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Title: Harper's Young People, April 11, 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, April 11, 1882 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

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       *       *       *       *       *


Tuesday, April 11, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




  The sun in heaven was darkened when Christ the Lord was slain,
  And in the holy Temple the veil was rent in twain;
  And all His sad disciples in sorrow bowed the head;
  They thought His reign was ended; was not the Master dead?

  Within the tomb they laid Him; the Roman watch was set,
  And there were moans and weeping where'er His followers met;
  All hope was dead within them; the Star of Bethlehem
  Had set in utter darkness, and what was left for them?

  In sorrow and in mourning the Sabbath passed away;
  But early on the morrow, just at the break of day,
  To seek His tomb the Marys went silently and slow,
  Who by the cross had waited, and were the last to go.

  They carried precious ointment and spices rich and rare,
  The body of the Master for burial to prepare;
  Their hearts were sad and heavy, their weeping eyes downcast,
  And not a word was spoken as toward the tomb they passed.

  But when they stood beside it, what wonder struck their sight?
  Behold, a glorious angel, in robes of shining white;
  They heard with joy and wonder the gracious words he said:
  "Why seek ye here the Master, the living with the dead?

  "For lo! He hath arisen--behold where He hath lain--
  From death He hath arisen for evermore to reign;
  Go, tell His sad disciples, that they may weep no more;
  In Galilee then seek Him, where He hath gone before."

  'Twas in the early morning, just at the break of day,
  He rose to drive the darkness, the night of sin, away;
  And on this dawn there follows no darkness and no night;
  He lives and reigns forever, the Lord of life and light.



Nearly nineteen hundred years ago there dawned in Jerusalem, that
once-favored city, the glorious morning of the Resurrection. This Holy
City has not vanished from the face of the earth, but still stands a
silent witness of the scene so dear to humanity that was once enacted

All over the Christian world, wherever it is celebrated, Easter brings
its wondrous tide of joy and gladness, but in Jerusalem it is observed
with great rejoicings. That city is now, even as it was of old, the
resort of thousands of pilgrims from every quarter of the globe, who
come to spend Easter within its ancient walls. These visitors differ
from one another in ideas, manners, language, and costume, and yet have
a certain unity in the purpose for which they have assembled.

Every pilgrim wends his way to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which
is, according to tradition, the tomb of our Saviour. This church is a
large building, with beautiful belfries, its front is richly sculptured,
and though time-worn and gray, it presents a magnificent appearance. It
is now always crowded with pilgrims from every clime, of every race and
color, worshipping at the various shrines.

Six different denominations--Roman Catholic, Greek, Armenians, Syrians,
Copts, and Maronites--perform their services in their own rites and
language in this church, so that a spectator can see almost every
nationality represented there in its own peculiar costume.

Jerusalem is a little world in itself at this time of the year. The
streets are very gay and crowded. Merchants from Damascus and other
places come hither, bringing wares of various kinds, which they display
in the stores. Life and activity are the characteristics of this season.

The Mohammedans, also, celebrate the death of Moses at this time, and
the streets are filled with their pilgrim processions, consisting of men
and boys with drums, tabors, cymbals, and tambourines, which combine to
produce a peculiarly barbarous sound. Then come dervishes, with long
dishevelled hair, carrying spears and hatchets, dancing, leaping, and
feigning to cut themselves with swords. Following all these is a mixed
crowd of men, women, and children shouting, singing, and clapping their
hands. Thus they proceed to the supposed tomb of Moses, which the
Mohammedans have located on the western side of the Jordan.

Eggs beautifully colored are seen in almost every store, and hundreds of
children crowd round them, buying as many as they can. Then they get
together, and see who can win the most eggs by breaking both ends with
one strong egg. These eggs are hard boiled, and when broken are eaten by
the children, or sold to each other for a mere nothing.

On Good-Friday the Protestant residents (German, English, and American)
go out to the Garden of Gethsemane, and hold a short religious service
under the ancient olive-trees, singing favorite old hymns.
Easter-morning services are held in the quaint Gothic English church,
which is then often crowded with American and English tourists. The hymn
"Jesus Christ is risen to-day, Hallelujah!" is sung with fervor; and
when the clergyman reads the lesson for the day, one can almost picture
to himself how Christ, nineteen hundred years ago, walked through this
very city, blessing just such little children as those who now throng
the streets selling bright flowers.

In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre services are conducted all Saturday
night until Sunday at dawn, when hundreds of bells ring out their chimes
that the Saviour is risen. The church is so crowded as to leave barely
standing room, and the vast multitude, led by the priests and
accompanied by the rich peals of the organ, sing the hymn of the
Resurrection. After the blessing is pronounced, the congregation salute
each other with "Christ is risen!--may we live to celebrate this feast
another year!"

Easter-tide in Jerusalem is the children's great festival, more so than
Christmas, because they receive more presents at this "Great Feast," as
it is there called. Every child, rich and poor, has a new outfit made
for this day, and cakes and candies in abundance. Besides the gorgeously
tinted eggs there are bright-colored cards and other tokens suitable to
the day, and amusements of every description are arranged.

Easter picnics continue during the two following weeks. The fields are
at this time of the year all green with half-ripe grain, and bright
flowers are seen everywhere. Nature is clothed in her gayest robes of
beauty. In order to make these picnics more enjoyable for the children,
many families and schools have a fashion of hiding brilliant eggs,
colored in red, blue, yellow, pink, purple, and gold, among the mossy
rocks and in the green grass amongst the flowers. The children are then
sent to hunt for them, and a great deal of merriment is excited as they
eagerly rush about, each one trying to find the most.

So to a Jerusalem child Easter is always associated with a crowded city
of strangers from all parts of the world, clear blue skies, and bright
green fields filled with beautiful flowers. Everybody rejoices and
commemorates the glorious resurrection of the Son of Man, who, like
themselves, was once a child in this very city, and witnessed similar
scenes, when strangers came from afar to celebrate the Feast of the
Passover at Jerusalem.


[1] Begun in No. 127, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.





Reddy had laid his plans so well that all the intending partners were
where they could easily be found on this evening when Toby's consent was
to be won, and Ben Cushing was no exception. On the hard, uneven floor
of his father's barn, with all his clothes discarded save his trousers
and shirt, he was making such heroic efforts in the way of practice,
that while the boys were yet some distance from the building they could
hear the thud of Ben's head or heels as he unexpectedly came in contact
with the floor.


When the three visitors stood at the door and looked in, Ben professed
to be unaware of their presence, and began a series of hand-springs that
might have been wonderful if he had not miscalculated the distance, and
struck the side of the barn just as he was getting well into the work.

Then, having lost his opportunity of dazzling them by showing that even
when he was alone he could turn any number of hand-springs simply in
the way of exercise, he suddenly became aware of their presence, and
greeted his friends with the anxiously asked question as to what Toby
had decided to do about entering the circus business.

Bob and Reddy, instead of answering, waited for Toby to speak; it was a
good opportunity to have the important matter settled definitely, and
they listened anxiously for his decision.

"I'm goin' into it," said Toby, after a pause, during which it appeared
as if he were trying to make up his mind, "'cause it seems as if you had
it almost done now. You know, when I got home last summer, I didn't ever
want to hear of a circus or see one, for I'd had about enough of them;
an' then I'd think of poor Mr. Stubbs, an' that would make me feel awful
bad. I didn't think, either, that we could get up such a good show; but
now you fellers have got so much done toward it, I think we'd better go
ahead--though I do wish Mr. Stubbs was alive, an' we had a skeleton an'
a fat woman."

Reddy Grant cheered very loudly as a means of showing how delighted he
was at thus having finally enlisted Toby in the scheme, and Bob, as
proof of the high esteem in which all the projectors of the enterprise
held this famous circus-rider, said:

"Now you know all about circuses, Toby, an' you shall be the chief boss
of this one, an' we'll do just what you say."

Toby almost blushed as this great honor was actually thrust upon him,
and he hardly knew what reply to make, when Ben ceased his acrobatic
exercises, and with Bobby and Reddy stood waiting for him to give his

"I s'pose the first thing to do," he said at length, "is to see if Jack
Douglass is willin' for us to have his hoss, an' then find out what
Uncle Dan'l says about it. If we don't get the hoss, it won't be any use
to say anything to Uncle Dan'l."

Reddy was so anxious to have matters settled at once that he offered to
go up to Mr. Douglass's house then, if the others would wait there for
his return, which proposition was at once accepted.

Mr. Douglass was an old colored man who lived fully half a mile from the
village; but Reddy's eagerness caused quick travelling, and in a
surprisingly short time he was back, breathless and happy. The coveted
horse was to be theirs for as long a time as they wanted him, provided
they fed him well, and did not attempt to harness him into a wagon.

The owner of the sightless animal had expressed his doubts as to whether
he would ever make much of a circus horse, owing to his lack of sight
and his extreme age; but he argued that if, as was very probable, the
animal fell while being ridden, he would hurt his rider quite as much as
himself, and therefore the experiment would not be tried so often as
seriously to injure the steed.

It only remained to consult Uncle Daniel on the matter, and of course
that was to be attended to by Toby. He would have waited until a fitting
opportunity presented itself, but his companions were so impatient, that
he went home at once to have the case decided.

Uncle Daniel was seated by the window as usual, looking out over the
distant hills as if he were trying to peer in at the gates of that city
where so many loved ones awaited him, and it was some moments before
Toby could make him understand what it was he was trying to say.

"So ye didn't get circusin' enough last summer?" asked the old
gentleman, when at last he realized what it was the boy was talking

"Oh yes, I did," replied Toby, quickly; "but you see that was a real
one, an' this of ours is only a little make-believe for three cents. We
want to get you to let us have the lot between the barn an' the road to
put our tent on, an' then lend us old Whitey. We're goin' to have Jack
Douglass's hoss that's blind, an' we've got a three-legged cat, an' one
without any tail, an' lots of things."

"It's a kind of a cripples' circus, eh? Well, Toby boy, you can do as
you want to, an' you shall have old Whitey; but it seems to me you'd
better tie her lame leg on, or she'll shake it off when you get to
makin' her cut up antics."

Then Uncle Daniel returned to his reverie, and the show was thus decided
upon, the projectors going again to view the triangular piece of land so
soon to be decorated with their tents and circus belongings.

Each hour that passed after Toby had decided, with Uncle Daniel's
consent, to go into the circus business, made him more eager to carry
out the brilliant plan that had been unfolded by Bob Atwood and Reddy
Grant, until his brain was in a perfect whirl when he went to bed that

He was sure he could ride as well as when he was under Mr. Castle's
rather severe training, and he thought over and over again how he would
surprise every one who knew him; but he did not stop to think that there
might be a difference between the horse he had ridden in the circus and
the lame one of Uncle Daniel's, or the blind one belonging to Mr.
Douglass. He had an idea that it all depended upon himself, with very
little reference to the animal, and he was sure he had his lesson

Early as he got up the next morning, his partners in the enterprise were
waiting for him just around the corner of the barn, where he found them
as he went for the cows, and they walked to the pasture with him in
order to discuss the matter.

Ben Cushing was in light marching and acrobatic costume, worn for the
occasion, in order to give a full exhibition of his skill; and Reddy had
been up so long that he had had time to procure Mr. Douglass's wonderful
steed, which he had already led to the pasture, so that he could be
experimented upon.

"I thought I'd get him up there," he said to Toby, "so's you could try
him; 'cause if we don't get money enough to hire one of Rube Rowe,
you'll have to ride the blind one or the lame one, an' you'd better find
out which you want. If you try him in the pasture, the fellers won't see
you; but if you did it down by your house, every one of 'em would huddle

It was a warm job Bob had undertaken, this leading the blind animal
along the ill-defined line that marked the limits of the ring, for the
sun shone brightly, and there were no friendly trees to lend a shelter;
but he paid no attention to his discomfort, because of the fact that he
was doing something toward the enterprise which was to bring them in
both honor and money.

The poor old horse was the least interested of the party, and he
stumbled around the circle in an abused sort of way, as if he considered
it a piece of gross injustice to force him on the weary round when the
grass was so plentiful and tender just under his feet.

Ben was busily engaged in lengthening Mr. Douglass's rather weak and
aged bridle with a small piece of rope, and from time to time he
encouraged the ambitious clown in his labor.

"Keep it up, if it is hot!" he shouted, "an' when we get him so's he can
do it alone, he'll be jest as good a circus hoss as anybody would want,
for we can stuff him with hay an' grass till he's fat," and Ben looked
at the clearly defined ribs in a critical way, as if trying to decide
how much food would be necessary to cover them with flesh.

"Oh, I can keep on as long as the hoss can," said Bob, as he wiped the
perspiration from his face with one hand, and clung firmly to the
forelock of the animal with the other; "but we've been round here as
many as six times already, an' he don't seem to know the way any better
than when we started!"

"Oh yes, he does," cried Reddy, who was practicing for his duties as
ring-master, anxious that his education should advance as fast as the
horse's did; "he's got so he knows enough to turn out for that second
knoll, though he does stumble a little over the first one."

By this time Ben had the bridle adjusted to suit him, Toby was ready to
make his first attempt at riding since he left the circus, and the more
serious work was begun.

Ben bridled the horse after some difficulty, Reddy drew out from its
hiding-place a whip made by tying a piece of cod line to an alder
branch, and Toby was about to mount, when Joe Robinson came in sight.

He had been running at full speed, and was nearly breathless; but he
managed to cry out so that he could be understood after considerable

"Hold on! don't go to ridin' till after we get some hoops for you to
jump through."

"I guess I won't try any jumpin' till after I see how he goes," said
Toby, as he looked rather doubtfully, first at the horse's weak legs,
and then at his sharp back; "besides, we can't use the hoops till he
gets more used to the ring."

Joe threw himself on the ground as if he felt quite as much aggrieved
because he was thus left out of the programme as the horse apparently
did because he was in it, and Bob consoled him by explaining that he had
no reason to feel slighted, since he, who, as the clown, was to be the
life of the entertainment, could take no other part in these preparatory
steps than to lead a blind horse round a still blinder ring.

"Hold him while I get on," said Toby, as he clutched the mane and a
portion of the prominent backbone, drawing himself up at some risk of
upsetting the rather shaky steed.

But there was no necessity of his giving this order, for, although four
boys sprang to do his bidding, the weary horse remained as motionless as
a statue, save for his hard breathing, which proclaimed the fact that
the "heaves" had long since singled him out as a victim.

Toby succeeded in getting on the animal's back after some exertion; but
he found standing there an entirely different matter from standing on
the broad saddles that were used in the circus, and the boy and the
horse made a shaky-looking pair.

"Shall I start him?" asked Bob, while Reddy stood as near the centre of
the ring as he could get, prepared to snap his cod-line whip at the
first signal.

Toby hesitated a moment; he knew that to attempt to stand up on, or on
either side of, that prominent backbone, after its owner was in motion,
would be simply to invite his own downfall; and he said, as he seated
himself carefully astride the bone:

"Let him walk around once till I see how he goes."

Reddy cracked his whip without producing any effect upon the patient
steed, but, after much coaxing, Bob succeeded in starting him again,
while Toby bounced up and down much like a kernel of corn on a griddle,
such a decided motion did the horse have.

"He won't ever do for a ridin' hoss," said Toby, with much difficulty,
when he was half-way around the circle, "'cause you see his bones is so
sharp that he feels as if he was comin' to pieces every time he steps."

"Jest get him to trottin' once, an' then you can tell what he's good
for," suggested Reddy, anxious to try the effect of his whip; and
without waiting for the rider's permission, he lashed the unfortunate
animal with the cod line until he succeeded in rousing him thoroughly.

It was in vain Toby begged him to stop, and Bob shouted that such a
course was not the proper one for a ring-master to pursue. Reddy was
determined the rider should have an opportunity of trying the horse
under full speed, and the result was that the animal broke loose from
Bob's guiding hand, rushing out of the imaginary ring into the centre of
the pasture at a rate of speed that would have surprised and frightened
Mr. Douglass had he been there to see it.

Shaken first up, then down, and from one side to the other, Toby
stretched himself out at full length, clasping the horse around the neck
as the patched bridle broke, and shouting "Whoa!" at the full strength
of his lungs.

After running fully fifty yards, until it seemed to Toby that his head
and his body had been pounded into one, the horse stopped, leaned one
heel up against the other, and stood as if dreamily asking whether they
wanted any more circus out of him.

"Couldn't anybody ride him, he jolts so," said Toby to his partners, as
they came running up to where he stood. "You see, in the circus they had
big, wide saddles, an' the hosses didn't go anything like him."

"Well, we can fix a saddle," said Bob, thoughtfully; "but I don't know
as we could do anything to the hoss."

"Perhaps old Whitey'll go better, 'cause she's lame," suggested Reddy,
feeling that considerable credit was due him for having made it possible
to test the animal's qualities in so short a time.

"I wouldn't wonder if this one would be all right when he gets a saddle
on an' is trained," said Joe; and then he added, quickly, "I hain't got
anything more to do to-day, an' I'll stay up here an' train him."

The partners were only too glad to accept this offer; and while Joe led
the horse back to the supposed ring, Ben gave a partial exhibition of
his acrobatic feats, omitting the most difficult, owing to the uneven
surface of the land.

Then the partners retired to the shade of some alder bushes, where they
could fight mosquitoes and talk over their plans at the same time, while
Joe was perspiring in his self-imposed task of educating the blind




Just at the present moment there is not, I think, in all Europe or
America a personage more talked about than Jumbo. Even the Queen, who
was shot at a few weeks ago by a poor crazy man, but not hurt; even the
Czar, who is shut up in one of his Russian palaces for fear of being
shot at, are having less said about them.

Jumbo, as I am perfectly sure you all know as well as I do, is an
elephant, the biggest elephant in captivity, as gentle as he is big, and
the English people, young and old, are very fond of him.

He is an African elephant, and Sir Samuel Baker, a Fellow of the
Zoological Society, who knows a great deal about elephants, says that he
knew Jumbo when he was a baby about four and a half feet high, and had
just been captured by Arabs on the shore of the Settite River, in
Abyssinia, in 1861. Now Jumbo, the pride of the English Zoo, is
twenty-one years old, and measures eleven feet in height to his withers,
which is the high ridge between the shoulder-blades just at the end of
the neck. He is very skillful in catching buns and apples which are
thrown to him by his young admirers.


Our picture of this enormous but gentle creature represents him in the
act of giving a farewell ride to a party of his little friends. From
this picture you will see that Jumbo's head and ears differ from those
of the Indian species. His forehead is not so high and prominent; his
ears are much larger, of a different and handsomer shape, while the
brows are very large and full over the eyes, and the eyes themselves,
when you can see them through the thick long lashes, have a really
wonderful expression of intelligence and dignity. He has a long trunk,
very powerful and graceful; but his tusks seem to be only roots, just
showing through the skin at the sides of the face, and it is said that
he has kept them worn down by rubbing them against the walls of his den.

As soon as it was known that our great American showman, Mr. Barnum, had
bought Jumbo for his travelling show, Jumbo, big as he is, was in
everybody's mouth, and a very great fuss was made about his own
unwillingness to go. The newspapers took up the matter, and gave whole
columns of talk to Jumbo. It seemed to be taken for granted that nothing
more dreadful could happen to the poor beast than to fall into Mr.
Barnum's hands.

The newspapers printed a great many letters from children, who offered
their pocket-money, in sums from sixpence to three or five shillings, to
buy Jumbo back again. They all wrote with the same idea, that Jumbo
would be cruelly used, and would surely die, if he were taken away; but
still it was quite clear that the little writers of these letters were
not entirely unselfish in their grief, for they had a great deal to say
about the nice rides they had already had, and still wished to have, on
Jumbo's enormous back.

Older people went so far as to propose to raise money to pay back to Mr.
Barnum the £2000 he had given for Jumbo, and perhaps £400 or £500
besides for his disappointment, but nothing more was said of this plan
after Mr. Barnum telegraphed that £100,000 would not buy Jumbo back. As
Mr. Scott, Jumbo's keeper, said to me, "Mr. Barnum understands his
business," and it began to appear that the Zoo Society Council had _not_
understood theirs. Every one who knows Mr. Barnum knows that he is
exceedingly kind to animals, and that they thrive, are happy, and live
long under his care.

But the English people are not so well acquainted with Mr. Barnum as
they will be, perhaps, when Jumbo comes back to the English "Zoo"--as
Mr. Barnum very kindly says that he may--and tells his own story. And,
after all, it is only fair that Jumbo should try for himself the flavor
of American buns, and find that the boys and girls of America are as
pleasant to carry and as kind as their English cousins.

People old and young flocked daily to the "Zoo." They carried bags and
baskets of buns, crackers, and sweetmeats, and everybody went straight
to the elephant-house. Parrots, monkeys, pelicans, and lions were
nowhere. On Ash-Wednesday (February 22), I went myself, and when I first
entered the elephant-house I thought it must be all going to tumble
down, I heard such a loud, startling noise. But it was only Alice, the
elephant that they call Jumbo's wife, calling for food. The sound she
made by gathering her breath in her cheeks, and blowing it forcibly
through her long trunk, was much like that made by crashing both hands
strongly down on the bass keys of a church organ when all the loud stops
are on.

The greatest crowd was in front of Jumbo's cell. He did not call for
food, but stretched his long and elastic trunk out in front of us just
like a plate for pennies in church. When let out of the garden, he
walked quietly with an even and slow step--which took him along so fast,
though, that Scott had to run to keep up with him--until he came to the
ladder where the children climb to mount him. The saddle, or howdah, as
it is called, was put on his back, and more than a dozen boys and girls
mounted, and away went Jumbo, stepping so slowly, but going fifteen feet
at a step. Five times I saw him go down the promenade with his laughing
load, and come back again to the ladder for a new supply, and each time
he looked larger to me than ever. Then he went back with his keeper to
his house, and I came away.

After Jumbo was sold, and the problem of moving him came to be
considered, an effort was made to get him out of the Gardens and to the
Millwall Docks on foot. He went along willingly enough, Scott leading
him, until they reached the end of the "Zoo" grounds, but before going
out into the road he tried it cautiously with his feet, and perceiving
at once that it did not feel like the shingle paths in the "Zoo," he was
afraid, and would go no farther.

Then a great box was made, which stood open at both ends. This was
mounted on strong wheels, and was so placed in the garden gateway that
when the elephants passed out from their own garden into the main
grounds they had to walk through it. The wheels were sunk into the
ground on a track, and the floor of the box was on a level with the
ground. Alice walked through the box back and forth quite willingly, but
for some days it was impossible to coax Jumbo to go into it.

Scott was asked to try whipping Jumbo, but he answered that he had never
yet struck his favorite a blow, and he never should. In all other
respects Jumbo was perfectly obedient and gentle, but he seemed to think
that the box was a trap, and to know almost as well as everybody else
that if he once went in, he might not come out. It was the intention to
let him get used to the box by going through it, and then it was thought
that when at last it was closed upon him he would not mind so much about

He was also put in chains, in order to accustom him to being fastened
during the voyage. At first they were only put on in the mornings, but
he made so much fuss and trouble about having them put on the last time,
it was thought unwise to remove them again. They are cased in leather,
so as not to fret him in the least. They were spread in loops, all over
the floor of his cell, and men stood ready at different points to draw
them up around him the moment he should place his feet within any of the
loops; but the intelligent fellow managed to avoid them for some time.

But he grew tired at last, and began to thrash about with his trunk and
ears, and Scott, who was in his cell with him, trying to persuade him,
got suddenly pushed up against the wall by a backward movement of
Jumbo's huge body. In a moment more he would have been crushed to death,
but he had the presence of mind to call kindly to Jumbo, who understood,
turned instantly, and released him. Jumbo then became quiet, and the
chains were placed.

Kind treatment finally set Jumbo's suspicions at rest, and he was
persuaded to walk through the strong box and back again. When this had
been done a number of times the box was fastened at both ends, and the
poor fellow was a prisoner. He was then, without further delay, shipped
on board the _Assyrian Monarch_, and on the 22d of March started on his
voyage across the Atlantic.

It is claimed that Jumbo was sold because he had now become liable to
have the "must," a disease peculiar to most full-grown elephants, in
which they become very dangerous. Jumbo has had only one attack, and was
well behaved during it when let out of his cell. Scott does not feel
afraid of him, and Mr. Barnum has so long had the care of elephants that
we think Jumbo's best friend need not worry about him.


Did you ever hear of John Pounds? Probably not, and yet he was one of
the world's benefactors. He was born in 1766, in Portsmouth, England.

In early life he learned the trade of a shipwright, but was so injured
by a fall that he had to abandon this. He then mastered the art of
mending shoes, and hired a little room in a weather-beaten tenement,
where for a while he lived alone, except for his birds. He loved birds
dearly, and always had a number of them flying about his room, perching
on his shoulder, or feeding from his hand.

In the course of time, a little cripple boy, his nephew, came to live
with Uncle John and the linnets and sparrows. The poor child had not the
use of his feet, which overlapped each other, and turned inward. The
kind uncle did not rest until he had gradually untwisted the feet,
strengthening them by an apparatus of old shoes and leather, and finally
taught them to walk.

Then he thought how much more pleasantly the time would pass for the boy
if he knew how to read and write, and so he began to instruct him.
Presently it occurred to him that he could teach a class as easily as he
could manage one pupil. So he invited some of the neighboring children
in, and, as the years went on, this singular picture might be seen:

In the centre of the little shop, six feet wide and about eighteen feet
long, the lame cobbler, with his jolly face and twinkling eyes, would be
seated, his last or lapstone on his knee, and his hands busily plying
the needle and thread. All around him would be faces. Dark eyes, blue
eyes, brown eyes, would shine from every corner, and the hum of young
voices and the tapping of slate-pencils were mingled with the singing of
the birds which enjoyed the buzz of the school.

Some of the pupils sat on the steps of the narrow stairway which led up
to the loft which was John's bedroom. Others were on boxes or blocks of
wood, and some sat contentedly on the floor. They learned to read,
write, and cipher as far as the Rule of Three, and besides they learned
good morals, for much homely wisdom fell from the cobbler's lips.

Hundreds of boys who had no other chance--for he gathered his scholars
from the poorest of the poor--learned all they ever knew of books from
this humble teacher. His happiest days were when some sunburned sailor
or soldier would stop in his doorway, perhaps with a parrot or a monkey
in his arms, saying, "Why, master dear, you surely have not forgotten
_me_, I hope?"

John Pounds taught his little school for more than forty years, never
asking nor accepting a cent of payment from any one.

At the age of seventy-two, on January 1, 1839, he suddenly died, while
looking with delight at a sketch of his school which had just been made
by an artist. For many days the children of the place were inconsolable,
and by twos and threes they came and stood by the closed door which in
John Pounds's time had always been open to the needy.

A life like this, so lowly yet so useful, contains lessons for us all.


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

An Indian Story.



Captain Skinner and his miners were well mounted, and they were tough,
seasoned horsemen. They were in a great hurry, too, for their minds were
full of dreams of the good times they meant to have.

They made an astonishingly long day's march, and did not meet with the
slightest sign of danger. That night they slept soundly on their
blankets in the open air, and perhaps some of them dreamed that in a few
nights more they would have roofs over their heads, and wake up in the
morning to find hot coffee on the breakfast table. No bell rang for
them, however, when breakfast-time came; but when they had nearly
completed their simple meal of broiled beef and cold water, their ears
were saluted by a very different sound.

"Horses! Rifles! Mount! Boys," shouted the little Captain, "that's a
cavalry bugle."


They sprang for their arms, and mounted in hot haste. But before the
last man was in the saddle, the music of that bugle was close upon them.

"No use to fight, boys, even if they were enemies. There's more'n three
hundred of 'em; Regulars, too. What on earth brings 'em away up here?
Can't be there's any revolution going on?"

"It isn't too late for us to run, Cap," suggested Bill.

"Yes, it is. They'd catch us in no time. Besides, we haven't done
anything to run for."

"Not to them, we haven't."

In a few minutes more it was too late, if it had not been just then, for
the gleaming lances of a full company of the Mexicans began to shine
above the grass and bushes behind the miners.

"Trapped, boys. I wonder what they're going to do?"

The Mexican commander was nearly ready to tell them. His really
splendid-looking horsemen closed steadily in upon the silent squad of
wild-looking desperadoes, and he himself rode forward toward them,
accompanied by two officers in brilliant uniforms.

Captain Skinner rode out as if to meet him, but was greeted by an
imperative, loud-voiced, "Halt! Dismount."

The fire flashed from the eyes of the little Captain.


"Close up, boys. Dismount behind your hosses, and take aim across the

He was obeyed like clock-work, and it was the Colonel's turn to "halt,"
for no less than three of those deadly dark tubes were pointing straight
at him, and he saw with what sort of men he was dealing. Had they been
six dozen instead of only less than two, they would not have hesitated a
second about charging in upon his gay lancers, and would probably have
scattered them right and left.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded of Captain Skinner.


"Where are you going?"

"Going to try and mind our own business."

"Where did you come from?"

"Across the border. Driven out of the mines by Apaches. Didn't expect to
find Mexican regular cavalry worse than the red-skins."

"We will see about that, señor. You are our prisoners."

"All right, so long as none of you come too near. It won't be healthy
for any of you to try."

"No harm is intended you, señor. We are sent to guard this frontier
against the Apaches, and to put down a small pronunciamento."

Captain Skinner knew what that meant. There had been some sort of a
little revolution in that part of Mexico, and he and his men were
suspected of having crossed the border to take part in it.

"All right, Colonel. All we want is to march right along. We can pay our
own way."

That was the first blunder the wily Captain had made.

A half-scornful smile shot across the dark face of the Colonel, as he
looked at those ragged men, and wondered how much they would be likely
to pay for anything.

A young officer at his side was more sagacious, and suggested: "I beg a
thousand pardons, Colonel, but they are miners."

"Ah! They may have been successful."

The expression of his face underwent a rapid change, and there was
nothing scornful in it when he remarked to Captain Skinner that the
price of a written "safe-conduct" for him and his men would be a hundred
dollars each.

"All right, Señor Colonel," said the Captain. "We will pay you in gold
as soon as it's written."

One of the young officers at once dismounted and produced a supply of
writing materials. The "safe-conduct" was a curious document, and
nothing exactly like it could have been had or bought of any cavalry
officer in the United States. It was written in Spanish, of course, and
it appeared to vouch for the peaceable and honest character and
intentions of the entire company of miners.

The latter stood sternly behind their horses, in a dangerous-looking
circle, while the bargain was making, and the Captain himself had coin
enough to pay for them all, without calling for contributions.

The Colonel was very polite now, and gave very accurate advice and
instructions as to the route the miners would do well to follow.

Captain Skinner's second blunder was that he determined to go by the
road laid out for him by the Colonel.

Perhaps he might not have done so if he had read one other piece of
paper that the young officer wrote for his Colonel to sign; or if he had
seen it handed to a lancer, who rode away with it at full speed along
the precise path the Colonel was describing.

It was addressed, with many titles and formalities, to "General
Vincente Garcia," and it was delivered by the lancer-postman within
three hours.

Captain Skinner and his men knew nothing about that, and when noon came
they found a capital camping place precisely as it had been described to

"Cap, do you hear that? If it ain't another bugle, you can shoot me."

More than one was heard within the next half-hour, and three consecutive
squadrons of lancers rode within sight.

As soon as they saw the miners a halt was ordered and a consultation
held. In a few moments a couple of officers approached.

It was their duty, they said, with many apologies. General Garcia
desired to know who were his neighbors, and so forth.

The Colonel's "safe-conduct" was shown them, and they actually touched
their hats when they read it.

It was entirely satisfactory. The General would be glad to sign the
safe-conduct himself, as the officer in supreme command of the

That was precisely what the Captain thought he wanted, and he consented
at once. The Mexicans were as good as their word, and the miners were
astonished at the cordial hospitality of their welcome in the cavalry
camp. Every "mess" came forward to claim a guest, and they were speedily
distributed in a way which left no two of them together.

Captain Skinner found General Garcia as polite as any of the others. Not
a word would he speak about business until after dinner, and so the
Captain did not know until then how great a mistake he had made in
permitting his men to be scattered.

"You will permit us to go on with our journey, will you not, General?"
said he at last, over the coffee.

"Certainly. Without doubt. We shall not detain you an hour. But the
señor is a caballero of experience and knowledge; he will understand
that I can not permit so strong a body of foreigners to march through my
district armed."

"Armed? We always go armed."

"At home. Of course. You have your own laws and customs. I must enforce
those of Mexico, and this district is under martial law."

So smiling and so polite was the General that Captain Skinner could
almost believe he was sorry to be compelled to enforce that law. He
tried, therefore, to argue the point, and was still trying, when one of
his men came rushing up, knocking over a Mexican as he came, and
shouting: "Cap, they've took every weapon I had. Did it while I was
eatin'. And they won't give them up."

"Will Señor Skinner do me the favor to tell his friend that this is by
my orders?"

The General smiled as he said it.

It was another half-hour before the different "messes" in all parts of
the camp brought up to "head-quarters" each its angry and disarmed

"It's no use, boys," said Captain Skinner to his crest-fallen band.
"It's martial law, and we may as well submit. We'd best mount and ride

Again General Garcia felt called upon to smile and be very polite. His
command was greatly in need of horses. Those of the American caballeros
were just suited to cavalry use. He had given orders to supply their
places with ponies good enough for ordinary travel.

"Oh, if we only had our rifles, Cap!" exclaimed Bill. "Anyhow, we'll get
our saddles back."

More than one bearded face grew a little pale at the thought of those

The General's own chief of staff had attended to their transfer from the
backs of the splendid American horses to those of the wretched little
Mexican ponies, and he had noticed how heavy they all were. It was his
duty, therefore, to search them, and not a saddle among them all was now
any heavier than a saddle of that size ought to be.

"The ponies," remarked the polite Mexican, "are not strong enough to
carry all that gold bullion as well as those heavy Gringo miners."

It was a sad dinner party for Captain Skinner and his miners. It had
been planned for them by their friend the Colonel of lancers, and
General Garcia had carried it out to perfection. He even gave them a
good supply of coffee and other matters when they departed, and added,
politely: "My dear Captain, I have not been so unkind as to search you.
You will no doubt have that happiness also in due time."

"Not a doubt of it," growled the Captain, "now we're unarmed."

And it turned out as he feared, for not an ounce of stolen gold was to
be found in the pockets of that ragged band within ten days of their
"first good dinner."


[Illustration: "DON'T WANT TO BE WASHED."]



A dilapidated pocket diary for 1860 lies on my writing-desk. There is a
faint suggestiveness of bilge-water and tar and damp woollen shirts
about it. The pencilled leaves are soaked and stained with salt-water.
Only now and then do I find a legible word or sentence until I reach the
middle of the book, where my eyes fall upon the following badly blotted

"_Fri_..., _July_ 2.--Blowi.. grea. gun. ..om S.S.W. ..... close reef
........ iced up ..... overboard .... Mr. Burn. secon. mate .....
_Wayland_, .....ard bound."

Do I dream it, or does some one mention to-morrow as my thirty-eighth
birthday? Nonsense! I am only sixteen--making my first sea-voyage "round
the Horn" in the ship _Sandwich_--Drew, master--fifty-eight days out
from New York.

I have not found a sailor's life all that my fancy painted it; rather
the reverse. I am disappointed with the life for which I once longed so
eagerly--disgusted, I may say. Which is not so surprising. Like other
home boys, I have been accustomed to wear dry clothing, to sleep all
night, to have father and mother-- But never mind; those last words make
me feel more homesick than ever.

It is seven o'clock A.M.--or six bells, if you like it better. The
starboard watch, to which I belong, is on deck, but as all hands have
spent rather more time on deck than below for about two weeks, it don't
matter much, only for the prospect of hot coffee sweetened with molasses
at breakfast-time. And when a fellow has not had a dry thread on him for
days, something hot to drink, even if it's only dried peas and chiccory,
is a great luxury.

Of course it is blowing a gale of wind--it has done nothing else for a
month, but for a wonder the gale comes from the right direction. That is
why Captain Drew is carrying sail so, for, taking advantage of the fair
wind, the old ship is running like mad through the straits of Le Maire,
which is a passage about fourteen miles wide, between Staten Land and
Terra del Fuego.

Yesterday the decks were all awash with water, and the rigging dripped
like a sponge. To-day everything from the royal truck down is covered
with ice. This is very hard upon one's fingers, especially as it don't
do to wear mittens aloft--even if you have them.

If you want to know how it seems to reef or stow a sail at such times,
just try and roll up a yard or two of sheet-iron, out-of-doors, with
bare hands, when the thermometer is at zero or a little lower. But it is
not hard to get round deck in icy weather. Oh no. All you have to do is
to sit down and wait for the ship to roll the right way--you won't have
long to wait, either.

It blows harder than ever. I should like to see a picture of the old
ship now, as with everything set but the royals, she goes tearing and
plunging through the long gray seas, with a gray sky overhead, and a
gray fog-bank all around the horizon. How I _should_ enjoy seeing such a
picture--especially if it was hanging against the sitting-room wall, and
I was standing directly in front of it!

"Look!" exclaims old Martin, who is standing beside me at the rail. And
all at once on the starboard bow I see breaking through the gray mist a
bleak, barren, rocky promontory, pointing like a great index finger to
the place where the waters of the Pacific and Atlantic oceans meet. At
least so I try to express it in a poetical kind of way, but old Martin
only grinned.

"That's Cape 'Orn," he replies, "an' before we get round t'other side of
it, if we don't ketch it, call me a Dutchman."

I had thought there was nothing left in the way of bad weather to catch.
But I am mistaken. By six o'clock in the afternoon the ship is under
lower topsails, with yards braced against the backstays, buffeting the
longest seas and the fiercest southwest gales of rain, sleet, snow, and
hail that we have seen yet.

It is all the work of a moment. I have just lashed the starboard
side-light in the fore-rigging in obedience to the second mate's orders,
and before I can swing myself inboard, the _Sandwich_ buries herself
bodily in a tremendous sea. My numb fingers relax their hold on the icy
ratlines, and I feel myself swept away in the grasp of a mighty wave.

It seems that I am not alone. As I dash the water from my eyes, I see
some one swimming, or rather treading water, within arm's-length. It is
Mr. Burns, the second mate.

"Keep cool, boy," he shouts, "and kick your boots off first of all."

Fortunately I am not encumbered with a coat, and encouraged by his
presence, I rid myself of my boots without much trouble. But I am at
best an indifferent swimmer, while Mr. Burns, who was born on Cape Cod,
seems perfectly at home even in the long topping seas against which I
beat with frantic arms.

"Rest your two hands on my shoulders," he says, "and give over
struggling. There'll be a boat out after us directly." But as I too
readily obey, I note in the gathering darkness that on his usually
cheery face is a look of anxiety. He does not expend his strength in
swimming, but merely moves his legs and arms in such a way as to keep us
both afloat.

I am chilled and numbed with the terrible cold. I can not speak, can
hardly think. Down we sink into a deep black valley of water, to rise on
the cresting summit of an awful wave, again and again, but still no
welcome sound of oars rattling in rowlocks. An hour passes, which seems
an age, and I despairingly see that Mr. Burns shows signs of growing

This fact, together with the growing darkness, benumbing cold, and
shrieking gale, does away with the last remnant of my courage.

"It's no use, Mr. Burns," I gasp through my chattering teeth; "I'm going
to let go. Good-by, sir."

Life is very dear to the young second mate. He has a wife and babe in
his far-off home; no wonder that he makes no reply. Life is dear to me
too, for that matter, only I have lost hope, and he has not. With a
whispered prayer, I take my hands from his shoulders, and in another
moment am swept unresistingly away in the darkness.

But all at once my outstretched hands touch some floating object, which
at the same time strikes against my chest. Mechanically I throw both
arms over it, and am vaguely conscious of being easily buoyed up, but by
what I can not conceive. I dimly know that it is smooth, soft, round,
and somewhat slimy to the touch. For aught I know or care, it may be the
sea-serpent himself; but I am past conjecture. A drowsy, numbing, and by
no means unpleasant stupor is creeping over me, while, as the roaring of
wind and sea is strangely blended with an increasing singing in my ears,
I dreamily drift into oblivion, my last conscious thought being that
dying is not so very disagreeable after all.

       *       *       *       *       *

"We was running afore it for the straits of Le Maire, and Jim Coffin on
the lookout at daybreak sings out that he see the sea-sarpint ahead,
with what looked like a mermaid alongside. We brought the schooner to
the wind, lowered the boat, and picked you up; and though you was the
deadest live man ever _I_ see, it was all Dan and me could do to unhook
your arms from round the big kelp--sea-weed stuff, you know, large round
some of it as a t'gallan'-yard--that you was hanging to. But we got you
aboard all right, and I hope you ain't feeling none the worse for coming
to life again."

Such is the explanation to which I listen as one in a strange dream,
while I stare vacantly about me from among the blankets of a narrow
berth in a snug little cabin. The speaker is Captain Samuel Dole, of the
sailing schooner _Wayland_, from Desolation Island, bound to New London,
Connecticut, with a full fare of skins and seal oil. Captain Dole
administers divers restoratives with such good effect that by night I am
clothed and in my right mind again.

A swift-sailing schooner is the _Wayland_, and forty-one days later I am
literally received with open arms and open-mouthed astonishment by those
who had seen me set sail for San Francisco. My story makes me a nine
days' hero, and a little later I have the pleasure of seeing in the
paper the arrival of the ship _Sandwich_--Drew, master--at San
Francisco, one hundred and twenty-three days from New York; "Harry
Franks, ordinary seaman, lost on the passage."

I have no chance of personally contradicting this statement until, three
years afterward, I ship as second mate on board the bark _Doris_, whose
captain proves to be Mr. Thatcher K. Burns, formerly second officer of
the _Sandwich_. He does not welcome me as one from the dead. Captain
Burns has seen too many strange things in his sea-faring life to be
surprised at anything. He looks sharply at me for a moment, as I rather
effusively greet him.

"Ah, yes," he says, in his sharp, business-like way; "thought I'd seen
you somewhere, Mr.--er--Franks. Picked up, were you? So was I. Hadn't
swum twenty strokes before the _Sandwich_'s boat reached me, and a sweet
job we had getting back to the ship. Well, get the decks cleared up as
soon as possible. I want to get away on morning tide. Some of the men
will be down directly," and with a nod Captain Burns hurries off to the
Custom-house for his clearance papers.

And this is what the blotted entry in my old pocket diary refers to.



To tell a boy that it is great sport to fly kites is to tell him
something he already knows very well. He understands perfectly what
these winds that blow in the early part of spring were intended for.

To make a kite of the ordinary pattern, one needs only a lath, a piece
of flat, pliable wood, and plenty of string, paper, and paste.


The lath is for the upright, B and D in the illustration, and the thin
piece of wood, which should be three-fourths of the length of the lath,
and half an inch wide, must be securely fastened by its exact middle to
the upper end of the lath, as at E, and brought down to a bow by the
cord at C. This cord should be passed with a double turn round the
upright at F, to keep it from slipping, and care must be taken to
balance the two sides of the kite most accurately, to prevent the kite
from being lopsided. Now carry a string, as in the figure, from E to C,
thence to G, to A, and back to E, fastening it securely at each point.
Next paste sheets of paper together until you have one large enough to
cover the whole framework, with a margin of at least two inches to lap
over. Lay the skeleton upon this, cut away the superfluous paper all
round, then lap the margin over the edges, and paste it firmly down.
Having firmly secured this, cut some slips of paper about three inches
wide, and paste them along and over the cross strings so as to secure
them firmly to the main sheet, and treat the upright in the same manner,
though, of course, with a wider strip.

For the wings or tassels to be attached at the points A and C, take two
strips of paper of a length and width proportioned to the size of the
tassel required, snip these across like a comb, roll them up, and bind
the uncut ends tightly with a string; the tassel for the tail is to be
made in the same manner. The ordinary way of making the tail is by
fastening slips of paper at intervals of about six inches along a piece
of string. Now these bits of paper serve no purpose whatever save to
become entangled with each other. A good long piece of string with a
tassel at the end answers all purposes, and is much more graceful! The
tail should be from fifteen to twenty times as long as the kite.

In selecting the string for the kite, get it as light and strong as
possible; if it is too heavy, the kite will not be able to carry so much
weight very high, and if it is not strong, the kite will very likely
break away. The string is not fastened directly to the kite, but to
another string, which, doubled, is attached to the upright in the
following way: If the kite be four feet long, one end of this band is
fastened about ten inches from the top, and the other about twenty
inches from the bottom, and should be slack enough to hang in a loop
about twelve or eighteen inches in length. As to where the string should
be fastened to the band, that can only be told by experimenting until
one finds out at just what point the kite will balance.

To start the kite in the first instance it is almost absolutely
necessary to have some aid, two persons being required, one to hold the
kite up and help it off, while the other, holding the string, runs a
short distance against the wind to increase its pressure upon the kite,
and thus help it to get its tail fairly off the ground, after which the
kite will do very well by itself.



  Arthur and Elsie every day
    Learned their geography,
  And after lessons loved to play
    At sending ships to sea.
  They used, instead of little boats,
    A thing that does as well,
  A vessel that securely floats--
    An empty walnut shell.

  No wonder that this little pair
    Would oft indulge the notion
  That walnut shells real vessels were,
    And washing-tubs the ocean.
  And often when they were in bed
    Their brains began to teem,
  Until upon this wondrous voyage
    They started in a dream.

  For mast and sail to stand the gale
    They chose a pretty feather;
  The walnut shell rode monstrous well
    Through very boisterous weather.

  They had no meat or bread to eat,
    And not a drop of tea;
  They thought fried fish to meet their wish
    Would follow in their lee.

  Their ship flew fast before the blast;
    They reached the arctic snow.
    "Hurrah for ice!"
    They cried; "it's nice,
  Although the north wind blows.
    For here a seal
    Provides a meal,
  Our coats, our hats, our hose."


  At last they thought they might arrange
  A very comfortable change.
  "Hurrah!" cried Arthur; "off we go;
  We'll run down to the Hoang-Ho."

  And on they went where might be seen
  All sorts of tea, both black and green,
  And figures like a Chinese screen,
    Pagodas, chopsticks, tails,
  Umbrellas, junks, and tiny shoes,
  And they were carried on bamboos,
  By men whose shoulders feel no bruise,
    Across the hills and dales.

  One day a condor seized the shell,
  The little travellers as well,
    And flew with speed terrific
  Toward an island in the sea,
  Which Arthur said was sure to be
  (I said they knew geography)
    Somewhere in the Pacific.


  A cheap excursion, was it not,
  To such a very charming spot
    That seemed quite free from dangers?
  For there they lived a life of ease,


  Whilst apes politely climbed the trees
    For nuts to give the strangers.
  Then sailing on some thousand miles,
    Where spices scent the breeze,


  They passed among the coral isles
    That crowd the Southern seas.


  They cross the calm of tropic heat,
  In solitude the most complete,


  Where the mirage in strange surprise
  Makes Elsie open wondering eyes.


  And now they stand on India's strand,
    This young and dauntless pair,
  To beard the leopard, as they thought,
    And tiger in his lair.

  For Elsie said, "No beast can face
    An opened parasol,
  And Arthur in the surest place
    Can make a bullet-hole."

  But soon the children thought it best
    To put to sea once more;
  And Elsie steered still further west,
    As she had steered before,
  While Arthur opened out his chest
    By tugging at the oar.

  A sudden wind arose at last;
  The walnut shell before the blast
    Across the tropics flew;
  But Arthur, till the simoom passed
    (That wind of course he knew)
  And daring Elsie held on fast,
  When safe on Afric's coast were cast
    The walnut shell and crew.

  And when the little folks were bent
  To cross the black man's continent,
  "The ostriches shall find us legs,"
    Cried Arthur; "they can run."
  Said Elsie, "Yes; and lay us eggs;
    I'll fry them in the sun."


  They travelled through the desert land,
    And yet were brisk and merry,
  Though Arthur's eyes were full of sand,
  And Elsie's little face was tanned
    As brown as autumn berry.

  From crocodiles which had not dined
    Bold Arthur never shrinks,
  While Elsie tries to call to mind
    Some riddles for the Sphinx.

  And journeying onward safe and sound
    With never pause nor hitch,
  Their way through the Canal they found,
    With wonderment so rich.
  They saw big vessels outward-bound
  (That only sometimes ran aground)
    Go steaming through _the ditch_.


  Through foam and rapids safe they came.
  And thought a whirlpool very tame.
  Yet Arthur's strength was still the same,
  And Elsie's face was all aflame
    At ventures so romantic;
  And Arthur never ceased to row
  Till turtles took the shell in tow
    Across the broad Atlantic.


  At home once more; and all the town
  Talks of the walnut shell's renown.
  Arthur is pensioned by the crown,
  And all his travels written down,
    Their wonder and variety.
  And little Elsie, too, is proud;
  Her pluck and knowledge are allowed
    By very wise society.


[Illustration: AN EASTER CAROL.]


We are sure our young friends will feel satisfied with this beautiful
Easter number, so crowded with good things. Do not let the rest of the
paper make anybody forgetful of Our Post-office Box. You seldom see a
more entertaining letter than this from our correspondent Georgie:


     This mining camp is ten miles from the New Mexico line, and forty
     from Mexico. There are mountains all about, covered to the tops
     with luxuriant grass, and juniper, pine, fir, cedar, and live-oak
     trees. In the cañons, near the creeks, are sycamore, black-walnut,
     white oak, madrone, and other varieties; also the lovely manganita,
     and other shrubs. Many fruits and flowers are native here. Of the
     former there are cherries, grapes, raspberries, strawberries, etc.;
     among the latter, the geranium, morning-glory (all colors), poppy,
     portulaca, and many more favorites that we used to cultivate in the
     East. Potatoes also grow wild, and though very small, are good;
     they are called "spuds" here.

     Last summer we were encamped for two months in a cañon, six miles
     from town, where are ever so many caves. We all went part of the
     way through the largest--Coral Cave--one day. The entrance is on
     the mountain-side, and so small that one person has to crawl or
     "back" down at a time, looking out for bruises from projecting
     rocks, and also he must have a care for his footing, for this
     passage is very steep and winding; all at once it grows broad, and
     very high. At this point all light their candles, as there are
     other passages branching from the main one; and that we may not get
     lost, we watch for the little "monuments" which have been built to
     guide visitors to the main cavern.

     It is a hard scramble of about 500 feet, past awful chasms, down
     dizzy natural stairways, etc., then up a few steps, and--oh, it is
     just like fairy-land, I am sure! The frost-like drapery and
     festoons, sparkling and flashing at every movement of our lights,
     the thousands of icicles and straight white columns, under our feet
     the "snow," twinkling with innumerable diamonds, made me think we
     were in Jack Frost's home beyond a doubt. But it was not snow nor
     ice at all, but limestone formation; it was stalagmite on the
     floors of all the chambers, and the crystals cut our boots

     As an offset to the pleasures of our happy camping ground in the
     cañon, with its grand scenery, its woods, flowers, towering rocks,
     rushing mountain stream, and springs of clear cold water, we had
     scorpions, tarantulas, rattlesnakes, and loathsome centipeds. There
     is also a very poisonous bug, called by a Spanish name which I have
     forgotten; it means "babe of the wood." It is about two inches
     long, of a rusty black color, and has claws something like a
     lobster, as has the centiped, which is of a greenish color when
     young, turning to yellow-brown when full grown. They (the
     centipeds) are in sections or joints, each joint having one pair of
     legs, which end in needlepoints, jet black, and charged with
     poison. We killed _lots_. Many were ten inches in length; they can
     run very fast. We never saw any of these creatures in our
     sleeping-apartment; but about the rocks, in the small cave where we
     cooked and took our meals, they, with lizards, chameleons, and
     cunning little striped squirrels, were as much at home as we. Out
     in the woods were wild animals to keep away from. Papa shot a big
     brown bear one day, and a miner killed a very large panther. It is
     a grand place to hunt in, as game is plentiful. We are interested
     in "The Talking Leaves," here in the Apache country. I wish there
     were no Apaches in the world! Sometimes the soldiers come through
     here, and prospectors see squads of Indians in the mountains, and
     we get scared. Last September papa sent mamma, brother, and me to
     California to stay until the fright was over. We spent three months
     at a bathing-place on the Pacific coast called Santa Monica, and
     had fine times bathing, fishing, and playing on the beach. My mamma
     gives us a "treat" Saturday afternoons by reading to us from back
     numbers of YOUNG PEOPLE. All the children in camp who are old
     enough to be interested are asked to come at three o'clock every
     Saturday. We are now half through with "Toby Tyler." It is as good
     as ever, and the boys all think it and YOUNG PEOPLE splendid.


We shall think of the group gathered to listen to mamma as she reads
their favorite stories aloud on Saturday afternoons, and whenever there
shall happen to be anything in the paper which we enjoy very much, we
will say to ourselves, "Now, Georgie and his friends will be sure to
like this too." The Postmistress says she never could summon up courage
enough to scramble into Coral Cave; and as for the centipeds, she threw
both hands out in the most horrified manner when she came to that part
of the letter which mentioned them.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little boy seven years old. My mamma gave me HARPER'S YOUNG
     PEOPLE for my birthday present in December. I can not read yet, but
     mamma reads the whole paper to me, except "Talking Leaves"--we have
     not the first chapters of that. I hope I soon will be able to read;
     I am learning to spell now.

     I have a little sister named Bertie, and a cat named Topsy. My
     sister is three years old. She talks all the time. Mamma kept her
     out of the room when I was sick.

     I am always glad when Tuesday comes. I wish we could have a
     HARPER'S every day.

     Mamma is writing this for me. When I learn to write, I will write


     P.S.--I almost forgot. Won't you please tell me what C. Y. P. R. U.

Chautauqua Young People's Reading Union.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I think that "The Little Dolls' Dressmaker" was very nice; but
     little brother Roy likes to hear "Talking Leaves" first. I want to
     tell you about my pets. I have two dolls. My china doll was nine
     years old last Christmas; her name is Frankie. And then I have a
     wax doll, and her name is Lulu. She has real hair, and bright blue
     eyes. On her third birthday her grandma (that's my mamma) gave her
     a real cute little watch and chain. I have two birds. The canary's
     name is Major, and he is quite a little actor. George is my linnet,
     and is a very fine singer. I have a nice little kitty, and her name
     is Dot. I think if Miss Augusta C. could only see her, she would
     say that she was very nice. I have a picture of the Princess of
     Wales holding a large snow-white kitten in her arms. My little
     brother has a white dog; his name is Prince. He has many cunning
     tricks. We have taught him to chase the hawks, so they will not
     catch our chickens. I want to tell you how we amuse ourselves some
     of the time in winter. My papa bought us a box of paints, and we
     get two of the florist's catalogues and paint the flowers. I send
     you one or two that I have painted; don't you think they are nice?
     I am a little girl eleven years old. I have not any sisters, and
     only one little brother, seven years old.


Yes, Jennie, the flowers you sent were very nicely colored indeed, and
your picture of your home and pets is very charmingly painted too.

       *       *       *       *       *


     We have three nice cats; their names are Judy, Jonah, and
     Salamander. When we were real little boys we used to run under the
     bed and hide when we heard papa coming in from the store. He would
     pretend to be surprised, and say, "Why, where are my boys?" and
     then Judy would run to the bed and look under at us, and then at
     papa, as if to say, "Here they are." Then he would pull us out, and
     what a frolic we would have climbing up into his arms! And Judy
     seemed just as happy as we were. Jonah is very large--weighs
     fifteen pounds. Salamander is our baby cat. She climbs up to
     mother's bedroom window every morning, and when she comes in she
     goes to mother first, and then to our room, and purrs and rubs
     around us, and puts up her little mouth to kiss just as sweet as
     anything. We are always glad when Wednesday comes, for then we get
     HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. We like Jimmy Brown's stories ever so much,
     and think he must be related to Georgie Hacket, the bad boy, whose
     Diary we have read.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I have not taken YOUNG PEOPLE very long, but I like it very much. I
     have a nice horse and saddle that my grandmother gave me for my
     birthday present when I was eight years old. My horse is as white
     as snow, and his name is Mazeppa. I take a ride almost every day.
     My cousins Edgar and Frank have a horse, and we ride out very often
     together, and have nice times.

     Last summer I tamed two wild robins; they were very interesting
     pets. They were fledglings when I took them from the nest. I had to
     feed them by hand for four or five weeks. I did not keep them in a
     cage in the daytime, but let them have their liberty in the yard. I
     clipped their wings so that they could not fly away. When they were
     hungry they would come to the house and cry, "Tiptop, Tiptop." I
     named them Tiptop and Rob, and whenever I wanted to feed them, or
     know where they were, I would call them by their names, and they
     would always answer, and come to me. Then I would put out my hand,
     and they would hop upon it, and let me carry them about in that
     way. I would place a basin of water in the shade of a cherry-tree
     for them to bathe in, and it was fun to see them bathe. We had
     several cats, but they did not molest them. When the robins were
     about two months old, Tiptop got into the well and was drowned. As
     Rob grew older, and could find his own food, he would stay out all
     day, but would come home at night, and if the doors were open, he
     would fly straight to the room where his cage was. But one evening
     he did not return, and I could neither see nor hear him anywhere.
     Oh, how sorry I felt! I think that a strange cat caught him, for
     one came to the house the next morning!

     I am afraid you will think that my letter is very long, but I must
     tell you about the pretty little cherry-birds that we have here. We
     call them cherry-birds because they are so fond of cherries. They
     are about the size of a canary. There are several kinds of them,
     and some are prettier than any canary-bird I ever saw, and some
     sing very sweetly. They come in large flocks in summer.

     I am eleven and a half years old, and have never been a day at
     school. I live on Tualamette Island. We call our place Irona Hill.
     We can see three snow-covered mountains the year round from our
     door--Mount Hood, Mount St. Helens, and Mount Adams. They are a
     beautiful sight on a clear day.


You showed great patience in training your pretty pet robins, and it
seems a great pity that one should have been drowned, and the other
devoured by a cat. But it may be that Rob at last grew tired of his
cage, and found a little mate, and helped her build a pretty nest in
some greenwood tree. At least we will try to think so, as it is
pleasanter than to suppose that he was eaten by Puss. You write very
well indeed for a little girl who has never been at school. Does your
mother teach you herself?

       *       *       *       *       *


     I have never yet seen a letter from Stuttgart in the Post-office
     Box, so I thought I might write and tell how much a little German
     girl enjoys YOUNG PEOPLE. My papa is a German officer, but my mamma
     is an American; so I can speak and read English as well as German,
     though I can not write it as well. My grandmamma has taken your
     paper for me ever since I could read English. I do not go to
     school, but have private lessons at home. I learn German, French,
     English, and music. I have a dear little sister, whose name is
     Roberta. She is two years old, and can speak English, French, and a
     little German. I have a canary-bird and two dogs. I have one very
     pretty dolly, whose name is Lili. There was a good deal of skating
     this winter. I skated every day. I like very much to read the
     Post-office Box, and hope my letter is not too long to be printed.
     I send you one dollar for Young People's Cot. I am in my tenth


The dollar was forwarded to Miss Fanshawe, treasurer of the fund for
Young People's Cot. We like to receive letters from our distant readers
as well as from those whose homes are in America. Carla's letter was
very beautifully written, and we shall be glad to hear from her again.

       *       *       *       *       *


     We are three brothers, all under nine years of age. Greenleaf is
     the name of our home down in Southern Kentucky--a long way from
     where dear YOUNG PEOPLE is published. We have a very lovely country
     home, six acres in our front yard, with great oak-trees, in which
     the little squirrels play as though they were tame. A little girl
     was here, and saw them running about the yard, and up the trees,
     and said, "Look at the pretty kittens up in the trees!" I wish
     Birdie and Jennie could see our half-wild, half-tame squirrels. We
     throw bread-crumbs under the cedars in the winter, and the
     partridges get them. We never disturb them. They live in our
     orchard that joins the yard. We watch them running through the
     yard. The mocking-birds and thrushes build in the honeysuckles and
     cedars. They have not left us this winter.

     Last Saturday we went fishing, and caught twenty fish by ourselves
     in a large pond. We wish so much that Horace P. F. could have some
     of our fun.

  FREDERICK W., by Mother W.

The picture of your home which we have in our mind is charming. We are
glad you are so good to the little friends who live in your trees,
frolicking in the branches, or giving you sweet concerts mornings and
evenings. The three boys may give mother a kiss and a hug for sending us
so pleasant a letter.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I read YOUNG PEOPLE carefully every week. My teachers at school and
     also my Sunday-school teachers think it just the best paper ever
     published for children. Seven other little girls about my age are
     going to take it, and we all live in West Street. Worcester is a
     busy city. We have lots of factories and machine shops. We also
     have good schools, and pretty streets, and a large number of fine
     residences. Almost everybody is prosperous here, at least I think
     so, because everybody has plenty to do, and no one needs be idle.
     There is work for all who wish to work. We are going to have a fair
     at our church to assist the people in the Southwest who have
     suffered by the terrible floods, and I hope it will be successful.

     The letters from the children which you are so kind as to publish
     always please me very much. There was one from Florida, not long
     ago, which was very interesting, and I hope there will be another
     one from the same writer. There was a nice letter from Cohasset,
     Massachusetts, about three months since, signed "Harry," which told
     your readers about Minot's Ledge Light-house and the ocean, which
     all my friends thought very nice and pleasant. My friends who read
     that letter about the beach, and the bathing, and the ships, and
     other things which Harry told us about, hope he will send another

  MARY S. A.

       *       *       *       *       *

FRED L. C.--Send your wiggles, exchanges, answers to puzzles, etc., to
the Editor of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, Franklin Square, New York.

       *       *       *       *       *

WILLIE A.--We can not insert an exchange in the number succeeding the
week in which we receive it. It is placed on file for publication, and
follows others which have been received before it. As the number sent us
is very large, you must try to be patient until your turn comes.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

YOUNG PEDESTRIAN.--Your Picnic Club is a capital idea. Of course the
excursions will be principally on foot, although, as New York is such a
large city, you will often want to travel out of it either by rail or
boat. The elevated railroad will take you as far as the Harlem River,
and there you can change cars and go by the New York City and Northern
as far as Tarrytown. A pleasant excursion, and an easy one, is by train
to One-hundred-and-fifty-fifth Street and Eighth Avenue, thence on foot
to High Bridge, and thence to King's Bridge, about two and a half miles
further on, returning by Washington Heights, which overhang the Hudson,
and afford magnificent views. The road running along by the private
houses is not private. At Fort Washington you will be almost opposite
Fort Lee, which is on the Jersey shore, and which is reached by boat
from foot of Canal Street. The country all along and back from the river
is delightful, and the woods are rich in ferns and wild flowers. A
little higher up the river the Palisades begin, and their steep sides
need some climbing. Only pathways, however, should be attempted, as all
the members of the club may not be expert mountaineers.

A delightful mountain and woodland walk for a long day is from
Montclair, New Jersey, along the Orange Mountain to South Orange, or
beyond, as far as Millburn. From Eagle Rock, which overhangs Orange and
Montclair, you will have a magnificent view in almost every direction.
By following the ridge of the mountain you will come to South Orange,
whence you can take train to New York. Millburn is three miles beyond.
When walking through wooded country it is well for the party to keep
together; otherwise some may lose their way, and cause delay and anxiety
to the rest. Railroad fares for this trip will be about seventy cents
each. Staten Island and Long Island (with Bay Ridge and Bath to the
south, and Whitestone, Garden City, and Roslyn to the east) are within
easy reach.

It will be best to make the nearest excursions first, as on every trip
you will gain experience in travelling, and so be enabled to save time
and expense. Before starting study out the proposed trip with the aid of
a map and a railway guide, and if you are going to take the train back
at the same place where you leave it, be sure to buy excursion tickets.
The more you know about the place you are visiting, the more you will
enjoy it. If, therefore, you can consult a guide to the suburbs of New
York, and "post" yourselves thereby, you will not be likely to overlook
any object of interest. If the walking and the scenery are your only
objects, and not flower-collecting, etc., it will not do for you to miss
whatever there is to be seen.

Be sure that your shoes are stout and yet comfortable, and your clothes
warm enough--at least in this spring weather; in midsummer you need have
no fear about "the cool of the evening." A good lunch is important, and
this you should take with you, as suburban hotels are either very poor,
or, if good, very expensive; and then walking is hungry work, and not
pleasant work on a very empty stomach. As regards a name for your club,
some of you or your friends ought to be able to think of a good one, and
if you have a badge, it might represent the name. Such names as the
"Grasshoppers," "Butterflies," "Woodchucks," etc., would do. Whatever
your name, and wherever you go, the Postmistress envies you the good
times you will have.

       *       *       *       *       *

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to the
article entitled "Easter in Jerusalem." Of all the joyous weeks of the
year this should be the brightest and most radiant. Two days ago we
celebrated an event more important than that which gives us the
happiness of Christmas. The Christ-child, who came to us then all lovely
in his helpless infancy, comes now from his open grave with his work
accomplished. Death has been conquered; the promise is fulfilled; He is
the Saviour of the World. While you are spending the bright hours of
Easter-week in gladness and rejoicing, you will like to read how the
same great festival is being celebrated by the little folks whose home
is in the Holy City where our Lord himself once dwelt. From this article
we would like to have you turn to Mrs. Sangster's sketch of "The Cobbler
who kept School in a Workshop," learning from it, if you will, the sweet
and noble lesson that such a life ought to teach each one of us. Then,
boys and girls, for an imaginary ride on "Jumbo," and the biggest kind
of a kite! The boys must whittle the sticks, while the girls mix paste
and tie on tail. Then no quarrelling as to who shall hold the string
when she's well up!

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.


Across.--1. Way of life. 2. Kingly. 3. Pickled meat. 4. A city in Asia.
5. A station.

Down.--1. A letter. 2. A conjunction. 3. A boy's name. 4. A Hindoo
servant. 5. Fastened. 6. Learning. 7. A siesta. 8. A preposition. 9. A


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.


1.--1. An opaque body. 2. An adjective. 3. A musical term. 4. A verb. 5.
Musical instruments.

2.--1. To change. 2. To depart. 3. To be received. 4. An episode. 5.

  G. Q. C.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.


1. Exaggerated pictures. 2. A musical term. 3. Part of a door. 4. Hot.
5. A range of mountains. 6. Anger. 7. Opposite of distant. Primals--A
commander. Finals--One who obeys orders.

  E. D. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.


Centrals--A small flag. Across--1. Musicians. 2. Wide awake. 3. An
insect. 4. In nest. 5. A human being. 6. A seat. 7. A floor covering.

  E. D. H.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.

      T I M
    T A M E S
  C I M E T E R
    M E T T A
      S E A

No. 2.

  P O E   F I R   L A W
  O R E   I R E   A G E
  E E L   R E D   W E D

No. 3.

Anger begins with folly, and ends with repentance.

Natatores. Pelican. Whippoorwill. Rhinoceros. Giraffe. Hedgehog.
Panther. Radiates. Lobster. Honey-bee. Antennæ.

No. 4.

  D E F E A T
  E D I L E
  F I L M
  E L M
  A E

No. 5.

  C R A M P
  R A T I O
  A T O N E
  M I N I M
  P O E M S

       *       *       *       *       *

Answer to Enigma on page 352--A flag.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from M. F. S., Wroton
Kenney, Willie T. Blew, "Olivette," R. Lloyd, Nellie B. Hannah, Lulu,
Kirtland, John S. Price, "Lodestar," Harry D. Loehman, G. Q. C., Palmer
Harrison, Harold S. Chambers, "Icicle," Jesse S. Godine, "Don Quixote,"
Eva Dayton, Fannie Darling, Elma Stoddard, Harry Draper.

       *       *       *       *       *

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



  Am I a little snow-white lamb,
    A robin, or a bluebird,
  A cherry, peach, or strawberry?--
    Pray tell me, folks, have _you_ heard?

  They call me every sort of thing;
    Now is it not a pity?--
  Am I a flower, am I a star,
    Or just a little kitty?

  I thought I'd learned, the other day,
    When brought by sister Carry
  Down stairs into the sitting-room
    To "smile for Uncle Harry."

  I heard him, as they took me in,
    Say, "Pshaw! she's not worth two cents."
  And then, "Come, Carry, bring her here;
    Let's see the little _nuisance_."

  But all my aunts, and grandmamma,
    They told him he was "horrid";
  Then kissed my nose, my eyes, and toes,
    My hands, my cheeks, my forehead.

  Oh dear! I don't know _what_ I am
    I feel so puzzled. Maybe
  I'd best believe what mamma says--
    I'm just her "precious baby."


Silent stories are acted in costume, but without words. They should
always give the impression of moving _tableaux vivants_, if the story
and the dresses are rather pretty; or they may burlesque--that is, make
as comic as possible--a historical story. In either case the subject
should be something well known, so that it may be guessed as the play

A part of the room should be divided off as a stage--perhaps by laying a
thick heap or wreath of evergreens along the floor, and stretching a
wreath above across the ceiling, while others are hung down close to
each side, so as to form a frame. Dark-colored curtains should be hung
across at the back of the stage; and as scenery could not be changed for
five or six different stories played quickly after each other, the best
way would be to hang out over the curtains, or show at each change of
scene, the name of the next scene printed in large letters on
card-board, such as "A Wood," "Interior of a Cottage," "A Garden," "A
Cellar," or whatever it may be. This was the old way in England before
there was painted scenery; and people were content with it even in
Shakspeare's time.

Here are a few examples of Silent Stories, only adding the hint that the
acting should always go on quickly, the players moving their lips and
expressing all they can by their faces and gestures.

"Little Silver Hair and the Three Bears." Scene I., _a wood with a
cottage in sight_. The cottage door is shown half open, at the side of
the stage, and there are evergreen bushes. Enter a fair-haired little
girl fancifully dressed. She pries about, peeps in at the door, and at
last goes in. Scene II., _interior of the cottage_. Kitchen table and
chairs; big chair, common-sized chair, and small baby's chair; in front
of the chairs a big bowl, a middle-sized bowl, and a little bowl, all
steaming on the table. In one corner the staircase appearing--that is,
the lowest three steps of a step-ladder, with stair-carpet fastened on
them, and a railing (easily made of laths) down one side. The little
girl sits on the chairs, tastes the porridge, then goes cautiously up
stairs. A table is placed at the side of the stage, out of sight behind
the ladder, for the players to go and come by the steps. Enter from the
other side three bears, the big bear, the little bear, and the wee bear
(girls or boys wrapped in furs, creeping on hands and knees, the heads
being represented in strong brown paper emerging from the fur), with
parted jaws--a little management produces a wonderful bear; and the
silence might be broken here with growling. They find the chairs moved
and the porridge tasted, and go growling up the stairs out of sight.
Then enter again the little girl, running frightened down the staircase,
with her hat hanging off, and her hand stretched out before her; she
crosses the stage, and runs out at the other side.--_Curtain falls._

"Beauty and the Beast" makes another good story for acting rapidly in
this way. It is very effective with a prettily dressed Beauty, a garden
of paper roses, a terrible Beast, of the bear kind, muffled in fur
cloak--or, better still, tiger-skin or goat-skin hearth-rug--and a quick
change in throwing off the Bear disguise, and discovering the Prince.

The stories should of course be prepared beforehand, and the necessary
articles placed ready behind the curtains.


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