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Title: Harper's Young People, May 16, 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, May 16, 1882 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

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


       *       *       *       *       *


Tuesday, May 16, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PUSSY'S MUSIC LESSON.]



"I wish I could take you both with me," said Mr. Hanway, as he kissed his
children good-by, and stepped into the carriage that was to bear him up
among the mountains on a visit to an old friend; "but Fletcher here will
take good care of you, Amy, and I am sure neither of you will forget
what I've told you about keeping away from the boats."

Fletcher was ten and Amy eight, and the two, with their father, who was
a widower, were stopping at a cozy little hotel on the shores of a
lovely lake in Switzerland.

It was only on very rare occasions that Mr. Hanway permitted himself to
be separated from his children during their travels abroad, but as the
hotel where they had now been staying for nearly a week was a very
home-like one, and as he expected to be back in time for supper, he felt
that he could safely leave them to amuse themselves for a few hours.

Thus cast upon their own resources, the brother and sister read
story-books and played in-door games until dinner-time. At the table
were some American tourists just from the summit of the highest mountain
in the place, and to their lively descriptions of the views to be had
therefrom, and of the pretty nooks scattered all over it, both children
listened with eager ears, and when one of the young ladies held up a
bunch of "just the loveliest wild flowers" which she had gathered by the
road-side, Amy whispered to her brother that she really must go a little
way up that very afternoon.

"But papa isn't here to take us," objected Fletcher, who longed to go as
much as his sister, although he was old enough to understand that his
father would not like to have them leave the hotel in his absence.

"Papa didn't tell us we mustn't climb mountains--only boats," returned
Amy, cunningly. "And, besides, didn't he say you could take care of me?
and don't you think you can?" and the artful little tease looked up at
her stout young brother with a most confiding air.

Under these circumstances, what could Fletcher reply but that he was
most certainly able to protect her, and that he would do so for a little
way, a very little way, up the mountain, as they must be sure to be at
the hotel when father came back.

Greatly delighted at having gained her point, Amy ran off for her hat as
soon as dessert was over, and having stuffed a paper of candy into her
pretty little arm-basket, announced herself ready. And then the two set
out, Fletcher, with his alpenstock, leading the way up through the town,
on by the winding path through the woods, up, up, until the beautiful
lake came into view below them.

"Let's rest here a minute," proposed Fletcher. "This flat rock'll make a
nice seat; and while we eat some candy, I'll teach you the names of the
snow mountains over yonder."

So the expedition halted while the captain pointed out what he _thought_
was Mont Blanc, the king of all the peaks; the beautiful Jungfrau, with
its silver horn, and--But turning to see if Amy was looking in the right
direction, Fletcher found her eyes closed, and her head just sinking to
his shoulder.

"Poor little thing, she's tired out. I'll let her have a short nap
before we start down again." So, while Amy slept, her brother ate
chocolate drops and studied the Alps.

Now it would have been quite romantic and Babes-in-the-Woodsy if he too
had been overcome with drowsiness, thus leaving them both lying there
asleep on the mountain-side until an elf, giant, or some other rarely
seen creature, came to wake them up and conduct them to a wonderful
grotto, studded with diamonds and paved with pearls. But as this is not
a fairy tale, nothing of the sort occurred, for Amy presently woke up of
her own accord, and finding the basket empty, recollected what she had
come for, upon which the two began searching for wild flowers.

At first Fletcher rather affected to despise the occupation, but after
they had gathered a few, he found them so pretty, and it grew to be so
exciting to wonder where they would chance upon some more, that he
speedily became as absorbed in the hunt as Amy herself, and both
wandered over the mountain in every direction.

At last the pretty little basket was filled to the top with still
prettier contents, and at the same time Fletcher noticed that the sun
was very near the tip of one of the snow mountains.

"Come, Amy," he exclaimed, "we must hurry back, or papa'll be there
before us;" and taking her by the hand, he set out for the path by which
they had ascended.

"But why can't we go down right here?" asked Amy. "It'll be such fun to
go sort o' sliding down hill."

"I guess we needn't slide," returned Fletcher, "for here's a kind of
path we can take; so now hold on to me tight, and be careful not to
slip;" and down the two started over the rough way, for the
mountain-side was covered with stones, little and big, which the feet of
the children sent rolling and crashing on ahead of them in quite a noisy

With each advancing step the path grew fainter and fainter, until it
finally disappeared entirely, and nothing was to be seen but trees and
rocks and stones.

"Shall we go back, Amy?" asked Fletcher, as they both came to a halt;
and then he added: "But no, we haven't time; so we must keep on."

"All right; but you don't think there are any snakes under these stones,
do you, Flet?"

Then they went on down again, but the way grew ever rougher and rougher,
and the stones slipped from under their tired feet more and more

"Oh dear! ain't we 'most there?" half sobbed Amy, as she stubbed her toe
against a rock in front of her, while a stone rolled down on her heel
from behind.

"I guess so. Shall I try to lift you over this place? See, there must
have been a brook here in the spring;" and Fletcher pointed out a
shallow ravine that crossed their path obliquely, and which was choked
with stones and brush-wood.

Without waiting for an answer, the kind-hearted boy threw his alpenstock
across, and then picking Amy up in his arms, started over himself. He
reached the opposite side in safety, and was about to step up to level
ground again when his foot caught under a stone, and in trying to keep
his sister from being harmed by his fall, he left no hand free with
which to save himself.

"Oh, Flet, are you hurt?" cried Amy, as she quickly scrambled to her

"Not much; only my ankle." But the "not much" proved to be a sprain
serious enough to prevent his walking a step, and after attempting to do
so once or twice, the brave little fellow was forced to fall back upon
the rocks, with an expression of pain which he could not repress.

And now the children's situation became quite a grave one. They were as
yet, as well as they could judge, a mile or more above the town, the sun
had already vanished behind the snowy peaks opposite, the autumn
twilight was rapidly closing in, and, worse than all, Fletcher could not
and Amy would not move.

"How can I go away and leave you here?" she would say when urged to
hurry back, so that father should not worry.

"But I'm all right as long as I sit still," her brother would reply.
"Besides, the sooner you go and tell them at the hotel, the quicker
they can send somebody up for me."

At length, convinced that under the circumstances this was the wisest
thing to do, Amy set bravely out, but had not proceeded more than twenty
feet before she came screaming back, declaring she had seen a snake, and
that she could never, never go on through the dreadful woods alone.

"Let me stay with you, Flet," she begged. "I'm sure when papa misses us
he'll come right up here;" and her brother, seeing she had no doubts on
this point, thought it best not to remind her that it was just as
natural to suppose that he would look in a dozen other directions for
them first.

So the two sat together there on the mountain-side, watching the stars
come out, and wondering if this was their punishment for being naughty.

But presently Amy's eyelids grew heavy again, and leaning her head
against Fletcher, she asked him to wake her "as soon as papa comes,"
when suddenly a reddish glare flashed forth out of the darkness beneath
them; portions of mountain and lake appeared distinctly as by day, while
trees and rocks and bushes stood revealed in startling vividness.

"Oh, what is it, Flet?" cried Amy, hiding her face in terror.

"Don't be afraid," he answered. "I guess it can't hurt us, whatever it

Still the boy had dreadful visions of earthquakes and volcanoes, which
he somehow imagined were much more common in Europe than in America.

And now the red light had changed to green, this in turn to blue, then
back to red again, and so on, until the brother and sister became
completely mystified.

On a sudden, while the red glare lit up everything around, there was a
sound of rolling stones, a man's voice exclaimed, "Thank God for St.
Jacques!" The next instant Mr. Hanway's strong arms were about both his

"Oh, papa, I knew you'd come!" cried Amy, joyously. "But now you must
put me down, and carry Flet, 'cause I was naughty, and he's hurt, and
all from 'sisting me."

Then the situation was explained. Two young gentlemen from the hotel
tenderly raised the helpless boy and carried him between them, and thus,
the happy father still retaining his little girl, they started down the
hill again, guided by the strange lights safely to the town.

Fletcher soon recognized in his bearers two members of the party from
the mountain-top that had been so enthusiastic at dinner, and they
furthermore told him that it was at their suggestion that Mr. Hanway had
first directed his steps to the hill-side, "for," said one, "we noticed
how eagerly your little sister listened to my cousin's description of
the wild flowers."

"And did you have those funny lights lit so's you could see us?" asked
the boy.

"Not exactly," was the laughing response. "That is the illumination in
honor of St. Jacques, whose several-hundred-and-something-or-other
birthday it is to-day, I believe."

"But how do they make the lights, and who is St. Jacques?" pursued

"They have different colored 'fires,' as the preparations are called,
which are touched off at the same instant at various points about the
lake; and as for St. Jacques, that is the same as St. James in English."

"That's what papa's queer speech meant, then, when he found us."

"And I say 'Amen' to it," returned the young man, huskily, "for I
believe we'd have gone right on past you both if it had not been for
that scarlet glow from the fête of St. Jacques."


With the exception of the elephant, the rhinoceros is the largest of all
land animals, and in point of ugliness he is quite unequalled. In
appearance he is something like an enormous pig, with a horn on the end
of his nose, and a skin so thick that a leaden rifle-ball will not
ordinarily pierce it.

But in spite of his ill-temper, of which hunters are never tired of
speaking, the rhinoceros certainly has a love of fun. An English hunter
in South Africa had gone to bed in his travelling wagon one night,
leaving his native servants feasting around the camp fire. Suddenly he
heard a terrible uproar, and looking out, discovered that a rhinoceros
was having a little fun in the camp. The air seemed to be full of tin
pans, and natives, and blankets, and fire-wood, which the rhinoceros was
tossing, and the natives, whenever they could get breath enough to
express their views of the situation, were calling for help. The hunter
did not interfere with the animal's amusement, and presently the
rhinoceros buried his horn in a red blanket, which covered his eyes and
blinded him. In this condition the beast started to run away, and as he
vanished, the hunter could hear him stumbling and knocking his head
against all the trees and nearly all the rocks in that particular part
of Africa.

On another occasion the same hunter saw a rhinoceros lying down with its
fore-legs stretched out, sleeping in the sun. Almost at the same moment
the animal awoke and looked around, as if he suspected that there might
perhaps be a man with a gun somewhere about. The hunter instantly fired,
aiming just forward of the beast's shoulder. The rifle was a very large
one, and it nearly kicked the hunter over on his back; but the
rhinoceros, without paying the least attention to the shot, sank down
again in his former position, apparently determined to renew his nap.
The hunter loaded and fired again, but the rhinoceros did not even wink.
Then two native servants crept cautiously up to see what was the matter
with the drowsy beast. He did not stir, and when they had approached
quite close to him they found that the first shot had killed him

Less fortunate was another hunter in South Africa, who shot a
rhinoceros, and fancying that he had wounded the animal mortally, left
him to die. In the course of the afternoon he unexpectedly came upon the
place where the wounded beast had concealed himself. The rhinoceros
rushed upon him, and knocked him down just as his rifle was discharged.
The hunter was not much hurt, and hastened to creep out between the
beast's hind-legs, hoping to conceal himself in the high grass; but the
rhinoceros was too quick for him. He was knocked down again; his leg
from the knee to the hip was cut open by the animal's horn, and he was
trampled upon so heavily that he felt his ribs bend under the weight. He
of course expected to be killed, but the rhinoceros, satisfied with what
he had done, did not again attack the man, who managed to drag himself
to his camp. His servant seized a gun and went in search of the
rhinoceros, and in a few moments the hunter heard a dreadful yell. Weak
as he was, he took his rifle and went to help the servant. He fired half
a dozen times at the rhinoceros, and finally saw him fall. Wishing to
make sure that the animal would do no more mischief, he walked up to the
beast, and was about to fire in his ear, when he scrambled to his feet,
and rushed after the hunter, who ran as fast as he could in his terribly
crippled condition. The rhinoceros overtook him, and just as he thought
that his last moment had come, the beast stopped and fell dead in his

As the rhinoceros does not seem to be of any use while alive, and as he
is good for food when dead, and his horn furnishes excellent ivory, the
hunters who kill him are engaged in a useful work, which is more than
can be said for all sportsmen.

[Illustration: "MY LITTLE SWEETHEART."]


One day a lonely prisoner sat meditating in his cell in the Tower of
London. He was a Marquis of Worcester, a nobleman of high rank and large
fortune, who had been imprisoned for a political offense. But he had
always been a mechanic, and had passed the happiest hours of his life in
his workshop. As he watched, sad and almost hopeless in his prison, he
noticed that the cover of a kettle that was boiling on the fire was
raised up, and that a cloud of vapor escaped.

He examined the curious fact, and at last asked himself, What is it that
lifts the cover?--what power is there hidden in the boiling kettle? It
was evidently the white vapor; it was steam. The Marquis of Worcester
had made a wonderful discovery, and when he was liberated he gave much
of his time to the study of the new power. He felt the great value of
steam to mankind; and in his work, _A Century of Inventions_, thanked
God that he had been permitted to discover one of the "secrets of

No one before him seems ever to have thought of making steam useful. The
white vapor had risen from every boiling vessel since the first use of
fire. It was familiar to the Jew, Assyrian, Greek, and Roman. A Greek
man of science was even acquainted with some of its powers, and employed
it to frighten one of his neighbors for whom he had no good-will. He
placed a boiler in his cellar, and drove the steam through pipes around
his neighbor's house, shaking it with a loud noise.

But no one had thought of confining the vapor in a pipe, and making it
labor. No one in Shakspeare's time had fancied that there was a giant
strength in boiling water; no one foresaw in 1660 that all the chief
labors of the future would be carried on by the aid of a boiling kettle.
But soon the idea suggested by the Marquis of Worcester seems to have
excited the curiosity of other intelligent men. He left no machine
behind him, if he had ever made one. His only object was to force up
water. He wrote an account of his machine in 1663, and soon after died.
In 1681, Morland used steam to raise water. Its power began to be
discovered; it would burst, it was said, a gun, and inflict serious

Next, about 1687, Papin, a French Huguenot exiled to London, almost
invented a real steam-engine. He filled a pipe or cylinder half full of
water; a piston or rod of iron rested on the water. A fire was kindled
underneath, the water boiled, the steam drove the piston to the top of
the cylinder, where it was secured by a peg or latch. The fire was then
taken away, the cold once more condensed the steam into water, the latch
was let loose, and the piston descended to its former position. Papin in
this way raised a weight of sixty pounds. He was full of ardor, believed
that he could raise ten thousand pounds, and even suggested a steamboat.

But as yet the rude machine consisted only of a pipe, a piston, and a
latch that was moved by an attendant. Soon after, in 1696, Savery
invented the first real steam-engine. It consisted of two boilers, a
cylinder, a stream of cold water to condense the steam, and was intended
to pump water into cities, houses, and ships. Savery addressed his
pamphlet describing his engine to King William, who had examined his
machine with interest at Hampton Court. In the year 1700 the
steam-engine was in its infancy.

It grew slowly. Savery's engine was improved, but was still for nearly a
century imperfect and almost useless. It could only move a piston or rod
up and down. No one had yet discovered a way to make it turn a wheel.
Until the American Revolution, and the age of Washington and Franklin,
the imperfect machine seemed of little real value.

James Watt, a young Scotch mechanic, almost made it what it is. He is
the author of the modern steam-engine. He was the son of a maker of
mathematical instruments. He was sickly, studious, and always fond of
mechanical contrivances; at six years old he is said to have worked out
problems in geometry in the sand; at fourteen he made an electrical
machine; and at fifteen, Arago tells us, studied the steam that came
from a tea-kettle, and planned some of his future labors. He was born in

His chief discovery was how to make the piston turn a wheel, and this he
did by using the crank. His machines became capable of turning mills,
moving spindles, and pumping out mines. He founded a great factory of
steam-engines that were sold all over the world; he grew wealthy,
famous, and was always benevolent. He never ceased to invent, write, and
labor, even in extreme old age, and at eighty-three produced a new
copying machine that imitated any piece of sculpture. Soon after he
died. No one has done more to add to the comfort and ease of his
fellow-men than Watt by his rare inventions.

The steam-engine is the finest example of the mechanical art. A thousand
parts make up the whole, all of which move together in harmony. The most
violent storm never disorders them. The piston moves, the crank turns,
the steam rises, and is condensed. It is nothing but the Marquis of
Worcester's kettle boiling over, Papin's rod or piston, Watt's crank,
improved by later inventors. Yet what a wonderful creature it is! how
beautiful and complete!


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





While he stood there, the wagon in which the skeleton and his wife
travelled rolled past; but Toby knew they were still sleeping, and would
continue to do so until their tent was ready for them to go into.

The carriage in which the women of the company rode also passed him, and
he almost fancied he could see Ella sitting in one of the seats,
sleeping, with her head on her mother's shoulder, as she had slept on
the stormy night when his head was nearly jerked from his body as he
tried to sleep while sitting upright.

There were but three of the drivers who had been with the circus the
year before, and after speaking with them, he stood by the side of the
road, and watched the preparations for the entrée with feelings far
different from those with which he had observed such preparations in
that dreary time when he expected each moment to hear Job Lord order him
to attend to his work.

The other boys crowded quite as close to him as they could get, as if by
this means they allied themselves in some way with the show; and when a
number of ponies were led past, Joe Robinson said, longingly:

"There, Toby, if we had one or two of them to train, it would be
different work from what it is to make the Douglass hoss remember his
way round the ring."

"You wouldn't have to train them any," began Toby; and then he had no
time to say anything more, for Ben, who had been talking with the
manager, called to him.

"Has your uncle Dan'l got plenty of pasturage?" asked Ben, when the boy
approached him.

"Well, he's got twenty acres up by the stone quarry, an' he keeps three
cows on it, and Jack Douglass's hoss. He don't count, for he's only
there till we boys have our circus," said Toby, never for a moment
dreaming of the good fortune that was in store for him.

"So you're goin' to have a circus of your own, eh?" asked Ben, with a
smile that alarmed Toby, because he feared it was a signal for one of
those terrible laughing spells.

"We're only goin' to have a little three-cent one," replied Toby,
modestly, noting with satisfaction that Ben's mirth had gone no further
than the smile.

"Two of our ponies are about used up," said the manager, "and we've got
to leave them somewhere. Ben tells me he is going to see your uncle
Dan'l this noon; so suppose you and one of these boys ride them up to
the pasture now. Ben will make a bargain with your uncle for their
keeping, and you can use them in your circus if you want to."

Joe Robinson actually jumped for joy as he heard this, and Toby's
delight spread itself all over his face, while Bob Atwood and Ben
Cushing went near the fence, where they stood on their heads as a way of
expressing their elation at thus being able to have real live ponies in
their circus.

A black pony and a red one were then pointed out for Toby to take away,
and they were not more than twice as large as Newfoundland dogs; they
were, in fact, just exactly what was wanted for a little circus such as
the boys were about to start.

Joe was so puffed up with pride at being allowed to ride one of these
ponies through the village that if his mind could have affected his
body, he would not have weighed more than a pound, and he held his head
so high that it seemed a matter of impossibility for him to see his

Very much surprised were Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive at seeing Toby and
Joe dash into the yard astride of these miniature horses, just as they
were sitting down to breakfast; and when the matter had been explained,
Abner appeared quite as much pleased that the boys would have this
attraction in their circus as if he were the sole proprietor of it.

It was with the greatest reluctance that either of the boys left his
pony in the stable-yard and sat down to breakfast, so eager was Joe to
get back to the tenting ground to see what was going on, and so anxious
was Toby to see the skeleton and his wife as soon as possible. But they
ate because Uncle Daniel insisted that they should do so; and when
breakfast was over, he advised that the ponies be left in the stable
until Chandler Merrill's pony could be removed from the pasture.

When they started down town again, Abner went with them, and it was so
late in the morning that Toby was sure the skeleton and his wife would
be prepared to receive visitors.

When Toby, Abner, and Joe reached the tenting ground, everything was in
that delightful state of bustle and confusion which is attendant upon
the exhibition of a circus in a country town, where the company do not
expect that the tent will be more than half filled, and where, in
consequence, the programme will be considerably shortened.

It did not require much search on Toby's part to find the tent wherein
the skeleton and his wife exhibited their contrasting figures, for the
pictures which hung outside were so gaudy, and of such an unusually
large size, that they commanded the attention of every visitor.

"Now I'm goin' in to see 'em," said Toby, first making sure that the
exhibition had not begun; "an', Joe, you take Abner over so's he can see
how Nahum Baker keeps a stand, an' then he'll know what to do when we
have our circus. I'll come back here for you pretty soon."

Then Toby ran around to the rear of the tent, where he knew he would
find a private entrance, and thus less risk of receiving a blow on the
head from some watchful attendant. In a few moments he stood before Mr.
and Mrs. Treat, who, having just completed their preparations, were
about to announce that the exhibition could be opened.

"Why, Toby Tyler, you dear little thing!" cried the enormous lady, in a
joyful tone, after she had looked at the boy intently for a moment, to
make sure he was really the one whom she had rescued several times from
Job Lord's brutality; and then she took him in her fat arms, hugging him
much as if he were a lemon and she an unusually large squeezer. "Where
did you come from? How have you been? Did you find your uncle Daniel?"

Her embrace was so vigorous that it was some seconds after she had
released him before he could make any reply; and while he was trying to
get his breath, the fleshless Mr. Treat took him solemnly by the hand,
and cleared his throat as if he were determined to take advantage of the
occasion to make one of his famous speeches.

"My dear Mr. Tyler," he said, squeezing Toby's hand until it ached, "it
is almost impossible for me to express the joy I feel at meeting you
once more. We--Lilly and I--have looked forward to such a moment as this
with a great deal of impatience, and even during our most prosperous
exhibitions we have found time to speak of you."

"There, there, Samuel, don't take up so much time with your long-winded
talk, but let me see the dear little fellow myself;" and Mrs. Treat
lifted her slim husband into a chair, where he was out of her way, and
again greeted Toby by kissing him on both cheeks with a resounding smack
that rivalled anything Reddy Grant had yet been able to do in the way of
cracking his whip.

Then she fairly overwhelmed him with questions, nor would she allow her
husband to say a word until Toby had answered them all. He was again
obliged to tell the story of Mr. Stubbs's death; of his return home, and
everything connected with his running away from the circus; while all
the time the fat lady alternately kissed and hugged him, until it seemed
as if he would never be able to finish his story.

"And now that you are home again, don't ever think of running away, even
though I must admit that you made a wonderful success in the ring;" and
Mr. Treat crossed one leg over the other in a triumphant way, pleased
that he had at last succeeded in getting a chance to speak.

Toby was very emphatic in his assurances that he should never run away
again, for he had had quite as much experience in that way as he wanted.
After he had finished, Mrs. Treat, by way of further showing her joy at
meeting him once more, brought out from a large black trunk fully half a
dozen doughnuts, each quite as large among their kind as she was among

"Now eat every one of them," she said, as she handed them to Toby, "an'
it will do me good to see you, for you always used to be such a hungry
little fellow."

Toby had already had two breakfasts that morning, but he did not wish to
refuse the kindly proffered gift, and he made every effort to do as she
had requested, though one of the cakes would have been quite a feast for
him at his hungriest moment.

The food reminded him of the invitation he was to deliver, and as he
forced down the rather heavy cake he said:

"Aunt Olive's killed a lamb, an' made an awful lot of things for dinner
to-day, an' Uncle Dan'l says he'd be glad to have you come up. Ben's
comin', an' I'm goin' to find Ella, so's to have her come, an' we'll
have a good time."

"Lilly an' I will be pleased to see your aunt's lamb, and we shall be
delighted to meet your uncle Daniel," replied the skeleton, before his
wife could speak; and then a "far-away" look came into his eyes, as if
he could already taste--or at least smell--the feast in which he was
certain he should take so much pleasure.

"That's just the way with Samuel," said Mrs. Treat, as if she would
offer some apology for the almost greedy way in which her husband
accepted the invitation; "he's always thinking so much about eating that
I'm afraid he'll begin to fat up, and then I shall have to support both
of us."

"Now, my dear"--and Mr. Treat used a tone of mild reproof--"why should
you have such ideas, and why express them before our friend Mr. Tyler?
I've eaten considerable, perhaps, at times; but during ten years you
have never seen me grow an ounce the fatter, and surely I have grown
some leaner in that time."

"Yes, yes, Sammy, I know it, and you shall eat all you can get: only try
not to show that you think so much about it." Then, turning to Toby:
"He's such a trial, Sam is. We'll go to see your uncle, Toby, and we
should be very glad to do so even if we wasn't going for dinner."

"Ben an' me will come 'round when it's time to go," said Toby; and then,
in a hesitating way, he added: "Abner's out here--he's a cripple that
lives out to the poor-farm--an' he never saw a circus or anything. Can't
I bring him in here a minute before you open the show?"


"Of course you can, Toby, my dear, and you may bring all your friends.
We'll give an exhibition especially for them. We haven't got a
sword-swallower this year, and the albino children that you used to know
have had to leave the business, because albinos got so plenty they
couldn't earn their salt; but we've got a new snake-charmer, and a man
without legs, and a bearded lady, so--"

"So that our entertainment is as morally effective and instructively
entertaining as ever," said Mr. Treat, interrupting his wife to speak a
good word for the exhibition.

Toby ran out quickly, that he might not delay the regular business any
longer than was absolutely necessary.

"Come right in quick, fellers," he cried, "an' you can see the whole show
before it commences."

The invitation was no sooner given than accepted, and in a twinkling
every one of those boys was inside the tent.

Toby had told Mr. and Mrs. Treat of the little circus they were
intending to have, and he introduced to them his partners in the

The fleshy Lilly smiled encouragingly upon them, and the skeleton,
moving his chair slightly to prevent his wife from interrupting him,

"I am pleased to meet you, gentlemen, principally, and I might almost
say wholly, because you are the friends of my old friend Mr. Tyler.
Whatever business relations you may have with him, whether in the great
profession of the circus or in the humbler walks of life, I am sure he
will honor the connection."

From appearances Mr. Treat would have continued to talk for some time,
but his wife passed around more doughnuts, and the attention of the
visitors was so distracted that he was obliged to stop.

"And this is Abner," said Toby, taking advantage of the break in the
skeleton's speech to lead forward his crippled friend.

Abner limped blushingly toward the gigantic lady, and when both she and
her thin husband spoke to him kindly, he was so covered with confusion
at the honor thus showered upon him that he was hardly able to say a




  Little Hans was helping mother
    Carry home the lady's basket;
  Chubby hands of course were lifting
    One great handle--can you ask it?
  As he tugged away beside her,
    Feeling oh! so brave and strong,
  Little Hans was softly singing
    To himself a little song.

  "Some time I'll be tall as father,
    Though I think it's very funny,
  And I'll work and build big houses,
    And give mother all the money.
  For," and little Hans stopped singing,
    Feeling, oh! so strong and grand,
  "I have got the sweetest mother
    You can find in all the land."



Look on your map for the Sierra Nevada, the range of mountains between
California and Nevada. On the east side of them you will find Owen's
River, running south through a beautiful valley of the same name. On
each side of this valley rises a lofty mountain range. The White
Mountains at the north end of the valley end somewhat suddenly in what
is called White Mountain Peak, more than thirteen thousand feet high.

It was in the valley at the foot of this grand mountain that I saw the
curious scene which I wish to describe to you, and which makes me think
that birds do know their old homes, and that they are ready to fight for
their rights.

In July, 1874, I stopped for a few hours at the house of Mr. Mack, who
owned a quartz mine in the neighboring mountain. As I sat on the veranda
I noticed on one of the posts a singular nest, or rather it seemed to be
a pile of nests. On examination I found that it was really made up of
eight nests, built one upon the other; and that they were of two kinds:
first one of soft materials (grass and hair, etc.), then one of mud,
then the soft nest again, then the mud, and then in the upper nest
(which was of mud) the bird which had built it was sitting on her eggs.
In answer to my questions, Mrs. Mack gave me the following account.

In the spring of 1871 a pair of linnets began building a nest in the
place which I saw. In this there was nothing uncommon. The linnets love
to be about houses, and very frequently make their nests on any exposed
beams which they can find in verandas or porches, rather than in trees
or bushes. I have seen hundreds of them in such places. This pair of
linnets quietly completed their nest, and it already held one or two
eggs, when a pair of barn-swallows arrived, and after looking at the
place, and evidently talking the matter over in their own fashion,
decided to take possession of it for themselves by driving out the
linnets, and forthwith a violent battle commenced.

[Illustration: CALIFORNIA LINNET.]

But before going further, I must stop a minute to tell you a little
about the two kinds of birds. The linnets you have probably never seen,
unless you have been in California. There they are extremely abundant:
east of the Rocky Mountains they are not found. The females, and all the
young birds until they are at least a year old, have much the look of
several species of our brown sparrows. The English sparrow, which has
become so very common in our cities and villages, gives you quite a good
idea of their size and color. The male bird, however, when in full
plumage, is very different. His head and shoulders and breast are richly
marked with crimson of a purplish hue, giving him a lively and elegant
look, decidedly different from his plainly dressed wife and children. He
is a fine singer, and it is not an unusual thing to see him in a cage,
and hear him called a California canary.

The linnets in California are not migratory; they remain through the
winter as well as the summer. The barn-swallows, on the contrary, are
migratory, just as they are here, for, unlike the linnets, they inhabit
the whole breadth of the continent. In the fall they go south, as far as
Mexico and Central America, and return in the spring all along the
Pacific coast of the United States.

Thus our pair of linnets had had time to begin their housekeeping before
the swallows arrived from the south. As I said, the swallows appeared to
hold a consultation, and then very deliberately began the fight. The
attack was resisted as stoutly as it was made, and for the whole of the
first day no material advantage was gained by either party. There was a
great amount of violent chattering, and many severe blows struck,
causing some loss of feathers; but the linnets held their ground, or
rather their nest, and when night came, the swallows retired, leaving
them in possession.

Early the next morning the contest was renewed, and all through the
forenoon it raged fiercely, with short intervals for rest, but noon had
come without any apparent results. A little after noon the swallows
suddenly, as if by agreement, flew away to the roof of an adjacent
building, as though acknowledging a defeat, and the linnets were left
once more in peace. They testified their enjoyment of the release by a
constant happy twittering; but this was not to last. After about half an
hour, the swallows, having sat without stirring all this time on the one
spot where they alighted, sprang together from the roof, and darted like
an arrow straight at the nest. The linnets were apparently taken by
surprise, and in less than two minutes they were driven out of the nest,
down upon the floor of the veranda, then upon the ground outside, and
finally, with a loss of many feathers, entirely away from the house, and
the swallows, with every demonstration of joy, took possession of the

Their conversation seemed to be very earnest, and at the same time very
cheerful, for they doubtless thought the victory was won. But what were
the linnets doing all this time? At first, for a few minutes, they were
apparently quite downcast. They hopped about restlessly and uneasily on
the bush to which they had fled, and were entirely still. After a little
while they evidently began to confer with one another, and it was plain
that the female was more energetic than the male, and was urging him to
do something which he disliked. But as might have been expected, she
carried her point. Mrs. Mack was watching them, when the conversation
came to an end.

They sat perfectly quiet for a few minutes, and then, with a dash as
savage as that of their adversaries had been before, they charged full
upon the nest, and, to their credit be it said, they won the victory.
The swallows were routed, without having time for scarcely a blow in
their own defense. They fled for their lives, and were chased off, not
only from the veranda and the house, but even from the neighborhood, and
the linnets returned in such a frame of mind that they continued the
celebration of their triumph for the remainder of the day, the male
maintaining a steady song until evening.

But alas! Though their cause was just, and they were only fighting in
defense of their home, they were defeated after all. The next morning
about ten o'clock the swallows dashed in again, and the battle raged as
fiercely as ever, and before noon the poor linnets were driven off, not
to return. They were completely quelled, and for a day or two hung about
the place disconsolately, but at the end of that time they recovered
their spirits, selected a place on the other side of the house, where
they built a new nest, and went on with their housekeeping with as much
contentment apparently as though no evil had happened.

[Illustration: BARN-SWALLOWS' NEST.]

The swallows had won their house-lot, and they speedily began to build.
The linnets' nest was beautifully made of soft grasses and hair and
other fibrous materials, and the first thing which the swallows did was
to plaster that across the top solidly with mud, so as to make a
foundation on which they could work. The barn-swallows always construct
their nests of mud, mixing with it a small number of pieces of straw or
grass. They heap up the mud until often the nest weighs as much as two
pounds, and then the hollow top is beautifully lined with soft
materials, grasses, feathers, etc., on which the eggs are laid.

These swallows went on as usual, and just as though they had not
obtained their home by robbery and violence. They reared their brood of
young ones, and in the fall all flew away to the south with the others
of their kind.

In the spring of 1872 the scene was repeated. A pair of
linnets--probably the same pair--built their nest on the same post, but
it was necessarily placed on the top of the swallows' nest of the last
year. Their work was completed just before the swallows arrived. One
pair of the latter appeared to understand that the place belonged to
them, for without any delay or hesitation they attacked the linnets
furiously, and after a conflict lasting until the second day, drove them
away, buried the soft nest in mud as before, and occupied the spot as
their home for the summer.


The same thing transpired in 1873, and when I saw the structure in 1874
it had occurred for the fourth time. The linnets had built and been
driven away, the swallows had occupied the field, and I saw the female
bird sitting quietly on her eggs in a nest which was in the summit of a
strange-looking pillar. The pillar was a rough mass, four or five inches
in diameter, and more than a foot high, composed of eight layers. The
layer at the bottom was very thin, of hair and grass, the one above it
being a solid heap of mud more than three inches thick, then a thin one
again, and so on until the swallows' nest at the top made the eighth.

You can easily see that the linnets' soft nest would be crushed down by
the great weight of mud heaped on it, and would thus make only the thin
layers as stated. It was plain that no such scene could be witnessed the
next year, for the successive building of the nests had heaped up the
mass until it almost touched the roof above it. In fact, the swallow had
barely room to creep into her nest and out of it. I saw her come and go,
and each time her back rubbed against the shingles. When she had settled
down on her eggs, she had, of course, a little more free space.

Now what do you say? Did not both the linnets and the swallows know the
old nest, and did not they consider that it belonged to them
individually, and that they were determined to occupy it because it
belonged to them, and then to fight for the possession of it if
necessary? Otherwise why should the linnets in 1872 have persisted in
building on the top of the swallows' nest? There were other posts all
around the veranda, each one of them just as good as that, so far as I
could judge, and then, too, that one was spoiled by having the nest
already there, for the linnets are not in the habit of building where
another nest has occupied the place. But no: that spot was theirs, and
they had been unjustly driven from it the year before, and they seemed
to consider that, though it was not so convenient as a dozen other
places close at hand, justice to themselves required that they should
assert their ownership. No birds with spirit could allow themselves to
be despoiled of their rightful possession in any such manner. Then
presently came the swallows, with just the same feelings, and the battle

But this brings in another question. Do birds choose their mates for
life? We have always thought that it was not so--that their partnership
lasted for but a single year. We see, however, that when the swallows
returned, they plunged into the conflict as though they both understood
it, and were interested in the ownership. It may be, however, that the
female came alone, and when she found that her house was occupied, she
said nothing until she had selected a mate, and then she informed him
that before any housekeeping could be commenced he must be prepared to
fight for his "altars and his fires," for his "hearth and home," and
so, like a dutiful husband, he toed the mark at once, and the battle

In whatever light you look at it, it is a remarkable example of the
intelligence of birds, and of their power of communicating ideas to one
another. I give you my assurance that the story is absolutely true, just
as I have written it.




Shortly after my call upon the young noblemen, father and mother
returned, but only to start off at once with Thad and me for Paris.
Remembering my experiences in Germany, and finding that the Frenchmen
were even harder to understand than the Germans, as they seemed to speak
a whole sentence just as if it were one word, I determined to be extra
careful whenever I went out.

But as I was taking my very first walk on the boulevard in front of the
hotel, a young fellow with a wild sort of expression in his eye stopped
me and began "parlez-vooing" away, with his arms flopping about like
water-wheels. Of course I thought I ought to say something, and as I
didn't know anything else in the language I replied, "Oui," which made
the young man look at me so queerly as to convince me that I must have
given my consent to do some horrible deed.

In my confusion I cried out, "Oh no, I don't mean that!" upon which the
fellow began to laugh awfully, and then it turned out that he was
English and had taken me for French. He had asked what line of omnibuses
ran nearest to the Champ de Mars, and when I answered "Yes," you can
imagine why he stared at me.

This affair having ended all right, I was thrown a little off my guard;
so when mother, who was suffering from loss of appetite, asked me to go
out to one of the suburbs and bring in a basket of fresh eggs a friend
had promised to send her, I felt no fears of any unpleasant

As I started she placed in my hands the pretty little basket with, "Now,
Max, above all things, don't drop this, and be very careful to allow no
one to touch it but yourself."

I declared I would stand by the eggs to the last, and promising to
return with them as speedily as possible, set out for Neu-- But there!
as I never could pronounce the name of the place, there's no use in my
attempting to spell it.

It was a long distance from the hotel, but as a line of street-cars ran
right past the house, and mother told me that the number was painted in
big figures on the gate post, I was not afraid of losing my way.

On reaching the car I saw that there was a crowd of people on both the
front and back platforms, and was wondering if there was any room for
me, when I suddenly discovered to my amazement that there was nobody at
all inside. I squeezed through the crowd, and presently the car started,
with six or seven persons standing on each platform, and not a soul
sitting down but myself.

I puzzled over the reason for this during the whole ride, and never
found it out until mother's lady friend, at the end of it, told me that
only half-fare was charged outside.

On hearing this, I affirmed that in my opinion the pleasure of standing
next the driver was worth double the money, and hinted that I would much
prefer returning home in that exalted locality. However, Mrs. Freemack
begged that I would not think of doing so with a basket of eggs to
guard; and after she had put on her hat and gone out to the gate with
me, to make sure the car would stop, I stepped carefully aboard and took
a seat inside. The basket I established safely on my knees, with both
arms encircling it by way of protection.

Just as we reached the city gates a man came up and got into the car. He
did not sit down, but glanced at the lady, the girl, and the soldier,
and then at--the basket on my lap. With a quick stride he placed himself
in front of me, and put out his hand to catch up the treasure in my
charge, calling upon me at the same time to _vous-vous_ something or
other, in very stern tones.

Of course no American boy was going to stand being robbed in this daring
daylight fashion without making an attempt at defending himself; so I
grasped the basket with a firmer grip, and pressed it closer to my
heart, as I cried out, "Don't touch this, if you please!"

You see, I never could remember that nobody would understand my English;
and besides, it comes a great deal more natural to stand up for your
rights in an easy language like your own.

Well, the man stood and looked at me a minute when I said that, while
the old lady, the little girl, and the soldier all moved toward me,
staring as hard as if I had suddenly been transformed into a
three-legged chicken.

"What's the matter? what do you want?" I continued, still tightly
hugging the basket.

Another outburst of French followed, in which the other three
passengers, and also the driver and conductor, joined, and I began to
grow somewhat alarmed.

Still, there were the eggs I had promised to guard, and I was determined
not to give up that basket; so I planted my arms firmly on the cover,
and sat there confronting "my man" like a dragon--at least I hope he
thought so. By this time two other men had entered the car, and my
persecutor left me for an instant to speak with them.

This was my opportunity, and with the basket still pressed close to my
breast, I sprang up and made a dash for the door. But alas! that soldier
saw me just in time to put out his foot and seek to stay my course. And
this he did most effectually; for I tripped, and fell full length to the
floor, and might have been badly hurt had not the basket acted as a sort
of cushion to receive me, for of course it went down under me.

And the eggs! There were two dozen of them, and they and I and the
bottom of the car were all "scrambled" together with a vengeance before
I got up. Oh, how I wished I was young enough to cry, as I heard the
roars of laughter!

But I had one consolation: nobody wanted to touch either me or the
basket after that, and I was left in peace to wipe off my jacket with my
pocket-handkerchief as the car rolled on its way again into Paris.

I took the basket and a few of the egg-shells home with me, where I
learned from father that there is a sort of custom-house at every gate
of the city, and that if I had only shown the man what I was carrying,
it would probably have been all right. It seems Mrs. Freemack forgot to
tell me about it.

Somehow I am not as fond of omelet as I used to be.



Perhaps the reason why rabbits are so popular with boys is that they are
something which they can attend to and care for entirely alone.

A rabbit-hutch is a simple affair, but if the animals are worth caring
for, they are worth something better than an old packing case for a
house. One of these, if water-tight, does well enough for the shell of
the hutch, but it will require some fixing up before it is ready to be
the abode of a rabbit that "knows what's what."

In the first place, as regards the floor. If this is not kept sweet and
clean, the inhabitants will be liable to disease. Let the floor slope
gently to the back of the hutch, and let it be double, so that the upper
one can be drawn out to be cleaned. This upper board should be painted
with two or three coats of paint, and every day it should be drawn out
to be washed and brushed. The advantage of the slope is that the floor
may be easily drained, and to carry off the drainage a gutter should be
placed along it. When the board is cleaned it should have a layer of
sand sprinkled over it after it has been put back in its place.

The hutch should be from thirty to thirty-six inches long, eighteen
inches wide, and about as many high. As a rabbit should not be expected
to eat in its sleeping-room any more than a human being should, the
hutch should be partitioned off by a board, leaving the sleeping-room
about twelve inches long. In this board should be a round hole large
enough for a rabbit to pass through, and protected by a door sliding up
and down in a groove.

The simplest way to make the front of the hutch is to nail strips of
wood down it, but this is not the best way. Galvanized (white) wire
netting is perhaps the best thing, and it can be bought very cheap at
any hardware store. The mesh should not be more than three-quarters of
an inch wide, or some prowling cat may get her paw into the house and do
mischief. The writer lost his first young rabbits by allowing too large
a space between the bars of his hutch. The open front of the hutch
should extend as far as the end of the living-room. The sleeping-room
should be inclosed by a solid door, opening in the ordinary way; and
inside this should be a shutter about six inches high, sliding in a
groove up and down. The advantage of this is that when the doe has young
ones you may open the door and look at them without danger of their
falling out.

The bedding should be of straw, well broken and bruised. It need be used
only in the sleeping-room, except in very cold weather, and it should be
changed at least once a week. It should always be put in dry. The hutch
should be raised about a foot from the ground.

It used to be thought that cabbage and bran were all that were necessary
for rabbits, but modern fanciers have learned better. The principal
thing in rabbit-feeding is variety, and as rabbits will eat almost every
kind of vegetable, this is easily managed.

A little book called _The Practical Rabbit-Keeper_ gives a table of diet
for a week. This is printed here, not because it need be strictly
followed, but to show what is meant by variety of feeding:

     SUNDAY.--Morning, roots and dry oats; afternoon, green food and
     hay; evening, mash of potatoes and meal.

     MONDAY.--Morning, roots, crushed oats, and tea leaves; afternoon,
     small quantity of green food and hay; evening, bread and meal mash.

     TUESDAY.--Morning, soaked oats; afternoon, roots and green food;
     evening, crusts of bread (dry).

     WEDNESDAY.--Morning, barley or wheat (dry); afternoon, roots and
     green food; evening, mash of meal and pollard.

     THURSDAY.--Morning, roots and dry oats; afternoon, green stuff and
     hay; evening, soaked pease or lentils.

     FRIDAY.--Morning, hay and roots; afternoon, green food; evening,
     meal and potato mash.

     SATURDAY.--Morning, dry oats and chaff; afternoon, green stuff and
     roots; evening, bread.

The diet given above provides for three meals a day, which makes the
rabbit appear to be a very greedy animal. But, on the contrary, it is
very dainty in its feeding, and will neither eat much at a time nor
return to that which it has left. Hence it is best to give but little at
a time, and to feed regularly. Food should be given in a trough like a
gutter, and to prevent the rabbits getting into it, it is well to fasten
wires from end to end of the trough, just far enough from the sides to
allow the rabbits to get their heads into it.

When a doe has "babies," she will eat nearly twice as much as at other
times, and she should be separated from the little ones at her
meal-times, so that she may eat in peace. The young ones may stay with
their mother for seven or eight weeks, but should then be taken away,
one at a time, and put with other young rabbits, if there are any, the
bucks and does being kept separate. The father buck will often kill the
little ones, so he should be kept apart from them.

If good care is taken of the rabbits, they will probably escape disease,
but in a long spell of wet weather, or in a sudden cold snap, "snuffles"
may make its appearance. The symptoms are like those of a severe cold
with us--running at the eyes and nose, etc. A good authority recommends
sponging the eyes and nose with warm tea, and a few drops of camphorated
spirit given twice a day.


[2] Begun in No. 132, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.


For the first ten minutes our drive was enchanting. But presently the
chatter of the others became more personal, and on subjects of which I
knew nothing. Before we reached the academy, they had begun to whisper
now and then, and I felt a little embarrassed; but this feeling wore off
under the excitement of entering the noisy lecture-room, where we took
our places with a great deal of flourish, and where a circle of Mattie's
boy friends was soon around us. Kate Rivers sat on one side of me, and
Mattie on the other, and the two leaned across me, continually chatting
on things I did not understand, while the boys now and then spoke to me
with an easy tone, half jest, half, as it seemed to me, rude

Slowly it began to come upon me that these fine friends of Mattie's
never would be ladies and gentlemen. Fine as they were, much as they
talked of "fun" they had had and were going to have, I knew they were
unlike the simple-minded, refined young people I had been among in my
quiet country home; and then I began to wish I had not come.

I was ashamed of sitting there in Mattie's finery--of being teased about
"running away," of being asked if it wasn't "too jolly to escape the
dragon," as Bob and Mattie called our dear Miss Harding, and last, but
worst of all, glancing across the crowded hall, I saw in the distance
Philip and Laura Sydney. Then they had come! The voices of my new
friends buzzed in my ears, their loud laughter was dreadful for that

I shrank back, afraid to meet Laura's gentle gaze, ashamed to have
either her or Philip see me in my borrowed plumes, and with such a

I heard Kate Rivers's voice in a whisper behind my back.

"Your _old_ muslin, isn't it?"

"Yes," was Mattie's giggling rejoinder. "She hadn't anything of her

A contemptuous "Humph!" from Bob's sister followed.

My cheeks flamed. Could I get away? No; the speeches were beginning. How
it went on for an hour I do not know. It was a dreadful period for me,
and Mattie vainly tried to rouse me. Finally I managed to say:

"Mattie, I see the Sydneys," and to my horror she answered, promptly:

"Oh, what fun! I do want to know them. Come, Cecy, after all I've done
for you, you'll have to introduce me."

"But, Mattie," I faltered, "how can I--I--"

"Nonsense!" was the retort. "Here, now, we have an intermission. Come
along, Kate, Bob; we're going over to see some friends."


How it was done I never knew, but in a few moments I was following
Mattie along a corridor, ashamed of everything about me, the more so
when we got into the side room, where she knew the Sydneys were to be
found, and I saw Laura's startled recognition of me, and Philip's
evident surprise. Mattie pushed me forward. I managed the introductions;
and, oh! what a contrast there was between the two girls! Laura's
pretty, gentle manner, Mattie's boisterous, dashing one, and Bob and
Philip looking at each other with nothing to say, while I stood back,
ashamed of my position among them all.

"We went to the school for you," Laura said, presently, "and Miss
Harding was out."

Mattie said nothing for an instant; then, with a blush, she said,
looking straight into Laura's honest face:

"Miss Harding made an exception in our favor. She refused the general

In the silence which followed this audacious speech I turned away, not
daring to meet the look Philip gave me. I stood by the window, looking
out, and while Mattie chatted on, I tried to see how this day would end.
Not that I feared Miss Harding, but that I felt I never should know how
to shake myself free of the vulgar associations in which my dear Laura
had found me; nor could I ever forget I had so placed myself that a lie
was told for my benefit. Benefit! If you could have seen me, a
miserable, unhappy little girl in borrowed clothes, standing in that
window, with a forlorn expression and tightly clasped hands, you would
not have thought there was much "fun" in this escapade, nor much
"benefit" in its results; I heard the voices in a dreamy sort of way; I
heard Philip and Laura saying they were going to take tea at Professor
Patton's--the big brick house next the academy. Then, to my surprise, I
heard Mattie say _we_ were to stay all night at the Riverses'. There was
to be a sort of party. I felt desperate. Laura and Philip said good-by
pleasantly, and I could only look at them with a piteous air of appeal.
They were gone; we were again in the lecture-room, and I had not
recovered my wits, or at least my sense of what I ought to do, until I
found myself, with the same boisterous party, driving to Mrs. Rivers's
house, half a mile from the academy.

The Riverses had a large showy house; and on entering I was received by
an overdressed stout lady, to whom all the young people talked with the
sort of rough freedom which is sometimes called "Young America," and
which so completely does away with the sacredness of "Mother."

We went upstairs to lay aside our wraps; and remembering I had left
something I needed in the hall, I ran down for it while Mattie and Kate
were busy washing their hands in the dressing-closet, chattering all the
time. As I passed a hall window I saw it had grown suddenly dark, and
that rain-drops were pattering against the pane. It was a sudden summer
storm, and I began to think of my particular dread--thunder and

I found what I wanted, and sped back; but on entering the room, I heard
my name spoken by Mattie, and stood still in a sort of nameless wonder
or dread.

"I _had_ to bring her," Mattie was saying; "I wanted to put her under an
obligation to me, don't you see, so that she wouldn't tell of different
things. I can always hold this over her. Doesn't she look horrid in my

A laugh from Kate was the answer.

"Little goose," Mattie went on, "I wish we could get rid of her. She'd
spoil any fun. I've taken to her at school because all the girls told me
she was Miss Harding's favorite, it's a good thing for me, you see."

For a moment the revelation of Mattie's real character overpowered me. I
do not remember that at first I thought of anything but that she was not
what I had believed her to be. Then mortification, fright,
tears--everything--seemed to follow, and then, in a sort of dream, I
turned and ran down-stairs and out into the rain, thinking only that I
must find Laura and ask her to help me.

I knew the way to Professor Patton's house; but long before I reached it
I was drenched through, Mattie's thin muslin being draggled and soaked
when I stumbled up against the big doorway, within which lights were
shining, and voices sounding of laughter and happy cheer.

I wondered, long afterward, what the servant thought of me, standing
there in my soaked finery. Whatever she thought, little was said. In a
moment Laura appeared from a side door, coming out with a look that went
to my heart. I tried to speak. I began to cry; then I remember moving a
little toward her, and darkness seemed to close in about me.

       *       *       *       *       *

Laura Sydney was--and is--one of those people who always know just what
to do on every occasion. So it was no surprise to me to find myself, on
coming to consciousness, warm and snug in a comfortable bed, with a tray
of tea and toast at my side, and curtains drawn about the windows, on
which the rain was beating. It took only a few words to make Laura
understand everything. She sent a message to Mattie and one to Miss
Harding, and the next day brought that kind lady to Professor Patton's
house. I was ill with a feverish cold: perhaps that is why they were all
so good to me. At all events, when I had freely confessed all of my
wrong-doing there seemed no more to be said, and the only reference made
to it was when I went home and Aunt Anna reminded me I had spoiled
Mattie's dress.

"I think, dear," she said, one morning, when we were in the garden, "you
had better send her a new one. Perhaps it would be a good idea to save
some of your pocket-money for this purpose." And very gladly I consented
to this little discipline.

Laura, who is opposite me as I write, teaching my little girl to
pronounce _f_, has just asked me if I remember how long ago all this

"Can it be fifteen years?" she says--and in my heart it seems only
yesterday, although never since have I forgotten the lesson that day
taught: that false colors never help us to be happy, and that "fun"
built up on wrong-doing never can be honest enjoyment.



  Oh, lovely days are hasting here, when Summer's tripping feet
  Will dance along the clover fields and o'er the golden wheat,
  When winds will wander through the rye, and merry brooks shall sing,
  And scarlet-vested orioles in cradle nests shall swing.

  Then up and down the sunny hills, and o'er the velvet turf,
  And where the great waves thunder in to break in foamy surf,
  You'll see the little children come, so quick to hear are they
  When Summer bids them follow her, and tells them what to play.

  She'll show them where the berries ripe are blushing thick and sweet;
  She'll lead them where the tangled boughs in fragrant arches meet;
  She'll smile when in the shady pool the little fishers dip,
  And hush the prattling breezes near with finger on her lip.

  What fun to pitch the new-mown hay, and climb the load so high
  That proudly lifts the darlings up between the earth and sky!
  What joy to build the mimic fort, and pelt it down with sand!
  What wealth to fill with buttercups each small despairing hand!

  And, oh, to toss the torn straw hat upon the shining curls,
  And after Bess and Brindle trot through pastures strung with pearls!
  What bliss and what supreme content in afternoons to lie,
  And from the hammock watch the clouds like white sails gliding by!

  Ah! sweet it is to sit and dream, my little Golden-Hair,
  And picture summer's happy days without a single care;
  For blither than your gladdest thought the summer-time will be,
  That hither comes with tripping feet to reign o'er land and sea.

[Illustration: THE POST-OFFICE BOX.]

The Postmistress would like to hear from each little reader of Our
Post-office Box who has a garden which he or she takes care of without
any help from papa, mamma, or older brothers and sisters. What have you
planted in your gardens? Which flowers are in bloom now? When do you
work in them? What do you do with your buds and blossoms? The pleasure
of having flowers to give away is very great. If you have a little
friend who is ill--too ill to see playmates, or talk, or hear merry
voices--you can show how sorry you are for Jack or Fanny, or whoever it
may be, by leaving a tiny bouquet at the door, with your love. A few
pansies, a rose-bud tied up with a couple of geranium leaves, a bunch of
mignonette or lilies-of-the-valley, do not cost much, but they show your
good-will, and cheer a sick-room with their sweet faces and sweeter

Of course you all know what Flower Missions are. There are many
suffering children in hospitals who are made very happy by the gift of
flowers, either daisies and violets from woods and fields, or roses and
lilies from gardens. Some of you, no doubt, send flowers every summer,
that poor, or sad, or sick people in the cities may be comforted by

Now remember, little gardeners, that you are to have your turn, and tell
us all about your successes and your failures.

The vegetable and fruit gardeners may speak too. Let us hear about the
lettuce, the onions, the radishes, and the strawberries. If there are
any little business men or women who earn money of their own by selling
the nice things they raise, they are invited to write and tell us how
they manage their affairs.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little boy eleven years old, and live on a farm in the town
     of Stoddard. I have a dog, and call him Jack, two nice calves, a
     very pretty lamb, four doves, and some hens. I like to attend to my
     father's stock. He keeps horses, oxen, cows, sheep, hogs, and some
     young stock. I let out the cattle to water, and tie them up again.
     When my father is away in the summer-time, Jack and I go after the
     cows. Sometimes Jack trees a woodchuck, and then he and I have a
     grand time digging him out. He and I caught twenty-one last year.
     Jack is a splendid dog. You ought to see him drive up the cows;
     they have to go home when he says so, and they will start when they
     see him coming.

     I have been making sugar for myself this spring. My father let me
     have twenty buckets, and my mother let me take her large brass
     kettle and two pots. I hung them up by a large rock, and tapped
     fourteen trees, and have made forty pounds of sugar, which I sold
     at ten cents per pound. I have bought me a pair of boots and some
     books, and have almost enough left to pay for YOUNG PEOPLE next
     year. I start to school next week.

  J. W. T.

Well done, my little man! You worked faithfully, and spent your money
very wisely. I wish you had told Our Post-office Box what books you
bought, and I hope the boots will wear well. And then you had a splendid
time making the sugar. I wish some of us had been there to help you.

If woodchucks were not such pests to the farmer, I think I would feel
sorry that Jack trees so many of them. I think I can see him bounding
along after the cows. What is your name? J. stands for Jonathan, James,
Jerome, and a number of other names; and I like my boys to send more
than their initials to me, so that I can remember them when they write

       *       *       *       *       *


     I read your Post-office Box with a great deal of interest every
     time it comes. I used to live in Kansas, and often saw prairie
     fires there, and one nearly burned up my father's hay-stack and
     barn. But we fought it, and saved them. My father and mother moved
     to these islands from there, and landed here the last day of 1878.
     We have Kanaka policemen to guard the streets, and most of the
     sidewalks are made of lava sand: some are of broken boards, and
     there is a nice stone pavement once in a long distance. So when it
     rains the sidewalks are muddy. Most of the yards are very
     beautiful. We have a nice band. They are all Kanakas except the
     leader, who is a German. They give moonlight concerts free in the
     Park several times a month, and every Saturday afternoon at half
     past four o'clock. The little Park is very nice, and has plenty of
     seats in it. I went to Hilo with my papa, and also to the lava
     flow, which is only a mile and a half from that place. It is still
     too hot to step on in some places, though the flow stopped on the
     9th of last August. When it rained you could trace it a long
     distance by the steam. I am nearly eleven years old, and go to
     school, and have not been absent or tardy this term.


When next I go to one of our Saturday afternoon concerts in Prospect
Park, I will think of you, dear, and wonder whether the bands are
playing the same airs in Brooklyn and Honolulu.

       *       *       *       *       *

     I send you some poetry my father wrote on my birthday. I live in
     Mount Vernon, a few miles from New York. We have a large martin
     box, and this spring, before the martins came, a lot of sparrows
     built their nests in it. When the martins arrived and found the
     sparrows in their house, they gave them notice to leave; but the
     sparrows fought for their place like little warriors, and the
     battle lasted a week before the brave sparrows were beaten off. I
     like YOUNG PEOPLE ever so much!



  Darling little Harry,
    Only eight years old,
  Healthy as a sparrow
    On the tree-top bold;
  Cheeks as red as roses
    By a lily laid,
  Little form as perfect
    As was ever made.

  Cunning little package
    Of brain and nerves and things,
  Wrapped up in the whitest
    And pinkiest of skins,
  Labelled "Papa's Treasure,"
    Worth its weight in gold;
  Miser-like I hug it,
    To my heart enfold.

  Would that I could keep you
    Ever young as now,
  So innocent and loving,
    With unclouded brow;
  But days speed on so fast,
    That in a few years more
  My little boy will be a man,
    That I can hug no more.

       *       *       *       *       *


     When I opened YOUNG PEOPLE yesterday, the first thing I saw was the
     picture of Toby Tyler, looking as natural as ever. If I knew Toby,
     I would tell him about my black cat, which he could have in his
     circus. It was born with hardly any tail, and what there is of it
     is crooked at the end. His hind-feet are much higher than his
     fore-feet, and he growls like a bear when we touch him; so we have
     named him Bruin. I also have a dog that Toby would like to have, as
     he can ride on the velocipede, with my sister. He can ride sitting
     in my brother's cart, with a hat on his head and a pipe in his
     mouth. His name is Tiger, and he is quite large. I should think
     that Toby had had enough of a circus, without wanting to be the
     manager of one. I hope this letter will be put in print, for I
     would like Bob Simpson to see that my cat would do as well in the
     circus as his three-legged cat with four kittens.

  IDA C.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I have been a constant reader of your paper for nearly two years,
     and like it very much. The Post-office Box has a great many
     interesting letters in it, and I have often thought I should like
     to write one myself for it. I am nearly twelve years old. I was
     born in Madura, Southern India, where my father was a medical
     missionary. Eight years ago we left India on account of father's
     health, and a short time after our arrival in America we came to
     Colorado. We have been living in Trinidad nearly four years. It is
     an old Spanish town, I don't know how old. The word Trinidad means
     the Trinity. The population of this place is made up of Americans
     and Mexicans. There are a great many things I would like to tell
     you about the Mexicans and their mode of living, but it would make
     my letter too long.


No, dear, it would not have made your letter too long, and so I shall
expect another from you before a great while, telling all that is
interesting about your Mexican neighbors.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I hope you will want to hear from a little over-flowed girl. I will
     try to tell you some of the trouble we have been in. The water came
     over our yard on the 15th of March. In a few days we had to move
     out of our kitchen and lower floor, and go upstairs. The next week
     there were three families who had to move out of their houses and
     come here. My aunty's house was seven feet from the ground, and she
     had to come here.

     They had to make platforms on their galleries and put cows on them,
     and their stable started to float off. They had to bring their
     horses into the dining-room. The gin was full of colored people,
     and the barn full of mules. I can't tell you how much we have lost.
     All our hogs were drowned; we lost many chickens; the fences and
     bridges are all gone.

     This house is like a bee-hive. There are twenty-three people in it.
     We had to put cloth around one end of the gallery for some colored
     people to live in, as our gin and barn were full.

     There has been much suffering among the old colored folks. They had
     to leave their comfortable homes, and go to the gins, without
     fires. My old black mammy came into the house with us.

     I have a fine dog named Roswell. He stands on the steps, and
     catches all the minnows that go by. I have also one of the smartest
     black-and-tans I ever saw. His name is Rover. I have a nice little
     boat that belongs to me alone, and I am learning to row. I would
     like to tell you how much my little cousins and I like this dear
     paper. How happy we are when Saturday comes--for that is the day we
     receive it--and that night mamma reads to us. But I must say
     good-by. I forgot to say how deep the water was here in our yard.
     It was six feet deep in our front yard, and eight in the back yard.


The girls and boys who have not been over-flowed as you have will enjoy
reading your description of the exciting time you have passed through. I
am afraid some of them will think it was fun to have had water so high
that Roswell could stand on the steps and catch minnows. But the people
who had to live through so much fright and danger will hope that no such
flood may ever come again.

       *       *       *       *       *


Here is a pretty story about a cat and a dog who were great friends.

Puss and Pincher ate from the same plate, and slept on the same rug.
Puss at one time had a little family of kittens, whom she kept in the
attic at the top of the house.

One morning there was a terrific thunder-storm. Pincher was taking his
ease in the parlor, and Puss was looking after her children in the

Pincher was rather afraid of the lightning, and creeping close to his
mistress, hid himself under her skirts. Presently somebody opened the
parlor door, and in came Puss, mewing very pitifully.

She came up to Pincher, rubbed her face against his cheek, touched him
gently with her paw, and then walked to the door, all of which said as
plainly as words could have done, "Come, Pincher, come and help me."

But Pincher would not go, and Puss, after trying a little longer, went
away herself.

A lady visiting at the house followed her upstairs, and found that she
had brought one kitten down and tucked it under a wardrobe. She had
probably wanted Pincher to stay with this child while she went after the
others. She brought it in her mouth to the lady, who took it in her
arms, went to the attic with Puss, where she moved the whole family away
from the window, and then sat down by them till the storm was over.

The next morning, when the kind lady opened her door to go to breakfast,
there sat Puss, who rubbed against her, purred, and showed the greatest
pleasure in seeing her. This was her way of showing her gratitude.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I thought perhaps the Postmistress would like to hear from a boy
     who lives in the far West. My brother Wroy and I earned by herding
     the money that brings to us the weekly visits of YOUNG PEOPLE, and
     we hail it with joy. Only some weeks it does not come, and then we
     wonder what can be the matter, and go home very sad. "Talking
     Leaves" is the best story I ever read. I will be sorry when it is

     Wroy and I have been practicing "spring and fall styles for boys,"
     springing from the millet stack, and falling on the millet that is
     spread out to be threshed. It is fun, and threshes the millet too.
     Papa has been away all winter, so we take care of mamma and sister
     Zella, feed and herd forty head of cattle, yoke up old Ben and Sam
     and haul wood and chips, and do whatever mamma tells us.

     Zella and I have sixteen turkeys. We want to raise two hundred this
     year. Wroy has ten Pekin ducks; they are pure white, and look very
     handsome as they swim around over our Home Lake.

     But I must close, and if this letter is published, I may write more
     of our frontier life another time.


Something wrong, we fear, about the mails in your neighborhood, Walter,
when you fail to receive your paper. We hope it seldom happens. You and
your brother are leading a very manly life, with plenty to do, to think
of, and to enjoy, and we will be pleased to hear from you again.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I thought I would write you, and tell you about my pets. I have a
     bob-tailed kitten; it was born without a tail. They are called Manx
     cats. I have a dog named Gip; he is so fat that mamma is ashamed to
     take him up town with her. I have six large dolls. One of them is
     a boy doll named Fred, after my uncle in Dakota. I had all my
     HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE bound this winter, and they make a lovely
     book. I attend a private school, and the school-room is fitted up
     beautifully, with a Brussels carpet and lace curtains.


Since you have so pleasant a school-room, I suppose you find it very
easy to study, and so make great progress. I wish a number of the little
correspondents would write about their school-rooms. I had charming
times at one to which I was sent when about eight years old. There was
no carpet. Instead of curtains, there were faded shades of green paper.
The school-master sat at a battered desk at the head of the room. On one
side were the boys, and on the other the girls. The girls used to play
at noon under a mighty oak-tree. We had picnics there nearly every day,
with oak-leaf plates and a tin dipper for a goblet. Do any of my little
friends have such picnic parties now?

       *       *       *       *       *

     I thought I would write and tell you about a pet I had; it was a
     canary-bird. It would sit on my finger when I would put it in the
     cage. Its name was Dicky. It was only a young bird, and could not
     sing very well. I am thirteen years old. I would like to exchange
     with any little girl or boy a 5-cent piece dated 1775 and a fifth
     of a Chinese penny, for the best offer.

  865 Lincoln Place, Brooklyn, N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I wouldn't cry about it, dear.
    Though things are going wrong;
  'Tis much the better way, my dear,
    To sing a little song.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am six years old to-day. I never have been to school, but can
     read some of the stories in my YOUNG PEOPLE. My mamma is giving me
     music lessons. I can sing and play a number of tunes. I like my
     paper very much.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl living in Long Valley, Mendocino County,
     California. My brother is trapping. The eagles have been killing
     father's lambs. Brother took a lamb which they had killed, set his
     trap with it, and caught the eagle. That time the lamb caught the
     eagle. I go with him sometimes to his traps to see the foxes,
     'coons, and wild-cats try to get out.

     My little brother, four years old, went with father to feed the
     hogs. Father said so much rubbish would kill them. "Well," said he,
     "papa, you won't have to shoot them so many times."

     I go to school. My mother tells me that my school days are pleasant
     days for me. I would agree with her if I had not so far to go--two
     miles over hills; and everything looks so cheerful when I start to


Perhaps you think you would rather stay at home than take that long
walk; but your mother is right. School days are very happy ones, and
your little feet skip over the two miles quickly, do they not? Have you
any little friends who go with you to school?

       *       *       *       *       *

Fred M. Dille, Greeley, Colorado, desires the name of a boy living in
Cincinnati who sent him a match-box containing fossils, shells, and
minerals, that he may send specimens in return.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

A BOY'S GRIEVANCE.--A boy of fourteen complains to us that his mother
treats him as if he were a baby. He says she forbids his going to a
certain safe and pleasant lake, to bathe or swim, and that she will not
consent to his taking trips into the country with two friends of his own
age, who are splendid fellows.

No doubt it seems to this lad that his mother is a little bit
unreasonable. But she may have a strong feeling of terror about the deep
waters of the lake which he thinks so safe, and if, as I judge from his
note, he is really a kind and manly boy, he would prefer to go without
the pleasure of swimming rather than make his mother anxious or uneasy
about him.

Ladies are sometimes more timid than there is any need to be about
places and things which boys and men consider entirely free from danger.
Yet a gentleman always prefers to yield his own wishes rather than to
let his mother or sister suffer from alarm.

As for the out-of-town trips, the mother's objection might be removed if
the boys would get some older friend to go with them. It is always well
to take the advice of mothers with regard to friends. Boys think they
can choose wisely for themselves, but they are not able, as older
persons are, to see just what companions are best for them. I do not
think you would complain of home restraints if you remembered how much
the dear mother has done for you all your life. No love is so unselfish
as a mother's, and we can not prize it too highly.

       *       *       *       *       *


     We live only nine miles from Lake George, where we go in the
     summer. There are many places of historical interest there. French
     Point, where we went last summer, used to be the camping-place of
     the French and Indians. I have an arrow-head from there, and a
     friend a spear-head. Opposite French Point, is Black Mountain, the
     highest mountain on the lake. Farther down is Sabbath-day Point,
     and Rogers's Slide, where the Rogers's Rock Hotel is. There you can
     take a carriage and go to Fort Ticonderoga. I have seen the oven
     and under-ground passage. Mamma has an old-fashioned cup with the
     fort on it. Recently, while digging for the foundation of a paper
     mill in the village, they found a cannon-ball and several other
     things. I almost feel acquainted with the Postmistress and the
     children that write to YOUNG PEOPLE.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I enjoy reading your nice stories very much indeed, especially the
     stories written by Mr. Otis. My sister Bessie and I have five hens
     and one rooster. Dora is my hen. Year before last I was sick a
     little while. That same year Dora had some little chickens. Specky
     killed some, the other hens killed one, and the cats killed all the
     rest except two. One day papa carried me out to see them; only two
     came out. I supposed the others were in the coop. The first time I
     went to feed them I was taking out their usual amount of food, when
     my sister asked me what I was getting so much for. I did not know
     until then that there were only two left. I was nine years old last
     22d of February. I have never written before, so please print this.

  MARY E. C.

You poor darling! It was too bad so many chicks were killed.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little boy seven years old. I do not go to school, but study
     at home. I can write a little, and read very well, and I read all
     about Jumbo, and I want to tell the little people a funny story
     about him. My auntie was in England, and when in the Zoological
     Gardens one day she saw Jumbo carrying many happy children about on
     his back. After a time she sat down on a bench with a lady, and had
     a biscuit in her hand. They had their faces close down over a book,
     to learn all about where to go. Presently it grew dark before them,
     and my auntie felt something strange touching her hand, and looking
     up, there stood Jumbo helping himself to the biscuit in her hand
     without any ceremony. My auntie says Jumbo had the bench all to
     himself without any delay. I like HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE so much!
     and watch for it every week.


That was very "cute" in Jumbo.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl nine years old. I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG
     PEOPLE since last January. I like it very much, and always look
     forward to Tuesday with pleasure, for that is the day I receive it.
     Most little girls tell about their pets, but I have none, because I
     have lived all my life in hotels. I am more fond of my books than
     anything else. I have one that I should think many little girls
     would like to have; it is _The History of the Bible Made Simple for
     Children_, with three hundred beautiful pictures, and I like it
     ever so much.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am an Ohio boy fourteen years of age. On my last birthday my
     parents gave me a dollar and a half, and told me to make good use
     of it. I did so by subscribing for HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. I find
     now that I could not have made a better use of it. My father is a
     physician, and I intend to be one also. I go to school every day,
     and in a few years expect to go to college.

     I will now tell you of some of my pets. First of all are my dogs,
     of which I have two. The one I call Dash is a water-spaniel, brown
     in color, with a white breast, which I call his shirt bosom. The
     other one is a Gordon setter, whose name is Duke. He is two and a
     half feet high, and from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail
     he measures four and a half feet. He is my pony in the winter
     season, and enjoys hauling me as well as I enjoy being hauled. I
     often take both dogs to the creek. They are very good swimmers. I
     have one brother ten years old, and a sister eight. My brother says
     he will be a druggist. I the doctor, and he the druggist; won't
     that be nice? My father has a drug store, and I act as clerk for
     him during vacation. When we ask sister what she will be, she says
     she will be a mamma. I have a great many other pets besides my
     dogs, but will not write about them this time.

  J. C. E. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to the
article on the "Steam-Engine," and to an interesting account by Eesung
Eyliss of some little inhabitants of the feathered world, given under
the title "Do Birds Know Their Old Homes?" Then Sherwood Ryse has some
good advice to give the boys on the treatment of "Rabbits as Pets."

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.


1.--1. Pertaining to the moon. 2. Custom. 3. Pertaining to the nose. 4.
A precious stone. 5. To lease again.


2.--1. To scratch. 2. The top. 3. A kind of fungus. 4. Things which
children like.

3.--1. A fruit. 2. To frost. 3. To obtain.

4.--1. The front. 2. A unit. 3. Clear profit.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.


1. A fuel. 2. A compound of iodine and a metal. 3. An angel. 4. An
island. 5. Fright. 6. Conclusion. 7. To idle. Primals and finals name a
mountain range of Germany.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.


1.--1. In dish. 2. Right. 3. Birds. 4. To supply. 5. In sap.

2.--1. A letter. 2. What skaters like. 3. Thoughts. 4. A doubter. 5. A
corrosive. 6. A title. 7. A letter.

3.--1. A letter. 2. A science. 3. To wither. 4. Part of the body. 5. A


4.--1. A letter. 2. An end. 3. An animal. 4. To fondle. 5. A letter.

  C. B. K. and MARY S.

5.--1. A letter. 2. A drink. 3. A girl's name. 4. A reptile. 5. A

6.--1. A vowel. 2. Finis. 3. To enrich. 4. A girl's nickname. 5. A


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.


  My first is in river, but not in bay.
    My second is in vex, but not in annoy.
  My third is in corn, but not in hay.
    My fourth is in gem, but not in toy.
  My fifth is in lady, but not in girl.
    My sixth is in screw, but not in nail.
  My seventh is in hair, but not in curl.
    My eighth is in strong, but not in frail.
  My ninth is in cripple, but not in lame.
  My whole is a poem well known to fame.


       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.

      P           F
    O A R       A L E
  P A P A W   F L I N T
    R A T       E N D
      W           T

    E R E
  C R O W D
    E W E

No. 2.

Eagle. Daisy.

No. 3.

  D efense     W hirlwind
  A ttack      E yelet
  N ight-fall  B ee-hive
  I slands     S ongster
  E choes      T omtit
  L odge       E ngine
               R idge-pole

Daniel Webster.

No. 4.

Priesthood. Piece-meal. Whitewashed Lambskin.

No. 5.

1. P-earl-s. 2. S-haw-l. 3. S-hoot-s. 4. B-arrack-s. 5. L-edge-r. 6.
T-run-k. 7 A-gate-s. 8. C-hor-d. 9. W-all-s. 10. T-angle-s.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "I. Scycle," C. B.
Kunkel, Mary Snyder, "Rose-bud," "Prince Charming," Olivia T., Benny
Rickarts, Mary Snell, Jonathan S. R., Charlie Cox, Emily R. Bennett,
Madeline Whittier, Nettie Simpson, Janet Carruthers, John Carnes, Sammie
Brown, "A Reader," "Bluebell," Maud M. Chambers, Eloise, "A. B. C.,"
Lena and Lutie, Allie E. Cressingham, Arthur B. Sinclair, "Silver Fox,"
Susan Talbot, Mamie Meeks, Amy Grace, John Robertson, Alf Sinclair,
George P. Taggart, Florence, Mabel, and Annie Knight, and Florence H.

       *       *       *       *       *

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




We have a new game, or drawing exercise, at our home nowadays, which we
call Phizo, and a good deal of amusement it causes us. We also find it
excellent practice and discipline in drawing and the study of character.
It is desirable that those engaging in this game should have some little
skill in drawing.

The way we came to try what we call Phizo was in this wise: A party of
us were sitting cosily around the library table, and papa was talking to
a literary friend about the difficulty of conveying any correct idea of
form by mere words, and consequently the almost utter impossibility of
an artist representing pictorially an author's idea by merely reading
his work. The literary gentleman seemed rather inclined to dispute this
statement, when papa said:

"Well, if I can't convince you, suppose that we try a few practical
experiments. I will draw a simple profile of a head of marked character,
and you shall describe it to those present--we can all draw more or
less--and each shall draw a face from your description without seeing
the original, and then we will compare them, and see how nearly they
approach that original."


Papa then drew the accompanying head, which the literary gentleman--whom
I may as well call Mr. Stylus--described as follows:

"Forehead large and overhanging, the upper part projecting beyond the
lower; eyes severe and deep-set; nose sharply cut, rather small, with a
slight tendency upward; mouth firm and compressed; upper lip short;
lower lip projecting; chin long and prominent; jaw square; hair brushed
back behind the ears, and rather long; head large; the whole character
refined, intellectual, and severe."

"There," said papa, "it has taken you four times as long to write your
description as it took me to make my sketch. Now let us see what idea
you have conveyed to your audience."

We all set to work at once, and made our sketches, and the accompanying
pictures show the result. When we came to compare these ridiculous heads
one with another, and then with the one originally drawn by papa, you
can imagine that we had a hearty laugh.


Of course he insisted that we had given a brilliant illustration of the
manner in which artists frequently fail in their efforts to portray the
characters that writers describe, and it was quite useless to try and
persuade him that we were not endowed with professional skill in the use
of our pencils.

Now, for the benefit of any of our readers who would like to experiment
with Phizo, I subjoin a description of a profile head which papa made,
and Mr. Stylus described as follows:

"Forehead moderately high and rather full; eyebrows distinctly marked;
eyes large, with heavy eyelids; nose high; mouth full, with corners
slightly drooping; chin full and round; hair curling on forehead, coiled
at back of the head."

Now suppose our artistic subscribers try and see what they can make of
this description.


[Illustration: AND SHE WENT.]

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