome book, bound in paper cover, and containing 400 of the best
recitations ever issued. Address

  J. S. OGILVIE & CO., 57 Rose Street, New York.


=LADIES= We have just had designed and made by one of the best
pattern designers in the country =TWENTY NEW PERFORATED PATTERNS= for
=Stamping= and =Embroidery=. These Patterns are worth at retail =20
CENTS EACH=. We wish to place our Catalogues in the hands of every lady
in the U. S., and to any one who will send us Twenty cents in stamps
to pay for postage and advertising, we will send the whole =20 ELEGANT
PATTERNS FREE.= Only one set of 20 can be sent to one person, as we
lose money on every set we send out. Send Silver or Postage Stamps and
Mention This Paper. Address the World M’f’g Co., 122 Nassau St., N. Y.


=AGENTS WANTED= (Samples FREE) for =DR. SCOTT’S= beautiful =ELECTRIC
CORSETS, BRUSHES, BELTS, ETC.= No risk, quick sales. Territory given,
satisfaction guaranteed.

  =Dr. SCOTT, 843 B’way, N. Y.=


=Shorthand= Writing _thoroughly taught_ =by mail= or personally.
=Situations procured= all pupils when competent. Send for circular. =W.
G. CHAFFEE=, Oswego, N.Y.


[Illustration]

R. M. LAMBIE, ALL KINDS OF BOOK HOLDERS

THE MOST PERFECT Dictionary Holder.

Send for Illustrated Catalogue.

=39 E. 19th St., N.Y.=

[Illustration]


[Illustration: PRICE $193.]

=WE SELL DIRECT TO FAMILIES=—(avoid Agents and Dealers whose profits
and expenses double the cost on every Piano they sell) and send this
First-Class =UPRIGHT Cabinet GEM= 7½ Octave Rosewood Piano, Warranted 6
years, for =$193=! We send it—with Beautiful Cover and Stool—for Trial
in your own Home before you buy. Send for circulars to

=Marchal & Smith, 235 East 21st St., N. Y.=


[Illustration]

=The Lightning-Trick Box.= The neatest =trick= ever invented. You
take off the cover and show it is full of =candy=; replace it and you
can assure your friends it is empty; and taking off the cover again,
sure enough, the candy has =disappeared=. Any one can do the trick.
Directions sent with each. Sample, postpaid, 10c.; 3, 25c.; one doz.,
75c. =HOWARD MFG. CO.=, 45 Eddy St., PROVIDENCE, R.I.


=SHORT-HAND,= Type-Writing, Book-Keeping, Penmanship, &c., at Boston
Commercial College, 639 Washington St. Send for circular.


[Illustration]

=FACE, HANDS, FEET,= and all their imperfections, including Facial
Development, Hair and Scalp, Superfluous Hair, Birth Marks, Moles,
Warts, Moth, Freckles, Red Nose, Acne, B’lk Heads, Scars, Pitting and
their treatment. Send 10c. for book of 50 pages, 4th edition. =Dr. John
H. Woodbury, 37 North Pearl St., Albany, N. Y.= Established 1870.


[Illustration]

THE Toy the child likes best!

This is the title of a descriptive Price-list, richly illustrated in
colour-print, of the ANCHOR STONE BUILDING BOX, which should be found
in every family and may be obtained from all Toy dealers, Stationers
and Educational Depôts. The Price-list will be forwarded gratis on
application to

  _=F. AD. RICHTER & Co.=_
  NEW YORK, 310, BROADWAY or LONDON E.C.,
  1, RAILWAY PLACE, FENCHURCH STREET.


LADIES’ =FANCY WORK=

=Ingalls’ Illustrated Catalogue= of Stamping Outfits, Felt, Linen
and Silk Stamped Goods, Fancy Work Materials, Books, Briggs Transfer
Patterns, etc., sent _free_ for one =2-c.= stamp.

  =J. F. Ingalls, Lynn, Mass.=


=LADY AGENTS= clear =$100= Monthly with our new Undergarments and other
goods for =LADIES= only. =SAMPLE FREE= by return mail. =G. L. ERWIN &
CO.=, Chicago, Ill.


=DRESS=

  Illustrated Catalogue Free.
  =MRS. A. FLETCHER, 6 EAST 14TH ST., N. Y.=

=DRESS=


=“The Glory of the WOMAN is in Her Hair.”=

  =Lyon’s Kathairon= gives length and Strength.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= contains no lead or sulphur.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= contains no rancid glycerine.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= was discovered by a great chemist.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= is a purely vegetable compound.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= purges away all dandruff.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= soothes and cools the scalp.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= kills tetter and ringworm in the scalp.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= stops all itching of the scalp.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= makes the hair glossy and silky.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= stimulates the growth of the hair.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= makes the tresses soft and wavy.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= is so clean it will not soil your linen.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= is the best and cheapest hair toilet.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= gives vigor and stops grayness.
  =Lyon’s Kathairon= keeps the hair from falling out.

The following genuine certificate speaks for itself in orthography,
grammar and truthfulness as a testimonial to the worth and real merits
of

=Lyon’s Kathairon for the Hair:=

                                Maidsville, Monongalia Co., W. Va.,}
                                      December 28, 1885.           }

  MR. LYON & CO.,

Dear Sirs:—I have been entirely bald for several years hereditaryly I
suppose, as my ansesters was bald so far back as I can remember or have
any knowledge. I tried all the hair vigors that I could handly get holt
of for several years but all of no use I became discouraged and quit
concluded it was hereditary and that my hare would never be restored
a gan. So in April 1885 I was pursuaded by Dr. C. C. Conaway to try
Lyon’s Kathairon and to my great surprise a fine suit of hair was soon
perceptable I continued the use of your Kathairon. I know have a fine
suit of hare for wich I am very thankful.

                                        Yours truly,
                                                  C. C. KINCAID.

  =Ladies and Gentlemen, give it a Trial.=


=EVERLASTING

POT POURRI=

OR

ROSE LEAF MIXTURE.

For Imparting to Apartments a Subtle, Delightful Perfume.

  Prepared from AROMATICS and FLOWERS of
  agreeable perfumes, with Musk and Ambergris
  to impart permanence.

IT will last for years and the rose petals MAY BE RENEWED by adding
those from native roses by the addition of one teaspoonful of salt to
each quart of petals. The perfume may be intensified at any time by the
addition of Cologne, Florida Water or Concentrated Extracts.

Fill into a rose jar, vase or bowl until the Pot Pourri comes within
two thirds of the top. Adjust a cover, and when it is necessary to
perfume an apartment remove the cover for ten or fifteen minutes.

  PREPARED ONLY BY
  =THEODORE METCALF & CO.,=
  39 Tremont Street, Boston.

=Sample mailed upon receipt of 25 cts. in stamps.=


=BOOK OF BEAUTIFUL SAMPLE CARDS.=

44 tricks in Magic, 800 Autograph Album Verses, 34 Amusing Games, 43
Ways to Make Money. All for a two cent stamp.

  EAGLE CARD WORKS, CADIZ, OHIO.


[Illustration: Price $22.

MASON & HAMLIN ORGAN CO.

MASON & HAMLIN BABY CABINET ORGAN]

This little organ has as much power as any single reed organ; with
that excellent quality which characterizes the Mason & Hamlin Organs.
It is successfully employed for private and public uses; even, in some
instances, for the accompaniment of hundreds of voices.

A circular with about one hundred opinions of purchasers of this
smallest organ will be forwarded to any one desiring it.

=PIANOS.=

Mason & Hamlin’s Piano Stringer was first introduced by them in 1882,
and has been pronounced by experts the “greatest improvement in pianos
in half a century.”

A circular, containing testimonials from three hundred purchasers,
musicians and tuners, sent, together with descriptive catalogue, to any
applicant.

  =MASON & HAMLIN ORGAN AND PIANO CO.,
  BOSTON, 154 TREMONT ST.   CHICAGO, 149 WABASH AVE.
  NEW YORK, 46 EAST 14TH ST. (UNION SQUARE.)=


=941 HIDDEN NAME CARDS,= scrap pictures, puzzles, games, tricks, money
making secrets, album verses, and the largest and finest sample book of
new style cards ever issued. All for a 2-cent stamp. Steam Card Works,
Station 15, O.


NEW TEMPERANCE PUBLICATIONS.

    The National Temperance Society has published over
    1,600 different publications upon every phase of the
    question, 154 of which are for Sunday-school Libraries.
    Over 250 first-class writers have contributed to their
    publication. Among the latest are the following:

=FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL LIBRARIES.=

  =A Made Man.= 308 pp. By J. McNair Wright                    =$1 25=
  =The Turning of the Wheel.= 322 pp. By Mary Dwinell Chellis   =1 25=
  =Dave Marquand.= 357 pp. By Annette L. Noble                  =1 25=
  =The Story of Rasmus.= 338 pp. By J. McNair Wright            =1 25=
  =Roy’s Wife.= 562 pp. By Mrs. E. J. Richmond                  =1 00=
  =Susan’s Sheaves.= 364 pp. By Mrs. C. M. Livingston           =1 25=
  =Never Begin Series.= 4 volumes, 170 pp. each                 =3 00=

=MISCELLANEOUS PUBLICATIONS.=

  =The People versus The Liquor-Traffic.= By John B.
    Finch. 12mo, 259 pp. Paper                           =$0 30=

Eleven great speeches of this eminent lecturer. A most severe, logical
and unanswerable arraignment of the liquor-traffic, and a most
convincing argument for Constitutional and Statutory Prohibition.

  =Alcohol in History. A Prize Essay.= 12mo, 481 pp. By
    Richard Eddy, D. D.                                   =1 50=

It embraces the historical, statistical, economical and political
phases of the reform.

  =An Hour with Mother Goose and Her Temperance Family.=
    By Mrs. Nellie H. Bradley.                             =0 25=

Embracing Recitations, Colloquies, Solos, Duets, Choruses, etc., by
Mother Goose, Jack and Jill, Little Red Ridinghood, Old King Cole and
“the rest of the family.” The notes of the music are given, and the
entire entertainment will be found one of the best ever given. 32 pages.

  =Readings and Recitations, No. 6.= By Miss L. Penney.
    12mo, 120 pp. Cloth, 50 cents; paper                  =0 25=

A new and choice selection of readings and recitations, from the best
writers and speakers. The best compilation ever made. Suitable for use
in the schoolroom, the home, and at public gatherings.

  =Rallying Songs for Young Teetotalers.= A splendid new
    song-book for Bands of Hope, Juvenile Temples, Loyal
    Legions, and all children’s organizations, containing a
    new collection of choice songs, glees, marching-songs,
    motion-songs, etc. Edited by Miss L. Penney, 64 pp. Per
    dozen, $1.50; single copies.                              =0 15=


  =Mother Goose for Temperance Nurseries.= By Mrs. J.
    McNair Wright. 8vo, 68 pp.                                 =0 25=

It consists of 31 songs or rhymes, with 31 beautiful illustrations and
31 wise sayings, for every day in the month, in the best style of Old
Mother Goose. Every child should have a copy.

    =National Temperance Almanac for 1888.= Filled
    with choice stories, handsome illustrations,
    shadow-pictures, puzzles, facts, figures, etc. 72 pp.       =0 10=

    =The Little Red Stocking that Hung at the Gate.= A
    Christmas Story. By Faith Wynne. 12mo, 72 pages             =0 10=

    =Christmas Temperance Service.= By J. N. Stearns. It
    gives responsive readings, recitations, music, etc. 8
    pp., octavo, per hundred                                    =2 00=

  Address =J. N. STEARNS, Publishing Agent, 58 Reade Street, N. Y.=


  =THOUSANDS OF THE BEST=
  =$38=   =GOLD=
          =WATCH=
  =EVER MADE ARE SELLING IN OUR=
  =CO-OPERATIVE CLUBS.=
  =This is the Best, Cheapest,
  Most Convenient,=

And _=only=_ co-operative System of selling watches. The watches are
American Lever Stem Winders, containing every essential to accuracy and
durability, and have, in addition, numerous patented improvements found
in no other watch. They are absolutely the only _=Dust and Dampproof
Movements=_ made in the World, and are jeweled throughout with
_=GENUINE RUBIES=_. The _=Patent Stem Wind and Set=_ is the strongest
and simplest made. _=They are fully equal for appearance, accuracy,
durability and service, to any $75 Watch.=_

Our Co-operative Club System brings them within the reach of every one.

=We want an active, responsible representative in EVERY CITY and TOWN.=

Heavy profits guaranteed on limited investment.

Write for full particulars.

  The Keystone Watch Club Co.
  =P. O. Box 928, Philadelphia, Pa.=

[Illustration: THE KEY STONE

WATCH CLUB Co.]

REFERENCES:—Keystone National Bank, or any Commercial Agency.

_=AGENCIES:=_

  =New York, N.Y.=
  =Chicago, Ill.=
  =Pittsburgh, Pa.=
  =Boston, Mass.=
  =Philadelphia, Pa.=
  =Detroit, Mich.=
  =Harrisburg, Pa.=
  =Denver, Col.=
  =Baltimore, Md.=
  =St. Louis, Mo.=
  =Wilmington, Del.=
  =Etc., etc.=


  IS THE BEST GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU?

  KEYSTONE DUST PROOF WATCHES

  PAT REG

  Adjusted
  154019

  PAT. DUST PROOF

  PATENT PINION

  PAT. S. W.

  KEYSTONE WATCH CO.

  =ARE=
  =THE=
  =BEST=

  =BECAUSE= They contain everything essential
    to =Accurate Time Keeping= found in any watch, and
    in addition have the following important patented
    improvements, which appear =only in Keystone Watches:=

  The =PATENT DUST PROOF= protects perfectly the balance
    and hair spring (the most delicate and vital parts)
    from damage, dirt and dampness.

  The =Patent Compound Regulator= has absolutely no lost
    motion.

  The =PATENT STEM WIND= is the =strongest= and
    =simplest= made.

  The =Patent Dust-proof movements= are =free from all
    variations= caused by dirt or dampness; an advantage
    which no other maker does or dare claim.

  This is the only Factory using =only Genuine Ruby
    Jewels= _in every grade_, and all Keystone Watches are
    made of the =best material=, and are =accurate time
    keepers=, under our own guarantee.

  =For Sale on Easy Terms, in Co-operative
  Clubs at the Lowest Cash Prices, by=

  The Keystone Watch Club Company,
  P. O. Box 928.     Philadelphia, Pa.


CHRISTMAS CARDS BY MAIL.

[Illustration: My weight in Love I send]

=OUR CARD PACKAGES= for 1887 and 1888 are ready. The assortment
is unusually large and fine, embracing the best cards that can be
obtained. These packets will be found the most =wonderful bargains ever
offered=. We advise early orders, as many will certainly desire to
re-order.

We will send a complete set of the first =six= packages for =$3.50=,
and 40 cts. for postage and registering, and of the complete =9 sets=
for =$5.00=, and 50 cents for postage and registering.

    =No. 1.—For 50 cents and four cents for postage: 17
    of L. Prang & Co.= and other fine Christmas Cards,
    together with a Double Fringed Card and a handsome
    Birthday Card.

    =No. 2.—For 50 cents and 4 cents for postage: 10= large
    and finer Cards from the above Publishers, also, a Fine
    Frosted Card and a folding card cut in form of Sheaf of
    Wheat.

    =No. 3.—For $1 and 6 cents for postage:= A choice
    selection of 25 Beautiful Cards, of =L. Prang & Co.’s=,
    also a souvenir booklet and a Hand-Painted Card.

    =No. 4.—For $1 and 8 cents for postage:= A selection of
    =10= of our Largest and Finest Cards, together with a
    Beautiful Four Folding Calendar for 1888, by L. Prang &
    Co.

    =No. 5.—For $1 and 10 cents for postage: 10 Double
    Fringed Cards= (not folded), each in a separate
    envelope, together with a fine Folding Fringe Card, and
    a handsome Satin Card.

    =No. 6.—For 25 cents and 2 cents for postage: 10
    Prang’s, Tuck’s, Ward’s=, and other beautiful cards.

    =No. 7.—For $1 and 8 cents for postage: 4 beautiful
    Folding Cards and 4 Souvenir Books=, with appropriate
    selections from best authors; retail price, 25 and 50
    cents each, and an enlarged Lithographic Card of the
    above cut by L. Prang & Co.

    =No. 8.—BIRTHDAY PACKET. For 50 cents: 17 Fine Cards of
    Prang’s or Tuck’s.=

    =No. 9.—SUNDAY SCHOOL PACKAGE. For 50 cents: 20 Cards,
    of Marcus Ward’s, Prang’s Cards=, assorted.

STAMPS OR POSTAL NOTES RECEIVED.

    =Hand-Painted Cards, Pearl Cards=, and other Novelties
    at =10, 15, 25, 50, 75 cents and $1= each, for
    Christmas, Birthday, or Anniversary, which will be
    selected with care for different tastes and ages as
    specified.

    =Chromo lithograph Cards by Prang & Co.= of the above
    cut and verse, with companion cards, per doz., with one
    booklet, postpaid, $1.

TO TEACHERS ONLY.

=50 Marcus Ward’s, Prang’s,= and other beautiful cards, no two alike,
for =$1= and =8= cents for Postage, Better Assortment, =$2= and =10=
Cents for Postage. A very choice selection, no two alike, =$3= and =20=
Cents for Postage and Registering.

_Every Packet will be sent in pasteboard Protectors, and heavy envelope
wrappers, for safe transmission._

The above offers include our Easter Card Packets for 1888. These will
be ready about March 1st. _Envelopes for mailing_ =12 cts= _for each
packet._

LOWEST PRICES IN THE UNITED STATES.

    =PAPER BY THE POUND.= We are the New England Agents
    for the =Hurlbut Paper Co.= (established in 1822), and
    manufacturers of the =Beacon Hill Linen Paper= (no
    better or more elegant paper can be made). Selling
    direct from mills to the consumer, we are able always
    to give lowest possible prices. Sample sheets of paper
    and envelopes, with prices and number of sheets to
    a pound, sent on receipt of =15 cents=, and special
    prices to those taking orders for these papers with our
    card packets.

    =POT-POURRI.= (=Rose Leaves.=) A preparation of
    =Rose-Leaf Petals= combined with the choicest
    =Oriental= perfumes, which will remain fragrant for
    years. Per box, size 3¼ by 4¾, postpaid =50 cents=. In
    fine Japanese Jars, securely packed and filled, price
    from =$1 to $5=.

  =H. H. CARTER & KARRICK, 3 Beacon Street, BOSTON.=


[Illustration: =OUR 30 Cent Bracket Saw OUTFIT.=]

=A BRACKET SAW OUTFIT FOR 30 CENTS.=

With this outfit any boy or girl can =MAKE MONEY=. With 10 cts. worth
of wood, you can make articles that will sell easily for 75 cts. or
more. You can =GET YOUR MONEY BACK= on the first article you sell. You
can soon earn enough to buy a large foot saw, and then do business on a
larger scale. You can make articles to beautify your home, and handsome
presents to your friends. One of these outfits will not only prove
profitable, but will give you

=HOURS OF FASCINATING PLEASURE=,

which would otherwise have been wasted. Persons who work during the day
can make extra money by sawing a few minutes every evening. Send for
an outfit and try it, you will never regret it. The Outfit consists
of the following: =One Steel Bracket Saw Frame=, =Extra Saw Blades=,
=1 Brad Awl=, =Copying Paper= for copying designs, =Sand Paper=, =1
Dozen Patterns= for making Easels, Match Safes, Wall Brackets, Card
Baskets etc., =1 Pack Business Cards=, to give to your friends, and
=Full Directions= for using. All packed in a neat box and sent by mail,
post-paid for =Only= =Thirty Cents=.

P. O. Stamps taken =WORLD M’F’G CO., 122 Nassau Street, New York=.


=Just the thing for a Holiday Present.=

=——THE ENGLE SPRING GUN——=

  _37 in. long._      _Steel Barrels._

[Illustration]

  =NO REPORT.=      =NO EXPLOSION.=

The Simplest and Best in the Market.

The Barrel of each Gun contains 25 Projectiles.

One =GUN= and 125 Projectiles will be sent postage paid to any part of
the United States for =$1.65=.

  =ENGLE SPRING GUN CO.=,
  Mention this paper.      Hazleton, Penn’a.

A descriptive Circular and a Projectile sent on receipt of a two-cent
stamp.


[Illustration: ICE AND ROLLER SKATES.

BARNEY & BERRY

SPRINGFIELD,MASS.

CATALOGUE FREE]


[Illustration: =WILBUR’S= =COCOA—THETA=]

The Finest =Powdered Chocolate= for family use. _Requires no boiling._
=Invaluable for Dyspeptics= and =Children=. _Buy of your dealer or send
=10= stamps for trial can._ =H. O. WILBUR & SONS=, Philadelphia.


=FUN CARDS=, set of Scrap Pictures, 1 checker board, & large Sample
Book of Hidden Name Cards, & agents’ outfit, 2 c. Capital Card Co.,
Columbus, O.


=AN ELEGANT=

CHRISTMAS PRESENT,

=for $1.00.=

[Illustration: SANTA CLAUS

DISTRIBUTING WORLD’S EDUCATORS.]

For ten times the cost you cannot get anything that will please and
educate the children and yourself like

=THE WORLD’S EDUCATOR=;

OR

EDUCATIONAL TOY AND GAME.

A Perfect Treasure-Box.

  FULL OF FUN.
    FULL OF INSTRUCTION.
      FULL OF SOLID AMUSEMENT.

=WIT! WISDOM! WONDER!=

For sale everywhere or sent prepaid by the manufacturers, on receipt of
$1.25. Send for full descriptive circulars. Agents wanted. Mention this
magazine.

  =W. S. REED TOY CO.=,
  =Leominster, Mass., U. S. A.=

_Pat. in U. S. and Gt. Britain._

For sale in Boston by

HORACE PARTRIDGE & CO., RICHARD SCHWARZ, HEYER BROS., PEABODY &
WHITNEY, and all other Toy Dealers.


=PICTURES TO PAINT.= Ten outline pictures, with directions for mixing
colors and for painting, sent to any address on receipt of =10c.= by S.
W. TILTON & CO., 29 Temple Place, Publishers, Boston.


[Illustration: WARREN’S FEATHERBONE]

=DRESS STAY.=

Soft, Pliable and _Absolutely unbreakable_. Standard Quality, =15=
cents per yard. Cloth covered, 20 cents. Satin covered, 25 cents. For
sale everywhere. Try it.


[Illustration: =ESTEY ORGAN=]

  UNRIVALLED IN TONE.
    ELEGANT IN FINISH.
      REASONABLE IN PRICE.

_Fully Warranted. Ill’d Catalogue Free._

  =ESTEY ORGAN CO.=,
  BRATTLEBORO, - - - VERMONT.
  159 Tremont St., Boston.


IF YOU WEAR =PANTS=

Send 6 cents for samples, rules for measurement, and other particulars
showing how we make

[Illustration: CUSTOM WORK 3.00 TO 8.00]


=The Celebrated=

=BAY STATE PANTS=

FOR $3.

Vests, $2.25, Coats, $8, and OVERCOATS, at popular prices.

[Illustration: SENT BY MAIL OR EXPRESS]

With our 20 years’ experience in this business we can furnish you
with the best goods in the latest styles. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Reference—American Express Co., Boston. _We want a trial order._

=BAY STATE PANTS CO., 30 Hawley St., Boston, Mass.=


=THE WORLD TYPE-WRITER makes a BEAUTIFUL HOLIDAY PRESENT.=

NO HOME Should be without One.

  =No. 1 Japanned=,             =$8.00=
  In Pine Box.

  =No. 2 Japanned=,            =$10.00=
  In Leather Box.

  =No. 3 Full Nickelled=,      =$15.00=
  In Black Walnut case, Satin and
  Plush Lined.

[Illustration]

Correspondence will be rendered pleasant by the use of this practical
and ornamental machine, while the young folks may improve their
knowledge by practicing on an instrument so simple and yet so strong
that no amount of hard usage will injure it.

  Send for _Book_ and Circulars.
              =GEORGE BECKER & CO., 30 Great Jones St., New York.=


THE LEGEND OF CEREALINE.

  “And they called the women round them,
  Called the young men and the maidens
  To the harvest of the corn fields.”

[Illustration]

  MERRY were the gladsome huskers,
  For they knew the corn they gathered,
  In the pleasant days of autumn
  Would sustain their lives through winter.
  So they sang a song together,
  All the young men and the maidens,
  Sang the praises of Mondamin
  And his Grecian sister Ceres.
  Thus they sang in measured chorus:
  “Honor be to brown Mondamin;
  Honor be to ancient Ceres;
  Honor to the noble Red-man;
  Honor to the wiser White-man
  Who hath built in Indiana
  Mighty mills to make the magic
  Cerealine, the Flakes nutritious,
  Food of foods, the precious essence
  Of the life blood of Mondamin,
  That shall give to every eater
  Health, and strength to think and labor.
  Haste the day when all the people
  Shall enjoy at each day’s banquet,
  Cerealine, the food ideal.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    =The series of twelve original pictures, illustrating
    “Hiawatha’s Fasting,” of which the above is a small
    example, will be mailed to any one who will mention
    where this advertisement was seen and enclose a
    two-cent stamp for postage to the Cerealine Mfg. Co.,
    Columbus, Indiana.=

  =“Cerealine Flakes” for sale by all grocers at twenty cents
                             a package.=


[Illustration: IVORY]

BUBBLE PARTIES.

ONE of the most amusing, as well as easily arranged entertainments
for the Holidays, is a “Bubble Party.” Twenty or more ladies and
gentlemen, enough clay pipes so each will have one, three or four bowls
of soap-suds, and, say, half a dozen trifles, for prizes, are all that
is required, the prizes to be awarded to those who blow the largest
bubbles, one of the party to act as referee.

The suds should be of IVORY SOAP, as it gives a clean, white, and
abundant lather, with an entire freedom from oil or grease; and as the
materials of which it is made are so clean and pure, it is not at all
offensive to the smell or taste, like ordinary soap.

A WORD OF WARNING.

There are many white soaps, each represented to be “just as good as the
‘Ivory’;” they ARE NOT, but like all counterfeits, lack the peculiar
and remarkable qualities of the genuine. Ask for “Ivory” Soap and
insist upon getting it.

  Copyright 1886, by Procter & Gamble.


       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Ad on “Etching,” “addresss” changed to “address” (free to any address,
on)

Page 35, word “it” added to text (reason why it worked)

Page 53, “nncontrollable” changed to “uncontrollable” (an
uncontrollable appetite)

Pansy Corner and Pansy Advertiser:

Page 3, “lii” changed to “liii” (Is. liii: 10)

Page 6, “Thuogh” changed to “Though” (Though a thousand fall)

Page 7, “minntes” changed to “minutes” (the five minutes when)

Page 9, “A HESIVE” changed to “ADHESIVE” (STRONGEST ADHESIVE KNOWN)

Page 11, “diquisition” changed to “disquisition” (a disquisition by
philosophers)

Page 13, “vegntable” changed to “vegetable” (purely vegetable compound)





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Pansy Magazine, Vol. 15, Dec. 1887" ***

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