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Title: Harper's Young People, January 17, 1882 - An Illustrated Weekly
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Harper's Young People, January 17, 1882 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

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       *       *       *       *       *


Tuesday, January 17, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




Percy Vance was a stranger in the town and a new scholar at the grammar
school. His age was set down in the roll-book as twelve, but judging
from his height the girls thought he must be past fifteen, while the
boys, after noting the slimness of his figure, the paleness of his face,
and the timid look in his great gray eyes, declared he could not be over

None of the lads had ever seen him run, and as for playing games, Ted
Harley affirmed that he "didn't know a marble from a top."

But there was something the new-comer _did_ know, and that was his
lessons; so it was not long before he stood at the head of several

"He must study straight along from the time school's out till supper,
and I say it isn't fair," Dan Tregwin was wont to complain; "for a
fellow who wants to have some fun now and then don't stand any chance at

But the boys soon forgot all about "Percy, the Prig," as he was called
by some, in the joys of the first big snow-storm the town had been
favored with for several years.

In the afternoon of the day succeeding the storm Ted Harley and Dan
Tregwin were taking turns dragging one another on Ted's long "coaster"
toward the steepest hill in town, when Dan suddenly stopped so short
that the sled caught him by the legs and threw him down.

"Well, what next?" he exclaimed, as he picked himself up. "Here's Percy
Vance actually coasting!" And he called Ted's attention to a boy
rapidly approaching them down a side street.

As he reached the bottom of the slope Percy guided himself around the
corner, and went skimming on in the same direction as his school-mates.

It was at this moment that an unusually loud jingle of bells was heard
behind them, and as the lads swerved to one side a large handsome
sleigh, drawn by four coal-black horses, passed them like a flash.

Dan and Ted instinctively shouted "Hurrah!" and even Percy stood up to
stare after the merry party with longing eyes.

"Hi, quick!" suddenly cried Ted, "they've stopped at that house down
there. Let's cut along and get a good look;" and all three boys were
soon by the side of the four-in-hand, the occupants of which had gone in
to make a call, leaving the sleigh in charge of the coachman.

"Whose is it, I wonder?" whispered Dan, feasting his eyes on the
silver-mounted harness, the Russian bells, and the gayly colored plumes.

"I'm pretty certain it doesn't belong in town here," returned Ted.

But just then the coachman called out: "I say, lads, will ye stand by
thim layders' heads a bit?"

Dan and Ted at once sprang forward.

"And you," continued the man, turning to Percy, "just climb up to that
sate, and hould these lines whilst I take a look at that off-whaler's
foot. Don't pull on 'em now, mind ye," concluded the good-natured
Irishman, as he assisted young Vance to his high perch, and placed the
reins in his hands.

At the same instant Ted and Dan exchanged whispers in which the word
"fun" might have been heard. Then, as the coachman's right foot left the
step, they both chirruped softly to the horses, and let go their hold.

The effect was almost magical. All four of the spirited animals started
off with a jerk that threw the coachman on his back in the street, and
came near sending Percy after him.

The terrified driver leaped to his feet in an instant, but how could he
hope to stop the team? His shouts and the wild clangor of the bells
speedily brought the whole party out of the house, but they, too, were

Dan and Ted, who had merely meant to make the restive horses rear a bit
"just for fun," to frighten "the prig," thinking that the coachman could
easily clamber up again and pull them in, rushed from the spot with
faces paler than Percy's and hearts that beat fast and loud from other
causes than running.

Meantime how fared it with the victim of the "fun"?

As soon as he recovered from the shock of the sudden start, Percy pulled
on the lines with all his might. But the flying animals scarcely noticed
the tightening rein. Only aware that the iron grip with which they were
usually held was no longer there to restrain them, they tore along at a
mad pace, plunging and snorting with the joy of unaccustomed freedom.

Fortunately the street was but little travelled, but then there was the
steep hill to go down.

The boy's naturally timid heart almost failed him utterly as he fully
realized the danger, and for a moment he was tempted to throw himself
back among the robes and hide his face from the disaster that was all
but certain.

But suddenly his eye lit up with an unusual fire; he took a fresh hold
on the lines, braced his feet, leaned back, and prepared to face the

With a whirl, a rush, and a swaying from side to side, the four-horse
runaway neared the steep descent. In an instant the boys toiling up with
their sleds gave the cry of warning, and the hill was cleared. Then,
with eyes almost starting from their heads, they gaze after the brief
vision of Percy Vance driving a four-in-hand at lightning speed.

As for Percy himself, he can scarcely realize that the dreaded coasting
hill has been left behind with no wrecked sleigh, wounded horses, and
bruised boy to keep it company. But hardly has he had time to
congratulate himself on his escape when another noise mingles with the
rattle of the bells, and the next instant he finds that he is started on
a mad race with a train of cars.

With a cold thrill of terror coursing through his frame, Percy now
recollects that the road runs parallel with the railroad track for a
mile or more in the open country, and then crosses it. And here is the
train beside him.

Spurred on to yet greater speed by the thunder of the cars the horses
rush onward. The keen wind cuts Percy's face almost as sharply as a
knife, while the thought of the crossing fairly burns itself into his

Oh, why does not the engineer remember it too, and put an end to the
terrible contest?

But still ever on, tearing, whirling, rushing, plunging, go engine and
cars, horses and sleigh, neither gaining on the other.

To Percy it seemed as if the race had lasted all his life-time. But in
reality it had only continued a moment or two, when the engine slowed
up, the horses were allowed to dash on ahead, and the sleigh flew
victoriously over the crossing just in front of the iron monster, that,
puffing forth great clouds of steam and smoke, waited for it to pass.

Another narrow escape; but how long could this go on? Percy's hands were
becoming numb from the cold, his head was beginning to swim from the
long-sustained excitement, and-- Here is a sharp turn in the road, the
point thickly grown with trees, and the sound of bells coming from the
other side.

A brief instant of suspense, and the corner is reached. There are shouts
of warning, cries of horror, and then it seemed to Percy as if he had
suddenly gone to sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

At that same moment, in the loft of Mr. Harley's barn, two figures were
stretched upon the hay, face downward.

"Oh, Ted," one of them is saying, in a hoarse whisper, "Percy Vance
hasn't any father, you know!"

"And I remember now," replied the other, in equally dismal tones,
"somebody's telling me his mother was always so afraid something would
happen to him."

Then both boys lay quiet in their misery until it grew dark, when, under
cover of the night, Dan hurried off to his own home, and Ted went in to
eat his supper, feeling as if every mouthful would choke him.

The next morning Dan stopped for his friend, and together the two
proceeded to school.

"I wonder what they can do to us?" whispered Ted. But Dan could only
shake his head and put a finger on his lips.

On reaching the school-house the boys found a group of their
school-fellows eagerly discussing some important matter. The first words
they heard were:

"He's been arrested, and as they've just come here there was nobody to
go bail, so Percy was taken to prison."

At this there was a chorus of horrified "ohs!" from the girls, and grave
shakings of the head on the part of the boys.

Ted and Dan stood mute, with white lips and dilated eyes, waiting to
hear more.

At this moment Ralph Minting, one of the "big boys," pushed his way in
among the crowd, demanding to know what had happened.

"Why, haven't you heard?" cried three or four in a breath, and then
George Binder began:

"Only think, Percy Vance tried to run off with a four-horse sleigh! The
coachman gave him the lines to hold for a minute, when the 'prig'
started the team up. The man was knocked off the step, and away went
Percy like the wind, until he ran into Mr. Renford's cutter, three miles
from here, when he was thrown out and stunned. The cutter was upset, and
Mr. Renford bruised a bit, while the horses ran into a stable-yard half
a mile farther on, and stopped, with sleigh and all safe and sound. But
the owner was in a towering rage, and as soon as Percy was brought back,
he had him arrested for petit larceny, as they call it, and--"

Here the nine-o'clock bell cut short the narrative, but Ted and Dan had
heard enough.

Without daring to look at one another, they went in and took their
seats. But instead of studying, they sat most of the time gazing in a
dazed sort of way at Percy Vance's vacant seat.

At recess Tom Wayne, whose father was justice of the peace, came running
breathlessly into the yard with the news that Percy had been "brought
up," and firmly denied the crime charged against him.

"And just as I left," concluded Tom, "they had the coachman up as a
witness. He declared there were two boys standing at the horses' heads,
so they couldn't have started off of their own accord. But the queer
part of it is that nobody knows who these two boys were except Percy,
who vows he will never tell."

At these words Ted and Dan started as if struck, and then, regardless of
the bell that had already begun to ring, made off on a run for Judge
Wayne's office.

As if by a common impulse, they gave themselves no time for thought, but
on reaching the door passed inside at once, to be greeted with the

"An' shure here are the young gintlemin to spake for thimselves. Now,
thin, me byes, step forward and testify as to how this young scapegrace
tried to stale me tame, givin' me at the same toime this big bump on the
back of me head."

Neither of the lads ever forgot Percy's look at that moment. He was
sitting by a sad-faced lady, dressed in the deepest mourning, and as Ted
and Dan entered the room, his large gray eyes gave them both a brief
piercing glance, then instantly dropped toward the floor.

"Let Percy Vance go. It was all our fault," cried Dan, in a loud voice;
and then he went on to tell how he and Ted had started the horses.

"But how--why, boys, I don't understand," exclaimed the bewildered
judge, who knew both lads well. "What did you do such a thing for?"

"Just for fun," replied Dan, in a low voice, and hanging his head.

Thereupon the owner of the sleigh and Judge Wayne held a short
consultation, the result of which was that each of the offenders was
required to hand over all his pocket-money as a fine, and pass the
remainder of the day in the cell Percy had occupied.

"We make your punishment thus light," concluded the judge, "in
consequence of the manly way in which you have come forward and
acknowledged your fault."

He then proceeded to give Percy an honorable discharge, and from that
time forth Mrs. Vance lacked not for friends, nor was her son ever again
called a "prig."

As for Ted Harley and Dan Tregwin, after seven hours spent in the
station-house, their ideas as to the difference between pure fun and
malicious mischief were so distinct that there is no danger of their
ever mixing the two up again.



One hundred years ago a little girl named Mary Butt was living with her
parents at the pretty rectory of Stanford on the Terne, in England. She
was a bright and beautiful child, and when she grew up she became Mrs.
Sherwood, the writer of a great many charming stories for young people.

But nothing that she wrote is so entertaining as the story of her
childhood, which, when she was an old lady, she told to please her
grandchildren. I wonder how the girls who read this paper would endure
the discipline which little Mary submitted to so patiently in 1782.

From the time she was six until she was thirteen she wore every day an
iron collar around her neck, and a backboard strapped tightly over her
shoulders. This was to make her perfectly straight. Perhaps you may have
seen here and there a very stately old lady who never was known to lean
back in her chair, but who always held herself as erect as a soldier on
duty. If so, she was taught, you may be sure, to carry herself in that
way when she was a little girl.

Poor Mary's iron collar was put on in the morning, and was not taken off
until dark, and, worse than that, she says: "I generally did all my
lessons standing in stocks, with the collar around my neck. I never sat
on a chair in my mother's presence."

Her brother and herself were great readers, but you can count on the
fingers of one hand all the books they had to read. _Robinson Crusoe_,
two sets of _Fairy Tales_, _The Little Female Academy_, and _Æsop's
Fables_ formed the entire juvenile library. They used to take _Robinson
Crusoe_, and seat themselves at the bottom of the wide staircase, the
two heads bent over the page together. Whenever they turned a leaf, they
ascended a step, until they reached the top, and then they began to go
down again.

Little Marten was not very persevering with his Latin, so, although it
was not then the fashion for girls, Mary's mother decided that she
should begin the study in order to encourage him. The sister soon
distanced the brother, and before she was twelve her regular task of a
morning was fifty lines of Virgil, translated as she stood in the

You will ask what sort of dress this little girl was allowed to wear one
hundred years ago. In summer she had cambric, and in winter,
linsey-woolsey or stuff gowns, with a simple white muslin for best. Her
mother always insisted on a pinafore, which was a great loose apron worn
over everything else, and enveloping her from head to feet.

It is quite refreshing to find that neither the backboard nor the Latin
took from the child a love of play and of dolls. Her special pet was a
huge wooden doll, which she carried to the woods with her, tied by a
string to her waist, after the grown people had decided that she was too
big to care for dolls. A friend one day presented her with a fine gauze
cap, and this was the only ornament she ever possessed as a child.

I think the little girls who compare 1882 with 1782 must be thankful
they were not born in the last century. I know that I am. Yet little
Mary Butt was a very happy child, spending, when permitted, hours of
great delight in the woods and groves, and listening eagerly to the talk
of the learned and travelled visitors who came to Stanford Rectory.




  Please step softly, Dolly's sleeping
    After such a night of pain;
  Neither Maude, nor I, nor Alice,
    Thought she'd ever sleep again.

  Yes, we sent for Mr. Doctor,
    And he gave her heaps of pills,
  Big black draughts, and pale magnesia,
    Rhubarb red, and oil, and squills.

  Said she had a dang'rous fever;
    Thought she might have caught a cold,
  Or perchance had got the jaundice,
    For she looked like yellow gold.

  Shook his head, then sighed a little,
    As he took an ample fee,
  Then remarked that after dinner
    We should see--what we should see.

  But she sleeps; so tell the Doctor,
    When he comes at half past four,
  That our darling doesn't want him,
    And he needn't come here more;



It will be just one hundred years, on the 18th of January, since Daniel
Webster, the great statesman, orator, and lawyer, was born, and the time
seems a fit one for saying something of his boyhood.

Webster's father lived near the head waters of the Merrimac River, and
the only school within reach was a poor affair kept open for a few
months every winter. There Webster learned all that the ignorant master
could teach him, which was very little; but he acquired a taste which
did more for him than the reading, writing, and arithmetic of the
school. He learned to like books, and to want knowledge; and when a boy
gets really hungry and thirsty for knowledge, it is not easy to keep him
ignorant. When some of the neighbors joined in setting up a little
circulating library, young Webster read every book in it two or three
times, and even committed to memory a large part of the best of them. It
was this eagerness for education on his part that led his father
afterward to send him to Exeter to school, and later to put him in
Dartmouth College.

There are not many boys in our time who have not declaimed parts of
Webster's great speeches; and it will interest them to know that the boy
who afterward made those speeches could never declaim at all while he
was at school. He learned his pieces well, and practiced them in his own
room, but he could not speak them before people to save his life.

Webster was always fond of shooting and fishing, and however hard he
studied, the people around him called him lazy and idle, because he
would spend whole days in these sports. Once, while he was studying
under Dr. Woods to prepare for college, that gentleman spoke to him on
the subject, and hurt his feelings a little. The boy went to his room
determined to have revenge, and this is the way he took to get it. The
usual Latin lesson was one hundred lines of Virgil, but Webster spent
the whole night over the book. The next morning before breakfast he went
to Dr. Woods and read the whole lesson correctly. Then he said:

"Will you hear a few more lines, doctor?"

The teacher consenting, Webster read on and on and on, while the
breakfast grew cold. Still there was no sign of the boy's stopping, and
the hungry doctor at last asked how much further he was prepared to


"To the end of the twelfth book of the Æneid," answered the "idle" boy,
in triumph.

After that, Webster did not give up his hunting and fishing, but he
worked so hard at his lessons, and got on so fast, that there was no
further complaint of his "idleness." He not only learned the lessons
given to him, but more, everyday, and besides this he read every good
book he could lay his hands on, for he was not at all satisfied to know
only what could be found in the school-books.

Webster's father was poor and in debt, but finding how eager this boy
was for education, and seeing, too, that he possessed unusual ability,
he determined, ill as he could afford the expense, to send him to
college. Accordingly, young Daniel went to Dartmouth. But after he had
been there two years, and had gone home for his vacation, he startled
his father one morning by declaring that he would not go back to college
unless his brother Ezekiel could be educated too. This seemed out of the
question. The father could barely afford to educate one son, and he
could not spare the other from the farm-work that provided the means for
this. But young Dan was generous and resolute. If Zeke could not be
educated, he would not. He would not let them sacrifice Zeke for him,
and there was an end of the matter. The good old mother solved the
difficulty. She was getting old, she said, and her children were dear to
her; she was willing to give up everything for their good, and if they
would promise to take care of her during her old age, the property
should be sold, the debts paid, and what remained should be spent in
educating both the boys. After much debate, the matter was settled in
this way, and it is pleasant to know that the dear old mother never knew
want as a consequence of her devotion to the welfare of her children.

Many anecdotes are told to illustrate the character of young Dan. He was
always lavish of his money when he had any, while his brother was
careful but generous, especially to Dan, whom he greatly admired. On one
occasion the boys went to a neighboring town on a high holiday, each
with a quarter of a dollar in his pocket.

"Well, Dan," said the father on their return, "what did you do with your

"Spent it," answered the boy.

"And what did you do with yours, Zeke?"

"Lent it to Dan," was the answer. As a fact, Dan had spent both

Young Webster was very industrious in his studies, as we have seen, and
he was physically strong and active, as his fondness for sport proved;
but he could never endure farm-work. One day his father wanted him to
help him in cutting hay with a scythe; but very soon the boy complained
that the scythe was not "hung" to suit him, that is to say, it was not
set at a proper angle upon its handle. The old gentleman adjusted it,
but still it did not suit the boy. After repeated attempts to arrange it
to Dan's liking, the father said, impatiently, "Well, hang it to suit
yourself." And young Dan immediately "hung" it over a branch of an
apple-tree and left it there. That was the hanging which pleased him.

After finishing his college course, Webster began studying law, but
having no money, and being unwilling to tax his father for further
support, he went into Northern Maine, and taught school there for a
time. While teaching he devoted his evenings to the work of copying
deeds and other legal documents, and by close economy he managed to live
upon the money thus earned, so that he saved the whole of his salary as
a teacher. With this money to live on, he went to Boston, studied law,
and soon distinguished himself. The story of his life as a public man,
in the Senate, in the cabinet, and at the bar, is well known, and it
does not belong to this sketch of his boyhood.


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

An Indian Story.



Excited and alarmed by the news brought by Ni-ha-be and Rita, Many Bears
had forgotten to scold them; but when the story of their morning's
adventure was related to Mother Dolores, that plump and dignified person
felt bound to make up for the chief's neglect.

She scolded them in the longest and harshest words of the Apache
language, and then in Mexican-Spanish, until she was out of breath.
Finally Ni-ha-be exclaimed:

"I don't care, Mother Dolores; I hit one of them in the arm with an
arrow. It went right through. Rita missed, but she isn't an Apache."

"Two young squaws!" said Dolores, scornfully. "Where would you have been
now, and Red Wolf, too, if it wasn't for that old pale-face and his boy?
What are your talking leaves good for? Why didn't they tell you to stay
in camp?"

"I didn't ask them. Besides, that isn't what they're good for."

"Not good for much, anyhow. I don't believe they can even cure the pain
in my bones."

Poor Dolores had never heard the story of the squaw who had a tract
given her by a missionary, and who tied it on her sore foot, but her
ideas of some of the uses of printing were not much more correct.

"No," said Rita, "I don't believe they're good for that."

"Anyhow," said Ni-ha-be, "the whole camp is getting ready to move. Come,
Rita, let's you and me ride on ahead."

"No, you won't, neither of you. You'll stay by me, now. If the great
chief wants you again, I must have you where I can find you."

The girls looked at one another, but there was nothing to be gained by

"Ni-ha-be," said Rita, "we can keep close together. They won't go fast,
and we can look at the leaves all the way."

On an ordinary march a good many of the squaws would have had to go on
foot and carry their pappooses, and perhaps heavy loads besides, but the
orders of Many Bears prevented that this time. The poorest brave in camp
had a pony provided for his wife and children, and as many more as were
needed for his baggage, for the chief was in a hurry, and there was to
be no straggling. His orders were to push on as fast as possible, until
a safe place to encamp in should be found, or, rather, one that could be
more easily defended than the exposed level they were leaving.

The idea of coming danger was spreading even among the squaws, and they
were in as great a hurry as Many Bears. They did not know exactly what
to be afraid of, but they were thoroughly alarmed for the swarm of
little copper-colored children they had in charge.


Some ponies had more to carry, and some had less, but there was one poor
little long-eared, patient-looking mule which had more than his share.

A very fat and dreadfully ugly squaw rode astride with a pappoose on her
back, his round head popping out behind his mother's ragged locks. A
twelve-year-old boy had climbed up in front, and his younger brother and
sister clung on behind, so that the little mule was turned into a sort
of four-footed omnibus.

It seemed, too, as if there were more wretched-looking dogs following
after this forlorn mule than attended the ponies of any chief's family
in the whole band.

"Look, Rita," said Ni-ha-be. "Look at old Too-many-Toes and her mule."

This squaw had a name of her own as well as the others, but it had not
been given her for her beauty.

"Isn't she homely?" said Rita. "I wonder where the rest of her children

"I guess she's divided them around among her relations. There's enough
of them to load another mule. Her husband'll never be rich enough to buy
ponies. He's lazy."

"He doesn't beat her."

"He's too lazy for that. And he's afraid of her. I don't believe he's an
Apache. Think of a brave afraid of his own squaw!"

There was something very bad in that, according to all Indian notions,
but Rita only said,

"What would that mule do if she wanted him to run?"

Just then the shrill voice of Mother Dolores behind them shouted,

"I'm coming. They wanted to make me help pack."

The pride of the best cook in the band was seriously offended. She knew
her dignity better, and she meant to assert it.

Silent and submissive as are all Indian women in the presence of braves
or of white men, they make up for it all in the liberty they give their
tongues among themselves. They can talk wonderfully fast, and say as
many sharp things as may be necessary.

"Now, Rita, see if you can make the leaves tell you anything about
Knotted Cord."

"He isn't in them. Nor Send Warning either."

"Look. They must be there."

Neither Steve Harrison nor Murray were to be found in the three
magazines; Rita felt sure of that, but she turned the pages carefully,
as they rode on side by side.

She came to something else, however, in the back of one of them which
almost drove from her mind the face and form of Send Warning; Ni-ha-be
also forgot the brown hair and handsome face of Knotted Cord.

"Oh, so many squaws!"

"All of them so tall, too. I wonder if pale-face squaws ever grow as
tall as that? Look at the things on their heads."

"See!" exclaimed Rita. "All clothes! No squaws in them."

"Great chief. Ever so many squaws. Lose part of them. Keep their

Rita could not quite explain the matter, but she knew better than that.

The series of pictures which so excited and puzzled the two Indian
maidens was simply what the publishers of the magazine advertised as "A
Fashion Supplement."

There was enough there to have, I think, puzzled anybody.

Gradually they began to understand it a little, and their wonder grew

"Are they not ugly?" said Ni-ha-be. "Think of being compelled to wear
such things. I suppose if they won't put them on they get beaten. Ugh!
All black things."

"No. Only black in the pictures. Many colors. It says so: 'red,'
'yellow'--all colors."

That was better, and Ni-ha-be could pity the poor white squaws a little
less. Rita allowed her to take that magazine into her own keeping, but
they ride mile after mile, and all she found in it worth studying was
that wonderful array of dresses, with and without occupants. She had
never dreamed of such things before, and her bright young face grew
almost troubled in its expression.

Oh, how she did long just then for a look at a real pale-face woman,
gotten up and ornamented like one of those pictured on the pages before
her! She was learning a great deal more, indeed, than she had any idea

But to Rita had come a revelation, for the faces and the dresses had
joined themselves in her mind with ever so many things that came
floating up from her memory--things she had forgotten for so long a time
that they would never have come back to her at all but for something
like this.

Just now, while Ni-ha-be had the fashion plates, Rita was busy with the
illustrations of "gold-mining," which had so awakened the interest of
Many Bears. Not that she knew or cared anything about mines or ores or
miners, but that some of those pictures also seemed to her to have a
familiar look.

"Did I ever see anything like that?" she murmured. "The great chief says
he did. It is not a lie. Maybe it will come back to me some day. I don't
care for any more pictures now. I'll try and read some words."

That was harder work, but strange, new thoughts were beginning to come
to Rita.

"You have not spoken to me," said Dolores at last. "Do the leaves talk
all the while?"

"Look at these," said Ni-ha-be. "They are better than the one you cut
out. There's only one squaw in that and a pappoose. Here are ever so
many. And look at the funny little children. How those things must hurt
them! The pale-faces are cruel to their families."

Dolores looked earnestly enough at the fashion plates. With all her
ignorance, she had seen enough in her day to understand more of them
than the girls could. Once, long ago, when the band of Many Bears had
been near one of the frontier "military posts," where United States
troops were encamped, she had seen the beautiful "white squaws" of the
officers, in their wonderful dresses and ornaments, and she knew that
some of these were much like them. She could even help Ni-ha-be to

Rita had been silent a very long time. All the while the train had
travelled nearly five miles. Now she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, Ni-ha-be!
Dolores!" And when they turned to look at her, her face was perfectly
radiant with triumph and pleasure.

"What is it? Have you found either of them?"

"I can do it. I have done it."

"What have you done?"

"It is a story talk. Big lie about it all, such as the Apache braves
tell at the camp-fire when they are too lazy to hunt. I have read it

"Is it a good talk?"

"Let me tell it. I can say it all in Apache words."

That was not the easiest thing in the world to do. It would have been
impossible if the short story which Rita had found had not been of the
simplest kind. It was only about hunters following chamois in the Alps
and tumbling into snow-drifts, and being found and helped by great,
wise, benevolent St. Bernard dogs.

There were mountains in sight of the girls now that helped make it real,
and among them were big-horn antelopes as wild as the chamois and with
very much the same habits. There were snow-drifts up there, too, for
they could see the white peaks glisten in the sinking sun. It was all
better than the talk of the braves around the camp-fires, and, besides,
there were the pictures of the dogs and of the chamois.

Neither Ni-ha-be nor Dolores uttered a word until Rita had rapidly
translated that "story talk" from beginning to end.

"Oh, Rita, are there any more talks like that?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Most of them are very long. Big words, too. More
than I can hear."

"Let me see it."

The pictures of the great shaggy dogs and of the chamois were easy
enough to understand. Ni-ha-be knew that she could see a real "big horn"
at a greater distance than Rita. But how was it that not one word came
to her of all the "story talk" Rita had translated from those little
black "signs"? Ni-ha-be grew more and more jealous of her adopted

Rita's prizes promised to be a source of a good deal of annoyance to her
as well as pleasure and profit. On that day, however, they made the
afternoon's ride across the rolling plain seem very short indeed.

Only a few warriors were to be seen when the order to halt was given,
but they had picked out a capital place for a camp--a thick grove of
trees on the bank of a deep, swift river. There were many scattered
rocks on one side of the grove, and it was just the spot Many Bears had
wanted to find. It was what army officers would call "a very strong
position and easily defended."




The report at the end of this article will enable any boy or girl who
wishes to exchange pet stock to see at a glance the market valuation
placed upon such things as young people would probably like to deal in.

In making up this report I have avoided the very high selling prices,
and often the very low prices paid by dealers, but have taken the
figures of dealers who are satisfied with a fair profit. Purchasers of
pet stock will do well to bear in mind that prices vary greatly
according to the season of the year, as, for instance, a month previous
to the holidays the prices range the highest. During the hot midsummer
months, when the young folks are in the country, the demand falls off
greatly, so that dealers are forced to reduce the amount of stock on
hand and the prices to the lowest figures.

The valuation of pet stock also varies according to the age, shape,
color, and purity of breed, and the amount of intelligence or training
possessed by the animal. The supply and demand also regulate the market
price, as, for instance, I have known gold-fish of best size and color
to be disposed of to dealers as low as two dollars per hundred in the
months of June, July, and August, but during the months of October,
November, and December the same quality of fish rose in price to ten and
fifteen dollars per hundred. A caprice of fashion for any particular
variety of animal or class of pet stock will often run up the price with

There is no reason why boys should complain of having nothing to do,
when there are so many things that can be raised by them for the New
York market that yield a fair profit, and often a large one. By clubbing
together, some might raise white pigeons, for which there is so steady a
demand and high prices paid. Or a pond might be constructed for raising
golden carp, or gold-fish, or German carp. Just think of it: here is the
United States government offering, through Professor Baird, thousands of
German carp, which have been carefully bred, for free distribution to
any persons who have a suitable pond or ponds in any part of the United
States. When I was a boy there was hardly any demand for gold-fish, and
the German carp was unknown in America; now there is a steady demand for
the golden carp at six and eight dollars per hundred, and German carp
sells readily at ten and fifteen cents a pound.

Think of all the books, papers, magazines, printing-presses, and
scroll-saws that might be purchased with money earned by some such
pleasant occupation!

What lots of fun could be had. How much could be learned about the
natures and habits of the lower animals. When any of them might die they
could be stuffed or set up, thus learning a lesson in taxidermy, or
their skeletons might be prepared and set up, and a lesson on
comparative anatomy learned. Also studies in pencil or India ink of
animal life might be made. Then, again, the club could have a rabbit pie
once in a while.


  RABBITS, _common_, per pair    $1.00 to $2.50  _Very young_, 50 cents;
  RABBITS, _fancy breeds_,                            _breeders_, $1
     according to age and                             per pair.
     purity of breed, per pair }  3.00 "  15.00  No established price.
  GUINEA-PIGS, _common_, per pair          1.50  Per pair $0.50 to $0.60
  GUINEA-PIGS, _all white_, "              2.00      "     0.75 "   1.00
  GUINEA-PIGS, _African_,   "              3.00      "     1.00 "   1.25
  FERRETS, _English_,       "             15.00      "     4.00 "   5.00
  SQUIRRELS, _gray and
     black_,                "     3.00 "  10.00      "     1.00 "   1.50
  SQUIRRELS, _all white_,   "    15.00 "  25.00  No established price.
  SQUIRRELS, _flying_,      "     3.00 "   4.00  Per pair          $1.50
  SQUIRRELS, _small red_,   "              2.00      "     0.75 to  1.00
  CATS, _Maltese_ (males), each            5.00  Each      2.00 "   3.00
  CATS, _Albinos, pink or blue
     eyes_, each                  3.00 "   5.00      "     2.00 "   3.00
  RATS, _white China, pink
     eyes_, per pair                       1.50  Per pair  0.50 "   0.60
  RATS, _piebald_, per pair                1.50      "              0.50
  MICE, _white, pink eyes_,
     per pair                              0.50      "     0.20 "   0.30
  MICE, _piebald_, per pair                0.50      "     0.10 "   0.20
  RACCOONS, each                  4.00 "   5.00  No established price.
  NEWFOUNDLAND PUPS, each        10.00 "  15.00  There are no established
  GREYHOUNDS, English, "         10.00 "  25.00  prices for various
  GREYHOUNDS, _Italian_, "       10.00 "  30.00  breeds of dogs. Age,
  POMERANIAN OR SPITZ, "          5.00 "  15.00  purity of breed, color,
  TERRIERS, _Scotch and                          and intelligence regulate
     Skye_, each                  5.00 "  30.00  market prices.
  TERRIERS, _black and
     tan_, each                   5.00 "  30.00


  MOCKING-BIRDS, males, each               $3.00 to $25.00
  PIGEONS, _pure white common_, per pair    1.40 "    1.75
  PIGEONS, _common_, per pair               0.25 "    0.30

_Dead Game._

  QUAIL, per dozen                                $2.25 to $2.50
  PARTRIDGE, per pair                              1.00 "   1.50
  SQUIRRELS, _gray, black, and red fox_, per pair  0.20 "   0.25
  RABBITS, _wild_, per pair                        0.50 "   0.60
  OPOSSUMS                                 No established price.
  RACCOONS                                 No established price.
  TROUT, _wild_, per pound                              20 cents
  FROGS' LEGS, _Canada style_, per pound                50 cents
  FROGS' LEGS, _Pennsylvania style_, per pound          60 cents
  SNAPPING-TURTLES, per pound                            8 cents
  TERRAPIN, per dozen                                     $12.00



  This dear little Ethel, a dreamer is she,
    And sweet are her fancies as zephyrs of morn
  That ripple in summer-time over the sea,
    Or tangle themselves in the tassels of corn.

  She knows what the fairies are talking about
    When tiptoe they poise on the rim of a flower;
  The snow-birds before her trip fearlessly out,
    And gossip away in the cold by the hour.

  No poor little kitten comes mewing in vain
    To pitying Ethel for shelter and food.
  She flies from her prettiest castle in Spain
    To play with the baby, who will not be good.

  She lives in a beautiful world of her own,
    And yet I have heard, and I'm sure it is true,
  This dear little dreamer has never been known
    To think of herself much; 'tis always of you.

  And that's why we love her, and not for the gold
    Of her loose waving hair nor the blue of her eyes,
  Though the one is more precious than jewels untold,
    And the other was borrowed right out of the skies.

  And oft as she travels to Nobody's Land--
    A wide sunny country, where all things are fair--
  Whoever needs Ethel has only to stand
    With a word and a smile just in front of her chair.



It may almost be said of the children of Friesland, a province of
Holland, that they learn to skate before they learn to walk. As soon as
the Frisian baby can stand upright, if it is winter, the skates are
fastened to his little feet, and he is launched upon the glassy surface
of the canal. At six years old he--or it may be _she_, for the girls are
treated in just the same manner--is probably an expert skater, and for
the rest of his life steel runners are to him almost as familiar a means
of getting about as his own feet. The Frieslander, we are told, goes to
market on skates, goes to church on skates, and goes love-making on
skates, and when he has won his bride the newly wedded couple are
escorted to their home by a gay torch-light procession of steel-shod

In Holland the races on the ice are regarded as a great festival. Prizes
are given, and the winners are heroes for the time. Women sometimes join
the men in the races, and not seldom they carry off the prize. Two young
women once won a race of thirty miles in two hours, beating several men.
Imagine a couple of comely Dutch girls flying along at the speed of a
railroad train between short stops, and keeping up the pace for two

And what sport is there to compare with skating on a perfect piece of
ice, frozen by a couple of nights' severe cold, and quite free from
snow? This quickly formed ice is by far the best, for not only is it the
smoothest, but it is also the safest kind of ice. It may crack, perhaps,
and bend, but it is so elastic that there is little danger of its
breaking. Hark to the ever-changing hum of a hundred pairs of steel
blades upon the shining surface of the pond, now swelling, and now
almost dying away in the clear, biting air! And mingled with it merry
laughter and shouts, with every now and again a half-frightened,
half-playful little scream, as some too daring beginner "comes to
grief." It is a poor spirit indeed that is not fired by sounds like
these when Winter first lays his iron grasp on water and on land.

The art of skating has been brought to such perfection that mere speed
is almost despised among our best performers, who devote themselves to
that graceful variety of the art known as "figure skating." Among the
Northern peoples, however, from whom we originally learned to skate,
speed and distance still hold their own. The reason of this is that in
those countries skating is necessary for travelling, especially in
Holland, which is literally cut up by canals that are frozen for several
months every winter. Among us skating is generally done on ponds, and
careering round and round a pond, however fast one may go, soon becomes

But although we have given up long-distance skating for figures, the
fastest time in which a mile is said to have been skated was done by a
certain William Clark, of Madison, Wisconsin, who covered the distance
in the wonderfully short space of one minute and fifty-six seconds. It
is difficult to believe this, and but little less so to credit the
"record" of an English skater named Tebbutt, who is reported to have
skated a measured mile in two minutes and four seconds.

In France they attempt to teach people to swim by making them lie across
a narrow table, and strike out in the most approved manner. It is not
recorded, however, that any one thus taught ever entered the water with
any confidence in his ability to swim, and it is probable that a
Frenchman thus taught would swim about as well as a boy or girl would
skate the first time they went on the ice after reading about it.
Skating, indeed, like swimming and many other things, can be learned
only by practice, but at the same time a few hints may help the beginner
over the most slippery places; and if he learns what _not_ to do, he has
learned a great deal. Here are a few useful hints:

Do not fall. At the same time do not give up trying because you do fall,
or for fear of falling. Young bones carry light weights, and falls do
not hurt if they are done properly. It is the backward falls that hurt
and are really dangerous. Keep the body slightly bent forward; hold the
elbows down by the sides; and, above all, when you feel you are losing
your balance, do not throw up your arms and wrench yourself wildly to
try and keep your balance. Let balance go to the winds, if it must go,
and then you may fall forward on hands and knees with all the grace you
are master of. It will not be much, perhaps; but never mind.

As soon as you have learned to skate forward, and can travel at a fair
rate of speed, you will want to begin cutting figures. Probably in your
first attempts you will "cut a figure" that will make people laugh. Let
them laugh, and laugh with them. Everything must have a beginning.

Your first figure is one that does not amount to much by itself. In
fact, it amounts to just nothing. It is O. When you can make a fairly
correct O on one foot, or, better still, on each foot, you will be
getting on capitally. But if O amounts to little by itself, make another
O on the top of it, and you will have the figure 8. Strike out boldly
with one foot, leaning well over to the side so that you make a rapid
curve. As soon as the circle is nearly completed, bring the left foot to
the front, and pointing it well to the left make another circle as
before. You will not make the second circle so easily as the first, but
after a little practice you will succeed in making a very fair figure of

This is the only figure that can be made altogether on the inside edge
of the blade, and that is not the best way to make it, although it is
the easiest. Before you go any farther you must learn the "outside
edge." After skating a few yards at a good pace, bring both your feet
parallel to one another, and as you skim along without effort, lean your
weight first to one side and then to the other. You will find yourself
moving along in a serpentine course, and one of your feet will be
resting on the _outside_ edge of its skate, and the other on the
_inside_ edge. Lift up the foot that is doing inside edge, and see how
far you can go on the other foot alone. When you feel that you are
losing your balance, or coming to a stop, put the other foot down, and
push off again, repeating the outside edge trick with the other foot.
After some practice you will be able to start off on outside edge
altogether, and by throwing your weight to the side of the foot you are
on, you will soon be able to make circles on the outside edge.

Outside edge is the key to figure skating, and having learned that, you
may try the "three." This may be done in two ways: (1) a half-stroke
inside edge forward, a little turn, and then a stroke outside backward,
or (2) outside forward, the turn, and then inside backward. The turn in
the middle of the "three" is not easy to describe, but it is not
difficult to do. If you think of the shape of the figure, you will soon
get the knack of changing from one edge of the skate to the other, and
you will never forget it.

Having mastered the "three," you may try the "half double three," which
is a "three" and the first part of another one. This sounds easy, but it
is not so, for the reason that all your force will be exhausted by the
time you have made a good tail to your figure. The "double three" is
more difficult still, for the same reason. Now that you have learned the
outside edge, you should do the "eight" in the proper way, namely, by
making the second circle on _outside_ instead of inside edge.

When you can do "outside edge," "eight," and "three," the best way to
learn more difficult figures is to go to the corner of the pond where
the best skaters practice, and, watch them. You will thus learn more
than a whole book can teach you. Practice and attention to a few simple
rules are the only roads to success: (1) When skating on one foot keep
the other foot well back, with the toes turned out, and the heel close
to that of the other foot; (2) keep your head up--there is no need to
look down at the ice; (3) keep your elbows down; (4) straighten the knee
after striking out, and keep it straight. Remember that when you are
once in motion you increase your speed or alter your direction by simply
throwing the weight of your body in the direction you wish to move.



  The sun rides in through the golden gates
    Of the east with a wealth of light,
  And the smiles of gold on valley and wold
    Are smiles from his countenance bright.
  The flowers and hedges are dashed with dew,
    And the birds with tuneful throats
  Are flooding the air with melody rare,
    In liquid silvery notes.

  My beautiful child, may you go forth
    Like the sun with a wealth of light,
  And purer than gold on valley and wold
    Be the smiles from your spirit bright!
  Drop words as bright and kind as the dew,
    And vie with the woodland throng;
  From the heart's deep well let praises swell
    In showers of grateful song.




Near the small town of Millbank, and just outside the great city of
London, there is a little street called Church Street, and a little
square called Smith Square, and where this street and square come
together there is a row of houses, rented very cheap, and in one of them
lived the little girl whose story I shall try to tell you.

She was about fourteen years old at the time I speak of, and her real
name was Fanny Cleaver; but her back was so weak, one of her short legs
being shorter than the other, and she was so very little--not having
grown any since she was seven years old--that she had given herself the
name of Jenny Wren, and by this name every one knew her. The queer
little figure, as it hopped about, and the queer but not ugly little
face, with its bright gray eyes, made her seem wonderfully like the
cheerful, quick, tiny brown bird whose name she had chosen.

Jenny's mother was dead, and Jenny's father was a drunkard. If you do
not know what misery comes into a home, whether it is a rich or humble
one, when the father has the evil habit of drink, then you can hardly
understand what a great trouble little Jenny had to bear, and all alone,
too, for her bright mind, her true heart, and her skillful little hands
were all the friends Jenny had. What could such a little creature do?
She printed the words "Room to Let" with a stubbed pen on a piece of
white card-board, and hung it in the window; and it had not hung there
many hours before there came a knock at the door. The door flew open by
a spring which had been touched inside. Across the narrow entry the
parlor door stood open, and showed Jenny Wren sitting in a low,
old-fashioned arm-chair, which had a kind of work-bench before it. Jenny
looked at the handsome young lady standing on the door-step.

"I can't get up," said she, "because my back's bad and my legs are
queer, but I'm the person of the house, miss, and won't you come in?"

"You have a room to let?" said the young lady. "My name is Lizzie Hexam,
and I want to hire a room."

"Um-m," said Jenny; she was pressing bits of card-board between her
teeth. "Take a seat--but would you please to shut the door first? I
can't do it very well myself, because my back's so bad and my legs are
so queer."

Lizzie Hexam closed the door, and sat down. She looked kindly at the
very little creature, who went on with her work a few moments in
silence, gumming together with a camel's-hair brush pieces of card-board
and thin wood, which had first been cut out in different shapes. There
were scissors and small sharp knives, and bright scraps of velvet,
silks, and ribbon, lying on the bench.

"You can't tell me the name of my trade, I'll be bound," said the little
creature, with a quick bird-like glance at her visitor.

"You make pincushions?"

Jenny nodded. "What else do I make, miss?"


"Ha! ha! What else? Oh, you'll never guess," laughed Jenny.

"You do something with straw, but I don't know what," said Lizzie,
pointing to one corner of the bench.

"Well done!" cried Jenny. "Now I'll tell you. I only make pincushions
and pen-wipers to use up my waste, but my straw really does belong to my
business. Try again. What do I make with my straw?"

"Bonnets?" said Lizzie, after thinking a moment.

"Yes. Fine ladies' bonnets," Jenny said, with a proud nod. "Dolls. I'm a
dolls' dressmaker." She put her tiny hand in a very small apron pocket
and drew out a card. "There," said she, "read that."

Lizzie took the card, which looked like this:

  _Miss Jenny Wren,_
  _Dolls' Dressmaker._
  _Dolls attended at their own residences._

"I hope it's a good business," said Lizzie, smiling at the little

"No. Poorly paid," said Jenny. "And I'm often pressed for time. I had a
doll married last week, and was obliged to work all night to get her
ready in time, and it's not good for me, on account of my back being so
bad and my legs so queer. And they don't take care of their clothes, and
they want new fashions every month. One doll I work for has three
daughters. Bless you! she's enough to ruin her husband."

Here Jenny laughed, and gave such a sharp look at Lizzie, and hitched
her little chin, as if her eyes and chin worked together by the pulling
of a wire.

"Are you always so busy?" Lizzie asked, looking with wonder at the small
fingers cutting, gumming, and stitching so fast.

"Oh, busier," said Jenny, tossing her head. "I'm slack just now. I
finished a large order for mourning clothes the day before yesterday.
The doll I worked for had lost a canary-bird, and she wanted very deep
mourning." She laid down her work, and reached for a crutch that leaned
against the bench. "Come," said she, "I'll show you the room. It's not
large, but it's nice, and very cheap."

They went up a small and narrow staircase, and Jenny threw open a small
door, and with one step down they were in a little box of a room, but it
was neat as wax, and had one white-curtained window just over the front
door. Lizzie hired the room at once, and then followed her queer little
landlady down into the parlor again.

"Are you alone all day?" said Lizzie. "Don't any of the children in this

"Oh, don't!" said Jenny, with a little cry, as if the word had pricked
her. "Don't talk to me of children! I can't bear children! Oh, I know
their tricks and their manners!" She said this with an angry shake of
her tiny right fist close before her eyes. "Always running about and
screeching, they are; always playing and fighting; always
skip-skip-skipping on the walk, and chalking it for their games. And
that's not all"--shaking her little fist as before. "They go a-calling
names through a person's key-hole, and imitating a person's back and
legs. Oh, I'll tell you what I'd do to punish 'em if I could. There's
doors under the church in the square, black doors leading into dark
vaults. I'd like to open one of those doors, and cram 'em all in; and
then I'd lock the door, and blow in pepper through the key-hole."

The little creature stopped, quite out of breath.

"Blow in pepper!" said Lizzie. "Why should you do that?"

"To set 'em snee-ee-eezing, and make their eyes water; and then I'd mock
'em through the key-hole, just as they mock a person through a person's
key-hole. No; no children for me. Give _me_ grown-ups."

From all this the little dressmaker's new lodger could very well
understand that the children of the street, who were strong and well,
and could romp and play merrily all day, had not been as thoughtful and
kind as they might have been to little Jenny Wren, whose life was so
unlike and so much braver than theirs.

In a few days the two girls had become warm friends. Lizzie, who was
eighteen years old, earned her living by working in a seamen's
outfitter; that is, a shop where sailors' clothes are made. During the
daytime Lizzie was away at her work, and Jenny sat at her little
work-bench at home, except when she had to peg away on her little crutch
to the milliners', or the doll shops, or to the house of some customer
for whom she had dressed a doll. At night-fall, when her work was done,
the dolls' dressmaker would lean back in her little low arm-chair, with
her arms crossed, and sing in a sweet, thoughtful voice, and wait for
Lizzie, who at about the same time would come out of her shop in
Millbank, and hurry along in the sunset by the river-side until she came
to Church Street, and the small house, and the small housekeeper who
loved her so much.

"Well, Lizzie-Mizzie-Wizzie," Jenny would say, breaking off in her song,
"what's the news out-of-doors?"


"And what's the news in-doors?" Lizzie would answer, laying her gentle
hand on the bright hair, which grew very long and thick and wavy on the
head of the little dolls' dressmaker. Then they would have tea together,
Lizzie spreading the cloth on the low work-bench, because Jenny could
sit at that more easily than at the table, and while they ate they would
talk over the day and its work. After supper, Lizzie would move Jenny,
chair and all, so that she could look out over the square and into the
evening sky, and then sit down beside her. Sometimes a visitor would
drop in, perhaps one of Jenny's patrons who took an interest in her, or
who had an order to give the little dressmaker.

"This is what I call the best time of the whole day," said Jenny one
night, when they were sitting in the pleasant twilight; and then she
continued, in a soft, low tone, "I wonder, Lizzie, how it happens that
sometimes when I am working here, all alone, in the summer-time, I smell
flowers. It isn't a flowery place, you know--it's anything but that. And
yet as I sit at work I smell miles of flowers. I smell roses until I
think I see them in great heaps--bushels of them around me on the
floor--and I put down my hand and expect to make them rustle. I smell
the white and the pink May in the hedges, and all sorts of flowers that
I never was among, for I've seen very few flowers indeed in my life, my

"You must find it very pleasant, my dear Jenny."

"So I think when it comes. And the birds I hear! Oh!" cried the little
creature, holding out her hand and looking up, "how they sing!"

As Jenny talked in this way, with her hand raised, and her eyes wide and
bright, she looked quite beautiful, Lizzie thought. They sat silent for
some moments, until they heard a shaky, shuffling step on the sidewalk.

Then Jenny spoke in such a different voice. "That's my child coming
home, and my child's a bad, troublesome child."

Jenny was speaking of her drunken father. She always called him her
child. It seemed as if the little creature felt that the name "father"
would in some way be wronged and spoiled in her own thoughts if she gave
it to the poor wretch who stumbled over the door-sill where they sat.
The name "child" seemed to give her a sort of patience to bear her

"I would rather you didn't see my child," Jenny said; and Lizzie rose
and went up stairs.


[Illustration: Thro' the daisy-spotted Meadow]

[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]

Little correspondents the wide world round have sent the missives which
greet our young readers this week. Some of the letters have been a long
while in reaching their destination, and others are from friends not far
away. We are sure that every letter will be eagerly read, not excepting
the doleful one from a new contributor, which bright eyes will discover
tucked snugly in among epistles from more fortunate writers.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I live in Central Queensland, and have never seen a letter in
     HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE from this colony. Our home is in the bush;
     the trees about here are gum, box, and ironbark. They give hardly
     any shade, as the leaves hang straight down. There is a lagoon in
     front of our house. My brother and I want to make a canoe, but we
     can not procure back numbers of YOUNG PEOPLE here? If any young
     reader would send us a copy of No. 26, Vol. I., we would in return
     send some native seeds or colonial stamps.

     It is very hot here, and we hardly ever see frost. Our orange-trees
     are now loaded with blossoms. We have several hundred pine-apples.
     I have a little garden of my own, and raise pumpkins, cabbages,
     rock-melons, beans, and lettuces. My brother is ten, and I am eight
     and a half years old. We recite lessons to mamma.

     We often go riding, and we call our ponies Pip and King Pippin. We
     have been building a suspension-bridge over a little dam, of
     saplings and fencing wire. It gave us hard work for several weeks,
     and papa says it developed our muscles finely.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I wish to tell all the little folks, like myself, who read YOUNG
     PEOPLE, of our home near the capital of the United States. From the
     heights near our house we have a beautiful view of the cities of
     Georgetown and Washington; and when the day is fair we can see
     Sugarloaf Mountain, away up the Potomac River, and down the river
     to Alexandria and Mount Vernon, the former home of our great
     General Washington.

     We have a beautiful oak grove just back of our house, and a dear
     little owl lived there for several years. When we children played
     in the grove, laughing and shouting, he would come out of the hole
     in the side of the old oak-tree, and listen as if he were wondering
     what all the noise was about. When we moved back here last spring,
     the little owl was gone. A family of pretty little red squirrels
     had taken his place, and I guess they drove him out to seek a home
     somewhere else. The little usurpers seem very happy in their new
     home. We often see them playing and skipping about, and as we never
     molest them, they have grown quite tame, but we all wish the little
     owl would come back too. He used to do some funny things.

     One night mamma went into the parlor, and was very much surprised
     to find all her beautiful ferns pulled out of the vase. As none of
     the children had done it, she didn't know what to think. She
     re-arranged them all nicely in the vase, but on going into the
     parlor in the morning, found them all scattered over the floor
     again. She was more surprised than ever, when, on looking up, there
     sat the little owl on one of the picture-frames, looking as wise as
     possible out of his great big eyes. He had come down the chimney,
     mamma thinks. She took him down, and after giving him a good
     talking to for his badness, carried him out to the grove, and
     letting him go, away he flew up to his nice warm nest in the old
     oak-tree again.

     I am eleven years old, and have four sisters and two brothers, so
     you see "we are seven." We have a nice school near by, and last
     month my teacher gave me the highest number (100) on the roll of
     honor for deportment and perfect lessons.

     I will be so much obliged if you publish my true story of the
     little owl, for I think it will please those who live in the large
     cities, and never have a chance of seeing the beautiful country,
     and the great oak-trees.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I have been in Europe for a year and a half. I have been in England
     and Holland much of the time. I can speak German, and often I play
     with German children. When I was in Paris I often played with Mr.
     De Lesseps's children, and I think the picture of them which
     appeared in YOUNG PEOPLE is very good. Heidelberg is a very pretty
     little town surrounded by mountains. I went up the Rhine in a
     steamboat. It is a beautiful river, and has mountains on both
     sides, and on these mountains I counted more than sixty castles. I
     do not like Paris so well as I do New York city, which is my home.
     The best treat I have every week is the coming of my YOUNG PEOPLE.
     For my birthday, I got from mamma a lovely paint-box with eighteen
     paints and black and white chalk. I am very busy making my
     Christmas presents. I hope this will be printed, for I wrote once
     before, and the letter was not published. Now I must say good-by,
     wishing you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl six years old. My name is Susie. Papa read to me
     Etta M.'s letter, and I think a nice name for her doll would be
     Pansy. I have three dollies; one is named Nellie and one Julia and
     one Alice. I like HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE very much, and my sister
     Mary, who is eight years old, reads it to Bessie and me. Bessie is
     four years old. I like "Toby Tyler" best. I got papa to write this
     for me.


       *       *       *       *       *

You all remember the letter from Lydia Hargreaves and Lulu Ruckstuhl,
which appeared in Our Post-office Box No. 111. Here is an acknowledgment
of your answer to that appeal:

     DEAR "YOUNG PEOPLE,"--We know you are all anxiously waiting to hear
     about the Christmas tree at the Home for the Innocents, so we will
     try and write a nice long letter, and thank you for the many gifts
     that we have received--for we did receive a great many gifts; we
     had no idea when we wrote that there were so many kind little boys
     and girls who read the paper. Monday morning we went out early to
     the Home, and found some kind ladies, and together with them we
     dressed the tree with the ornaments you had sent; then around under
     it we placed the dolls and toys and books. The tree was beautiful,
     and although the room was small, it showed off very well. In the
     afternoon the children came marching in, singing "Onward, Christian
     soldiers." They have two or three little boys that sing so sweetly.
     But they could hardly finish their song, so eager were they in
     watching the tree. After a short prayer, the children were each
     asked, "Now, what will you have?"

     After the children were supplied--and there was an abundance, as
     you were all so liberal; even the little ones in their nurses' arms
     had their arms full of dolls--Sister Emily, who is the matron, and
     has another small school where she teaches poor children--took some
     of the toys, and fixed a tree for them. These poor little children
     were dumb when they saw the tree. One little girl, when they handed
     her a doll, said, "Oh, dolly! dolly!" and she did not look at
     anything else the whole evening but her doll. I wonder if you were
     all as happy on Christmas as that little girl. I hope so.

     Little Bertha R. always calls the paper HARPER'S YOUNG FAMILY. We
     think you are the nicest family we ever heard of. If some little
     boy or girl does not find his or her name below, please don't feel
     slighted, for we have tried to put all the names down, and you may
     be sure your package was received and appreciated by some poor

     Wishing you a Happy New Year, we are yours lovingly,

  LULU G. and LYDIA B.

     Packages were received from Harper & Brothers; Susie Benedict; Fred
     and Arthur D.; Alice Paige; Maud Duling; Grace Stephens; Fanny
     Young; Maggie Buch; Annie Lewis; Morril Dunn; Eva Cunningham; Rose
     Ella Carhart; W. and A. Burke; John and Daisy Cunningham; Lottie,
     Warren, and Alice Lockwood; Rona R. and "Little Gertrude"; Justin,
     Tommy, and Isaac Andersen; Jennie and Annie Petman; Willie H.
     Hazard; Helen McCoy; "Aunt Edna"; Kenneth Murdock; Dolly; May and
     Tom Barron: Mollie, Effie, and Myrtle Bakewell; Josie Ulmer;
     L. V. H.; Maud and Lillie Hench; L. H. S. and T. B. S.; Carrie;
     Nora and Bell; Nellie Portis; Jessie Whitehurst; Daisy; Mortimer
     Hambem; Louisa L. Tatten; Willie Needham; Mrs. Annie J. Post and
     Charlie J. Post; Louis Bryant, a check for $1; an unknown friend,
     $1; Winnifred and Mac Allen; Mrs. T. A. C.; Murray Boyer; Charlie
     and Willie Patrick; and a package from Canada.

       *       *       *       *       *


     The readers of YOUNG PEOPLE would like to hear of my pets. I am
     five years old, and have two birds (linnets), Tommy and Mrs. Tommy,
     a white rabbit called Snowball, which is very cunning, and my gray
     kitty is named Baby Rose. My dollies are a great delight to me.
     Their names are Daisy, Rosa Posa, and Bessy Bright-Eyes, who is
     married to Boy Blue, and has a family of five children.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I have a little antelope, which my cousin sent to me from Wyoming
     when it was two weeks old. We had to feed him from a bottle for a
     long time. He would drink only when the milk was in the bottle. But
     one day I did not give him anything to drink till night; then I
     brought out a pan of milk for him, and he tried to drink, but he
     did not know how, though he soon found out, and it was funny to see
     him. He would put his nose in and try to eat it, but it couldn't be
     eaten. He is now a large antelope, and when you touch him he will
     turn and run after you, and if you don't get on the fence or behind
     a tree, he will butt you. Sometimes the dogs come in and get after
     him, and then he will run up to the window and make a noise, so
     that we will come out and drive the dogs away. When we are at
     dinner he will come up to the window and lick it and ask to be fed.
     His tongue is black, and his horns are two inches long, but they
     hurt when they hit you. His color is a grayish-brown. He sheds his
     hair every year, and it gets thicker, so that he will be warm for


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl eleven years old. I go to school, but it rains
     so hard that I could not go to-day. I think Miss Augusta would
     change her mind about hating cats if she could see mine. He is a
     large gray one, and weighs ten and one-half pounds. He is very
     gentle, and I can handle him as I would a baby. When I take him up,
     he puts both fore-paws each side of my face, and feels it very
     gently, and he never sticks in his claws. I know he loves me
     dearly. I have a little sister eight years old. Her name is Gertie.
     My cousin lives with us, and his name is Wheaton. I take _Our
     Little Ones_, and my sister takes the _Nursery_, and my cousin

     I forgot to tell you all about my cat. When he is hungry, he does
     not mew, like most cats, but lies down and rolls over, and if we do
     not notice him, he lies on his back, and waits for us to see him.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl, and I live in the country. I wish to inform
     Henry F., who is so sorry for the country boys and girls, that his
     pity is thrown away, for when we go to the city--and I know of none
     in these parts who have never been there--and return to see the
     green grass, and fields bedecked with flowers, we think this is far
     superior to the noisy elevated railroads of the city. We have a
     great deal of fun here in winter. There is quite a high hill, to
     which we take our sleds, and ride clear down to the bottom, and
     then across a pond. Sometimes three or four get on a sled at a
     time. I go to school, and study reading, spelling, mental and
     practical arithmetic, geography, grammar, and history. I like
     history best. I think HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE is the nicest paper I
     have ever read. I like the Post-office very much.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am eleven years old. My mother and little brother have gone down
     to Florida, so papa and myself are alone at home. A few days ago
     papa and I went up on top of the Washington Monument. We did not
     walk up, but rode up on the elevator. It took about five minutes
     for it to reach the top. On the elevator was a large granite rock
     weighing over three tons. It went up with us. We saw memorial
     stones inside of the Monument sent from all parts of the world.
     When we got to the top we had a very fine view. It was better than
     the view from the top of the Capitol. They have a net around the
     top, so if persons should fall, it would not hurt them, as the
     netting would catch them. Sometimes during the noon hour the men
     get out on the netting, and smoke just as if they were in a
     hammock. What a terrible fall they would have if the netting should
     break! It was about 240 feet high when we were up there. It was so
     windy that day that you could not stand up on one side of the
     Monument without holding on to something. At one time the wind
     shifted, and there were some boards lying out on the net, and a man
     was walking along on the side where they were. When the wind
     shifted, it sent the boards flying, and every one of them came down
     on the man's head, but it did not hurt him, for as soon as they
     began to tumble on his head, he lay flat down on the wall, so as to
     keep from being blown away. It made quite an excitement. At first
     the man would halloo and laugh, and shout, "Joe, Joe, come up here;
     quick! quick!"

     Some men came running up from the inside of the Monument, thinking
     something dreadful was the matter. We staid up there about an hour.
     Papa and I walked all around the walls, which were seven feet thick
     at the top and fifteen at the bottom. Then at the foot of the
     Monument, in a little house, we saw many more memorial stones. One
     of the best of them was one that came from Nevada, with the word
     "Nevada" let into the stone in solid silver, and a motto let into
     the stone in solid gold. Both the gold and silver came from the
     mines of Nevada. We enjoyed the trip very much, and I thought some
     of the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE might like to have a description of

  K. B. A. M.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a poor little thing. I used to be a beauty and a pet and a
     darling. But now I am a martyr, and am fading away by degrees. I
     haven't had a kiss or a kind word from my mamma since Christmas.
     It's more'n a week since I had my dress off or had on my night-gown
     at night; and you know it's very unrefreshful to have to wear the
     same clothes night and day. Still, 's long as I had a bed to sleep
     in, I didn't complain. But now for three nights I've slept under
     the sofa, with a lion and a tiger out of Bobby's Noah's ark by my
     side, and my poor little arms lying out on the floor. Mr. Philip,
     mamma's big brother, stepped on my thumb last night, and it gives
     me scruciating pain. Puss carried me all round in her mouth
     yesterday, and Peg, the terrier, shook me as if I had been a rat
     and 'most shook away my senses. And I heard Nurse and Norah the
     waitress talking, and Nurse said, "Oh, Norah, do throw the
     horrid-looking creature in the ash barrel; it isn't wanted in the
     nursery now."

     Please can not somebody go to my mamma, and ask her to save me from
     my cruel fate. If she'll never love me any more, won't she give me
     to somebody who hasn't so many other new favorites? For I think my
     heart will break.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I have been wanting to write to you for a long time. I have a doll.
     I have a nice brother; his name is Joe. I have a good dog. I have a
     kitty, and I like her. I have a work-box. I have a basket. I have a
     money purse. I was happy Christmas morning. I can read in a book. I
     am a pretty big girl. I hope you will print this letter.

  NAN P.

It is a very nice letter, Nan, and we wish we could give you a kiss for
it. We hope the little work-box is in good order, that the money purse
will never have a hole in it, and that you will be ever so much bigger
and just as happy when Christmas shall come again.

       *       *       *       *       *

One of our little boy readers wants to know why he must always take off
his hat when he speaks to a lady. It is a very old custom, and a mark of
respect that gentlemen like to show their lady friends. The following
little story shows what King George III. of England thought about the

     Nearly seven hundred years ago, Philip II. of France summoned King
     John of England either to trial or to combat for the murder of
     Prince Arthur. As the latter cared for neither, a gallant soldier
     named De Courcy, then languishing in prison, was set free that he
     might undertake the combat not for his King's, but for his
     country's sake. The fight, however, never took place, for Philip's
     champion, afraid of the gigantic De Courcy, preferred to sacrifice
     his honor to risking his life. Being urged by John and Philip, who
     had come to witness the expected encounter, to give them an
     exhibition of his strength, De Courcy placed his helmet upon a
     post, and cleaving it with terrific force, drove his sword so
     firmly into the wood that none but the striker could withdraw it.
     "Never," said King John--"never unveil thy bonnet, man, again,
     before King or subject." Thus the privilege of wearing the hat in
     presence of the sovereign came to be enjoyed solely by the De
     Courcys, Earls of Kinsale. They asserted their privilege by wearing
     their hat for a moment and then uncovering, but the De Courcy of
     George III.'s reign, not thinking this assertion sufficient, on one
     occasion wore his court hat all the time he was in the presence of
     the King. But the third George crushed the display of pride by
     remarking, "The gentleman has a right to be covered before me; but
     even King John could give him no right to be covered before

       *       *       *       *       *

WILLIAM T. W.--There seems to be a prevailing opinion that the "shadow"
is the best canoe for sailing and paddling. The best-known builders of
"shadows" are Everson, of Brooklyn (489 First Street), and the "Racine
Canoe-Building Company," of Racine, Wisconsin. The American travelling
canoe is an admirable paddling canoe and a fast sailer. One of the best
rigs is the "Lord Ross," a modified lateen rig. Two sails are always to
be preferred to one large sail.

       *       *       *       *       *

May G. Hamblin recites perfectly the list of the sovereigns of England,
as her mother testifies. George F. and Hattie L. Leet have repeated the
same list in its order, with the date of each coronation, and also the
five lines and five houses, with the names of the sovereigns included in

       *       *       *       *       *

We wish there were room in the Post-office box to print the nine bright
letters kindly sent to us by the principal of a school in Geneva, New
York. They were selected by her from a number of letters to HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE submitted by her pupils as the regular weekly exercise in
composition. Their merit is so nearly equal that we do not think it
would be fair to choose one for publication and omit the others. So,
with cordial thanks to Mrs. L. and to the little correspondents who like
the paper so well, we simply print their names, and hope to hear from
them again: Neva K., May E. B., Maggie M., Mabel S., Lizzie B., Philip
B. R., Georgia H., May R., Carrie E. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

THOUGHTS FOR THE COMMONPLACE-BOOK.--No, Jessie and Mary, I have not
forgotten my promise to give you pretty poems and quaint passages now
and then for you to copy in your commonplace-book. I have had so many
questions to answer that my column has not been long enough for choice
extracts, but here to-day are three, which you may take pains to write
out in a fair hand, as the old writing-masters used to say. The first
quotation I make for you to-day is from Friedrich Ruckert, a great
German lyric poet, who was born at Schweinfurt, Bavaria, in 1788, and
died at Coburg in 1866. The little poem contains a thought for every
member of the C. Y. P. R. U.--a thought worth taking for a life motto:


  In open field King Solomon
  Beneath the sky sets up his throne;
  He sees a sower walking, sowing,
  On every side the seed-corn throwing.

  "What dost thou there?" exclaimed the King.
  "The ground can here no harvest bring;
  Break off from such unwise beginning,
  Thou'lt get no crop that's worth the winning."

  The sower hears; his arm he sinks.
  And, doubtful he stands still and thinks;
  Then goes he forward, strong and steady,
  For the wise King this answer ready:

  "I've nothing else but this one field;
  I've watched it, labored it, and tilled;
  What further use of pausing, guessing?--
  The corn from me, from God the blessing."

  _Translated by_ N. L. FROTHINGHAM.

The next thought is from the _Green Book_ of Mrs. Maria Hare:

     "The praises of others may be of use in teaching us not what we
     are, but what we ought to be."

And now for the last hint for which I can spare space. It is from John
Ruskin, and is intended as a reproof for an affectation of modesty.
Modesty is always beautiful, but affectation, like other forms of
insincerity, is the sign of a defect in character:

     "If young ladies really do not want to be seen, they should take
     care not to let their eyes flash when they dislike what people say;
     and more than that, it is all nonsense, from beginning to end,
     about not wanting to be seen. I don't know any more tiresome flower
     in the borders than your especially 'modest' snow-drop, which one
     always has to stoop down and take all sorts of tiresome trouble
     with, and nearly break its poor little head off, before you can see
     it; and then, half of it is not worth seeing. Girls should be like
     daisies, nice and white, with an edge of red if you look close;
     making the ground bright wherever they are; knowing simply and
     quietly that they do it, and are meant to do it, and that it would
     be very wrong if they didn't do it. Not want to be seen, indeed!"

       *       *       *       *       *

MAY.--Caoutchouc is obtained from plants which afford a milky juice,
white as it flows from the plant, but darkening with exposure to the
weather. It is commonly called India rubber, and is so useful and
convenient an article that civilized people could hardly get along
comfortably without it. It forms an important article of commerce.
Mexico, Central and South America, and the East Indies are the principal
places from which India rubber comes. The East India rubber is the juice
of a species of fig-tree. The South American product is taken from the
syringe-tree, which is sometimes as high as an eight-story house. To
erase pencil marks is one of the uses of India rubber which will occur
to you first, and then you will think of water-proof cloaks and shoes,
without which we could not go out comfortably in stormy weather. But
these only begin to be the list of articles which this obliging gum aids
in constructing. Tubes, fire hose, elastic bands, mats, belts for
machinery, door springs, etc., are made of it. Combined with sulphur, it
forms combs, canes, buttons, picture-frames, brush backs, and surgical
instruments, and combined with sulphur and coal tar, and polished like
jet, it is used to make beautiful ornamental jewelry.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOIS T.--Yes, when I was a little girl I liked to go to parties; but our
parties, dear, always began about three o'clock in the afternoon, and
were over at eight, when we were sent for by our mothers, and went home
to sleep well and have happy dreams. Such a thing as an evening party,
with full dress, was considered too great a dissipation for little folks
when I was young.

       *       *       *       *       *

The boy members of the C. Y. P. R. U. will find in this issue an
inspiring sketch, entitled "The Boyhood of Daniel Webster," by Mr.
George Cary Eggleston, showing what an "idle boy" could do in the way of
astonishing his teacher by his industry; and a pleasant article by
Sherwood Ryse, entitled "On Skates," which gives both information and
practical suggestions regarding one of our pleasantest winter pastimes.
The girl members can not fail to be interested in "The Life of a Little
Girl in 1782," by Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster, while they will heartily
congratulate themselves on the changes in the way of training children
that a century has brought about.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.


  'Tis black and brown, 'tis blue and gray,
  'Tis changeful as an April day;
  And yet, no matter what they say,
    'Tis not without attraction.
  It has a language all its own.
  Though mortal never heard its tone;
  It tells the sufferer's moan,
    It tells of satisfaction.

  Inclosed within a narrow cell,
  It moves on hinge invisible.
  Securely kept, and guarded well
    From all approaching danger.
  It often speaks, yet never talks;
  It freely runs, but never walks;
  And every passing thing remarks--
    In fact, is quite a ranger.

  It swims, and yet arms has it none;
  And dances out of very fun
  Without a leg to stand upon,
    Or foot to follow after.
  It has a brother--twin, they say--
  And when cross-purposes they play,
  They look the very oddest way;
    To some they're cause for laughter.

  As shining crystal it is bright.
  'Tis dark or dull as winter night,
  Its very nature, too, is light,
    For all were dark without it.
  It forms the poet's constant theme,
  It haunts the lover in his dream,
  And really paramount would seem,
    So much is said about it.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.


1.--1. A letter. 2. A personal pronoun. 3. A word implying command. 4. A
tree. 5. A letter.

2.--1. A letter. 2. To decay. 3. Sunny. 4. A vegetable product. 5. A


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.


  In acorn, not in nut.
  In depot, not in hut.
  In building, not in inn.
  In copper, not in tin.
  In shark, not in eel.
  The whole two reptiles dreaded
  Wherever they are seen.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.


1. Undisturbed. 2. A lovely wild flower. 3. A bed. 4. A large building.
5. A preparation of opium. 6. A domestic animal. 7. A lazy person. 8.
Plentifully. 9. A small rodent. 10. A river in South America. 11. A
measure. 12. A large bird prized for its feathers. 13. A bird that sings
at night. 14. An article of dessert. 15. A covering for the head. 16. To
terrify. Finals and primals form the names of two choice flowers.

  M. E. N. (11 years old).

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.

Snow-bird. Sparrow.

No. 2.

1. Chicago. 2. Hartford. 3. Rappahannock. 4. Idaho. 5. Savannah. 6.
Tallahassee. 7. Maine. 8. Austin. 9. Susquehanna. Christmas.

No. 3.

    B E T
  H E L I X
    T I N

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Harry D. Lockman,
Bessie Eaton, Roy Dempster, Robert Andrews, Jun., William C. Hyatt,
"Fill Buster," John Janemich, Harry Graff, Olin A. McAdams, Florence T.
Cox, L. E. C., "Lodestar," H. L. Pruyn, Sadie A. Sedgewick, Clare B.
Bird, J. C. Krautz.

       *       *       *       *       *

The answer to the Enigma on page 160 of No. 114 is Drab-Bard.

       *       *       *       *       *

[_For Exchanges, see 2d and 3d pages of cover._]


[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

Here are two very simple experiments that will not fail to excite a good
deal of interest and wonderment among persons who are unfamiliar with

The first illustrates the pressure of the atmosphere. Take a coin and
rub it against some oaken book-case or very smooth wooden surface, as
shown in Fig. 1. Press it hard for a moment, and then withdraw the
fingers. The coin will continue to stick to the wood.

The reason of this is that the rubbing and the pressure have dispersed
the air which was between the coin and the wood, and the pressure of the
atmosphere is sufficient to keep the coin in its place.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

To perform the experiment shown in Fig. 2 fill a glass carefully with
water up to the brim, so that the surface of the water is rounded. Then
ask the by-standers how many coins can be thrown into the glass without
the water over-flowing. Some will emphatically declare that it will not
hold one; others will admit that there may possibly be room for one or

By dropping the coins very carefully into the water edge-ways, it will
be found that even as many as five or six coins the size of a silver
dollar can be dropped into the water before it overflows.



  A little man, in brand-new suit
    Of clothes from out the store;
  Nor speck of dirt nor stain of fruit
    His natty garments bore.
  His jacket and his trousers were
    His first, and spick and span;
  And pride soon exercised its spur
    Upon this little man.

  And felt he prouder than a King
    In his complete array;
  To see him round the parlor swing
    Was better than a play.
  Deep in his trousers pockets thrust,
    Make sure, were both his hands,
  And richer he with cents in trust
    Than owner large of lands.

  "Papa," he cried, as stopped he short
    Beside his father's knee--
  "Papa, me loves oo tos oo bought
    'Ese nice new tose for me;
  And, mammy, me be 'eal dood boy,
    An' teep 'ese tose so tean;
  Me do an' buy me pooty toy,
    To p'ay in house, I mean.

  "Me on'y 'tay a 'ittle w'ile,
    An' tum 'ight in aden,
  An' den till dinner me will p'ay
    'Ith Donnie Hay an' Ben.
  Me teep my tose so tean, papa,
    Me dit on dem no dirt;
  Me do away f'om house not far,
    An' 'on't fell down dit hurt."

  An hour passed on; the little man
    Returned with face all blood;
  Without a cap in-doors he ran,
    His clothes befouled with mud.
  Between his sobs, for breath hard pressed,
    A tale of strife he told;
  "'At Donnie Hay 'tepped on my foot,
    An' den we bof taut hold,

  "An' felled all down an' 'olled all 'ound;
    He bite my fingis sore;
  Me sc'atch his face, my nose he pound,
    An' b'an'-new tows is tore;
  Me hit 'im bat, an' pulled he hair
    So hard I ever tan.
  Me lick him, pa, an' made him kye,
    _An' I's a 'ittle man_!"


*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Harper's Young People, January 17, 1882 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

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