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Title: Harper's Young People, August 22, 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, August 22, 1882 - An Illustrated Weekly" ***

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       *       *       *       *       *


Tuesday, August 22, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE LITTLE SISTERS.]



Egypt is the most interesting of countries, because it is probably the
oldest. We borrow from it nearly all our arts and sciences, and have
only improved upon what the Egyptians taught us. Our alphabet and the
art of writing came from the banks of the Nile. It was carried to
Phoenicia, then to Greece and Rome, and then to Europe and America.
The Egyptians invented the lever, by which all engines are moved, and
electricity and steam made useful. Egyptian glass-makers, goldsmiths,
painters, weavers, builders and stone-cutters, miners, gardeners, and
even poets and historians, have taught their arts to all the Western
nations; Moses studied in the Egyptian colleges, and Joseph and his
father looked upon its Pyramids and temples with wonder.

The land of Egypt is a deposit of mud brought down by the floods of the
Nile from the mountains of Middle Africa. Every year the river overflows
its banks, and renews the fertility of the soil by a new deposit, and
these regular inundations have been so provided for by embankments and
canals as to be seldom dangerous. The Nile scarcely ever sweeps away the
flocks and harvests of the farmers, like the Mississippi. It would be
well if the Mississippi could be made as useful as the Nile.

This flat land of mud rests on rocks and sand. On each side of it is a
desert, bare, hot, and stifling. A desert divides it from Asia. It is
isolated from the world, and here for several thousand years the
Egyptian Pharaohs ruled over an obedient people, and their people
invented and practiced those useful arts which they were afterward to
teach to others. The first King of Egypt is supposed to have been Menes;
he reigned about 3000 B.C. Thirty-one dynasties or families of Kings
follow Menes, and the Egyptian kingdom had lasted more than two thousand
five hundred years when it was conquered by Alexander the Great. The
Assyrians, Persians, and even the Ethiopians had conquered it before,
but had been driven out by the rising of the people. For two thousand
years the Egyptians were free and united. The oldest modern kingdom
counts scarcely eight hundred years, and our own government nearly one

The Egyptians were a dark-colored race, and came probably from Asia.
They lived alone upon the banks of the Nile, shut out from the world.
All Europe was then a wilderness filled with wild beasts and a few
savage men. All was waste and desolate. The savage people who surrounded
Egypt were like our American Indians, ignorant and treacherous. Had they
been able they would have broken in upon the industrious Egyptians,
sacked and burned their cities, and robbed them of all they possessed.
They would have destroyed temples and palaces, houses and gardens, ships
and factories, and left us without any of the Egyptian inventions and
improvements. But fortunately the deserts and the sea for two thousand
years at least kept the savages away. The country grew rich and
flourishing; the banks of the Nile were lined with fine farms as fertile
as those of Kansas or Dakota. The wheat was full and white. The gardens
of Egypt produced beans, onions, cabbages, and were filled with flowers.
Countless towns and cities sprang up along the Nile. Some of them were
as large, perhaps, as Chicago or New York. The rich land swarmed with
people. The families of the Egyptians lived in comfortable houses; the
children were usually taught in the temples to read and write; all were
taught to work; they were well dressed and very neat; and when Joseph
governed the land with discretion and good sense, there was no part of
the Western world that could equal the intelligence and civilization of
Egypt. Its cities, temples, palaces, farms, and gardens were the wonder
of the ancient historians.

To-day Egypt is an impoverished country, distracted by civil war.
Alexandria, once one of the most magnificent cities of the world, lies
in ashes, and the people throughout the land are suffering all the
horrors of famine amidst their plundered and ruined homes. Long ages of
mis-rule and ignorance have brought the fruitful and prosperous land to
this terrible condition. In the days of Joseph the armies of Egypt might
have withstood the world. Now the conqueror is at her gates, disorder
rages within, and peace and prosperity can return to her borders only
under the protection of a foreign power.




There was high frolic going on in a small town of Southern France one
fine summer morning toward the end of the last century. The great local
fair, which only came once in six months, was in full swing, and the
queer little market-place of the town, with its old-fashioned fountain
in the middle, and its tall dark houses, all round, was crowded to
overflowing. Here was a juggler eating fire, or pulling ribbons out of
his mouth by the yard, amid a ring of wondering peasants. There an
acrobat was turning head over heels, and then walking on his hands with
his feet up in the air. A little farther on a show of dancing dogs had
gathered a large crowd; and close by a sly-looking fellow in a striped
frock, leaning over the front of a wagon, was recommending a certain
cure for toothache, which, however, judging from the wry faces of those
who ventured to try it, must have been almost as bad as the complaint

The chief attraction of the fair, however, seemed to be a tall, gaunt
man, with an unmistakably Italian face, who was standing on a low
platform beside the fountain. He had been exhibiting some wonderful
feats of swordsmanship, such as throwing an apple into the air and
cutting it in two as it fell, tossing up his sword and catching it by
the hilt, striking an egg with it so lightly as not even to break the
shell, and others equally marvellous. At length, having collected a
great throng around him, he stepped forward, and challenged any one
present to try a sword bout with him, on the condition that whichever
was first disarmed should forfeit to the other half a livre (ten cents).

Several troopers who were swaggering about the market-place, for there
was a cavalry regiment quartered in the town, came up one after another
to try their hand upon him. But to the great delight of the crowd they
all got the worst of it; and one might have guessed from the eagerness
with which the poor Italian snatched up the money, as well as from his
pale face and hollow cheeks, that he did not often earn so much in one

Suddenly the crowd parted to right and left as a handsome young man in a
fine gold-laced coat and plumed hat, with a silver-hilted sword by his
side, forced his way through the press, and confronted the successful

"You handle your blade so well, my friend," cried he, "that I should
like to try a bout with you myself, for I'm thought to be something of a
swordsman. But before we begin, take these two livres and get yourself
some food at the French Lily yonder, for you look tired and hungry, and
it's no fair match between a fasting man and a full one."

"Now may Heaven bless you, my lord, whoever you may be!" said the man,
fervently; "for you're the first who has given me a kindly word this
many a day. I can hardly expect to be a match for you, but if you will
be pleased to wait but ten minutes, I'll gladly do my best."

The fencer was as good as his word, and the moment he was seen to
remount the platform the lookers-on crowded eagerly around it, expecting
a well-fought bout; for they had all seen what he could do, and they now
recognized his new opponent as the young Marquis de Malet, who had the
name of being the best swordsman in the whole district.

Their expectations were not disappointed. For the first minute or so the
watching eyes around could hardly follow the swords, which flickered to
and fro like flashes of lightning, feinting, warding, striking,
parrying, till they seemed to be everywhere at once. De Malet at first
pressed his man vigorously, but finding him more skillful than he had
expected, he began to fight more cautiously, and to aim at tiring him

This artful plan seemed likely to succeed, for the Italian at length
lowered his weapon for a moment, as if his hand was growing wearied. But
as De Malet made a rapid stroke at him, the other suddenly _changed the
sword from his right to his left hand_, and catching the Marquis's blade
in reverse, sent it flying among the crowd below.

"Well done!" cried the young man, admiringly. "I thought I knew most
tricks of fence, but I never saw one like that before."

"I could teach it to your lordship in a week," said the Italian. "For a
man of your skill nothing is needed but practice."

"Say you so?" cried De Malet. "Then the sooner we begin, the better.
Come home with me, and stay till you've taught me all you know. One
doesn't meet a man like you every day."

And so for a month to come Antonio Spalatro was the guest of Henri de
Malet; and the young Marquis learned to perform the feat which had
excited his wonder quite as dexterously as the Italian himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

White lay the snow upon the fields outside the blazing city of Moscow.
The Russians had fired their own capital. The veteran bands of Napoleon
were fleeing from fire to perish amid ice and snow.

"Down with the French dog!"

"Cut him to pieces!"

"Send a bullet through him!"

A dozen arms were raised at once against the solitary man, who, with his
back against a wall, and one foot on the body of his horse, sternly
confronted them. Henri de Malet (now Colonel De Malet, of the French
Cuirassiers) was still the same dashing fellow as ever, though
twenty-three years had passed since he took his first lesson in fencing
from Spalatro, the Italian, of whom he had never heard a word all this
while. But if Spalatro was gone, his teaching was not, and De Malet's
sword seemed to be everywhere at once, keeping the swarming Russians at
bay, as it had done many a time already during the terrible retreat
which was now approaching its end.

"Leave him to me," cried a deep voice from behind; "he's a man worth
fighting, this fellow!"

"Ay, leave him to the Colonel," chorussed the Russians. "_He'll_ soon
settle his fine fencing tricks."

A tall dark man, whose close-cropped black hair was just beginning to
turn gray, stepped forward, and crossed swords with De Malet, who,
feeling at once that he had met his match, stood warily on the
defensive. The Russian grenadiers watched eagerly as the swords flashed
and fell and rose again, while the combatants, breathing hard, and
setting their teeth, struck, parried, advanced, and retreated by turns.
At length De Malet, finding himself hard pressed, tried the blow taught
him by Spalatro; but the stranger met it with a whirling back stroke
that whisked the sword clean out of his hand. Instead of cutting him
down, however, the Russian seized him by the hand with a cry of joy.

"There's but _one_ man in the French army who knows that stroke," cried
he, "and I'm glad to see you remember so well what I taught you. Now at
last Spalatro the officer can repay the kindness shown to Spalatro the
vagabond. When I came over here with the Russian Prince to whom you so
kindly recommended me, they soon found out that I could handle soldiers
as well as swords, and gave me a commission in the army, and here I am,
Colonel Spalatro, with the Cross of St. George, and a big estate in
Central Russia. Now if you fall into the hands of our soldiers you'll be
killed to a certainty, so you'd better come with me to head-quarters,
where I'll report you as my prisoner. You will be safe under my charge
until there's a chance of sending you home, and then you are welcome to
go as soon as you please."

And Colonel Spalatro was as good as his word.



A short time ago I told you something about a strange fight that took
place between a travelling beach and a river. The beach got the best of
it, and the river was obliged to turn aside, and find a way out to sea
in another direction. No doubt if there were Indians living there at the
time, they thought it a great disaster. Perhaps they were in the habit
of sailing down the river to the sea in search of fish and oysters. When
the beach closed up the mouth of the river, they thought it a strange
and terrible event. If it had happened last summer, the people who live
up the river would have called it a great calamity. The river would have
found a new outlet, and perhaps have torn up the land, swept away farms
and houses, and caused great destruction of property. There were no
farms there at the time, for it all happened a long time ago.

There are many places in the world where the sea has cast up sand-bars
and beaches, and has changed the whole face of the country. These
travelling beaches and growing sand-bars sometimes close up the rivers,
and sometimes turn bays into lakes, and these lakes in time turn into
dry land. The great South Bay, on Long Island, is one of these places
where great changes are going on; the meadow back of Chelsea Beach, near
Boston, is another.

When a beach makes trouble for a river, the river behaves very
strangely. At first it is quiet, and does not say much. It rests awhile,
as if to gain strength, and then some day it makes a grand rush, and
tries to break down the barrier the beach has thrown across its mouth.
If it fails, it turns aside and goes out another way; but it soon
settles down into a kind of sullen silence. It seems to be discouraged,
and instead of a swift and pleasant river, it turns into a sluggish
stream that does not seem to care for anything except to creep along in
a lazy fashion.

Now a great and wonderful change begins. Before, it was swift and muddy.
Now, the dull water begins to grow clearer, and the mud and fine sand in
the water sink softly down to the bottom. The water spreads wider and
wider on each side, and instead of a river running into the sea, there
is a broad pool or lagoon behind the beach. Then month by month, year
after year, the river brings down the mud and sand from the country and
drops them far and wide over the broad salt-water lake.

Perhaps the beach in cutting off the river shut in a part of the sea, so
that there are fish and oysters, sea-mosses and crabs, shut in behind
the beach. They do not seem to care. They grow all the better in the
still water, safe from those terrible waves that used to tear them from
the sand in storms. The oysters find the quiet water a good home, and
they grow there by millions on millions. As the old fellows die or are
killed by the star-fish, the young oysters build their homes on top of
the shells of their fathers. Millions of other fish, hermit-crabs,
lobsters, and clams, live and die there, and they too cover the bottom
of the lagoon with their dead shells. Thus it happens that even the
fishes begin to fill up the place by covering the bottom with their
empty houses.

Far up the river are weeds and grasses growing along the edge of the
water. They drop their seeds in the river, and the seeds float down till
they reach the smooth water behind the beach. The sea-birds find the
warm waters of the lagoon a good feeding-place, and they gather there by
hundreds. They too bring seeds from distant places and drop them here.
Perhaps in quiet corners where the water is not quite as salt as in the
sea these seeds find a chance to grow. They spring up on the banks of
mud left here by the tide. The poor things find their new home very
different from the place where they were born, and they have a hard
struggle to live. Still they make a brave fight for existence, and even
if they die, their dead stalks and leaves serve as a bed for new seeds
to live still longer another year.

Then comes another change. The sea plants growing under water find the
still water very different from the open sea where they grew before the
beach cut them off from their home. The river is all the time bringing
down fresh-water, and as the beach cuts off the sea, the water in the
lagoon begins to grow fresh. From year to year the water tastes less
like sea water, and more like river water. The poor plants were meant
for the sea, and the brackish water does not suit them. The beautiful
purple mosses, the long brown weeds, and the bright green sea-lettuce
fade and die. They fall down, and make a black mould on the bottom of
the lake. The poor fish feel it too. The clams and oysters miss the
salt-water. Then the terrible mud smothers and chokes them, and they and
the other fish die, and their empty shells cover the muddy bottom of the
still water.

All this may take years and years, yet the change goes steadily on. The
grasses grow higher, and higher, and tiny spears of marsh grass stand up
out of water where once it was quite deep. The lake is filling up, and
year by year the grass spreads over the water.


In this picture you see just such a place as this near Barnegat, on the
coast of New Jersey. The grass has already begun to form islands in the
water. The river appears to get discouraged, and wanders about as if it
did not know what to do. The grass spreads wider and wider, and the lake
begins to look like a green and level meadow. Men come in long boots
wading through the shallow water and cut the grass. When it is dried, it
is called salt hay. Cattle like to eat it, for it has a flavor of the
old, old sea that once rolled over the place.

Every year the black wet soil grows firmer. Men dig trenches through it
to let the water drain away. Along the banks of the river they pile the
black peaty sods in long rows. This makes a dike or dam to keep the
river from spreading over the grass in floods. Now the land begins to
dry very fast. Wild cranberries, "cat-o'-nine-tails," and young bushes
spring up. Perhaps a road is laid out over the meadows, and then houses
are built, and boys and girls come to live on the smooth plain that grew
out of the sea.

If you should visit the meadows at Chelsea, in Massachusetts, you would
see just such a lagoon shut in by a travelling beach. It is nearly dry
now, and in summer you will see the farmers cutting the salt grass. The
Great South Bay on Long Island is another place where the change is
going on. If you cross the Hackensack Meadows near Jersey City, you will
see the work nearly finished. This vast level plain was once all water.
The Passaic and the Hackensack rivers still wind through the level
fields, but the work has gone so far that the land is now nearly dry.
How it happened that all this great lake came to be filled up we can not
tell, but we can plainly see that it was once water and is now turning
to dry land.

How do we know all this about these meadows along the coast? Some of the
places look very nearly the same to-day as two hundred years ago. The
Indians never said that the water once flowed here. There is no record
of these things. Indeed! There are plenty of records.

In the first place, you can almost always find the beach at the outside
of the meadows. Nearly all the beaches on Long Island have meadows
behind them. There may not be a river near, but that makes no
difference, for sometimes a beach may grow across a bay between two

If we dig a hole deep down into such a meadow we may find the whole
story. First we turn up the black sod full of stems and roots of the
grass. Under this the soil is finer, for the roots and leaves have
moulded away. What's that? The spade strikes something hard. It is flat
and rough, and covered with fine black mould. Wash it well, and we find
it is a shell--an oyster shell. Strange that it should be there. Dig
deeper, and we find more, perhaps a great quantity of them, bedded
thickly one over the other. Here's the truth of the matter. This is an
old oyster bed. These oysters did not come there by chance. They must
have lived there, and as they live under salt-water, it is plain that
where we stand was once a part of the sea.

We may dig deeper, and find more records of the old lake. See those
black stones. How smooth and round they are! You remember the smooth
stones we saw rolling in the surf on the beach? We can not help thinking
that these stones were once tumbled about in the surf on some old beach.
This is the way the marsh tells its own story, and repeats the wonderful
tale of its birth from the sea.



  But your eyes are so big and so bright,
    And your spectacles frighten me so!
  And I can not remember my lesson
    When you look at me that way, you know.

  Spell "mouse," did you say? M-O-U--
    Oh, you don't know how fierce you do look!
  And I think I can see a great claw
    Sticking out from the edge of the book.

  If you only were not quite so big,
    And your nose not so pointed and queer--
  M-O-U--I don't know what comes next,
    I can not remember. Oh dear!

  I am trying to think how to spell it;
    My heart just goes thumpity-thump.
  M-O-U. Won't you wait just a minute?
    Oh, _please_ don't get down off the stump!


[1] Begun in No. 146, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.




It was some time before the canoes were ready, and in the mean time the
young canoeists met with a new difficulty. The canoe-builders wrote to
them wishing to know how they would have the canoes rigged. It had never
occurred to the boys that there was more than one rig used on canoes,
and of course they did not know how to answer the builders' question. So
they went to the Commodore, and told him their difficulty.

"I might do," said he, "just as I did when I told you to go and ask four
different canoeists which is the best canoe; but I won't put you to that
trouble. I rather like the Lord Ross lateen rig better than any other,
but as you are going to try different kinds of canoes, it would be a
good idea for you to try different rigs. For example, have your 'Rob
Roy' rigged with lateen sails; rig the 'Shadow' with a balance lug; the
'Rice Laker' with a sharpie leg-of-mutton, and the canvas canoe with the
standing lug. Each one of these rigs has its advocates, who will prove
to you that it is better than any other, and you can't do better than to
try them all. Only be sure to tell the builders that every canoe must
have two masts, and neither of the two sails must be too big to be
safely handled."

"How does it happen that every canoeist is so perfectly certain that he
has the best canoe and the best rig in existence?" asked Tom.

"That is one of the great merits of canoeing," replied the Commodore.
"It makes every man contented, and develops in him decision of
character. I've known a canoeist to have a canoe so leaky that he spent
half his time bailing her out, and rigged in such a way that she would
neither sail nor do anything in a breeze except capsize; and yet he was
never tired of boasting of the immense superiority of his canoe. There's
a great deal of suffering in canoeing," continued the Commodore,
musingly, "but its effects on the moral character are priceless. My dear
boys, you have no idea how happy and contented you will be when you are
wet through, cramped and blistered, and have to go into camp in a heavy
rain, and without any supper except dry crackers."

While the boys were waiting for their canoes, they read all the books on
canoeing that they could find; and searched through a dozen volumes of
the London _Field_, which they found in Uncle John's library, for
articles and letters on canoeing. They thus learned a good deal, and
when their canoes arrived, they were able to discuss their respective
merits with a good degree of intelligence.

The "Rob Roy" and the "Shadow" were built with white cedar planks and
Spanish cedar decks. They shone with varnish, and their nickel-plated
metal-work was as bright as silver. They were decidedly the prettiest of
the four canoes, and it would have been very difficult to decide which
was the prettier of the two. The "Rice Laker" was built without timbers
or a keel, and was formed of two thicknesses of planking riveted
together, the grain of the inner planking crossing that of the outer
planking at right angles. She looked strong and serviceable, and before
Tom had been in possession of her half an hour he was insisting that she
was much the handiest canoe of the squadron, simply because she had no
deck. The outside planks were of butternut, but they were pierced with
so many rivets that they did not present so elegant an appearance as did
the planks of the "Shadow" and the "Rob Roy." The canvas canoe consisted
of a wooden skeleton frame, covered and decked with painted canvas. She
was very much the same in model as the "Shadow," and though she seemed
ugly in comparison with her varnished sisters, Charley claimed that he
would get more comfort out of his canoe than the other boys would out of
theirs, for the reason that scratches that would spoil the beauty of the
varnished wood could not injure the painted canvas. Thus each boy was
quite contented, and insisted that he would not change canoes with
anybody. They were equally contented with the way in which their canoes
were rigged, and they no longer wondered at the confident way in which
the canoeists to whom the Commodore had introduced them spoke of the
merits of their respective boats.

Of course the subject of names for the canoes had been settled long
before the canoes arrived. Joe had named his "Rob Roy" the _Dawn_;
Harry's canoe was the _Sunshine_; Tom's the _Twilight_; and Charley's
the _Midnight_. The last name did not seem particularly appropriate to a
canoe, but it was in keeping with the other names, and as the canoe was
painted black, it might have been supposed to have some reference to her

The boys had intended to join the American Canoe Association, but Uncle
John suggested that they would do well to make a cruise, and to become
real canoeists before asking for admission to the association. They then
decided to form a canoe club of their own, which they did; and Harry was
elected the first Commodore of the Columbian Canoe Club, the flag of
which was a pointed burgee of blue silk with a white paddle worked upon
it. Each canoe carried its private signal in addition to the club flag,
and bore its name in gilt letters on a blue ground on each bow.

Where to cruise was a question which was decided and reconsidered half a
dozen times. From the books which they had read the boys had learned
that there is, if anything, more fun in cruising on a narrow stream than
in sailing on broad rivers; that running rapids is a delightful sport,
and that streams should always be descended instead of ascended in a
canoe. They therefore wanted to discover a narrow stream with safe and
easy rapids, and also to cruise on some lake or wide river where they
could test the canoes under sail and under paddle in rough water. They
learned more of the geography of the Eastern States and of Canada, in
searching the map for a good cruising route, than they had ever learned
at school; and they finally selected a route which seemed to combine all
varieties of canoeing.

The cruise was to begin at the southern end of Lake Memphremagog, in
Vermont. On this lake, which is thirty miles long, the young canoeists
expected to spend several days, and to learn to handle the canoes under
sail. From the northern end of the lake, which is in Canada, they
intended to descend its outlet, the Magog River, which is a narrow
stream emptying into the St. Francis River at Sherbrooke. From
Sherbrooke the St. Francis was to be descended to the St. Lawrence, down
which the canoes were to sail to Quebec. They wrote to the post-master
at Sherbrooke, asking him if the Magog and the St. Francis were
navigable by canoes, and when he replied that there was one or two
rapids in the Magog, which they could easily run, they were more than
ever satisfied with their route.

The previous cruises that the boys had made had taught them what stores
and provisions were absolutely necessary, and what could be spared. Each
canoe was provided with a water-proof bag to hold a blanket and dry
clothes, and with a pair of small cushions stuffed with elastic felt, a
material lighter than cork, and incapable of retaining moisture. These
cushions were to be used as mattresses at night, and the rubber blankets
were to be placed over the canoes and used as shelter tents. Although
the mattresses would have made excellent life-preservers, Uncle John
presented each canoeist with a rubber life-belt, which could be buckled
around the waist in a few seconds in case of danger of a capsize. Harry
provided his canoe with a canvas canoe tent, made from drawings
published in the London _Field_, but the others decided not to go to the
expense of making similar tents until Harry's should have been
thoroughly tested.

When all was ready, the blankets and stores were packed in the
_Sunshine_, the cockpit of which was provided with hatches which could
be locked up, thus making the canoe serve the purpose of a trunk. The
four canoes were then sent by rail to Newport, at the southern end of
Lake Memphremagog, and a week later the boys followed them, carrying
their paddles by hand, for the reason that if they had been sent with
the canoes, and had been lost or stolen, it would have been impossible
to start on the cruise until new paddles had been procured.

Newport was reached, after an all-night journey, at about ten o'clock in
the morning. The canoeists went straight to the freight-house to inspect
the canoes. They were all there, resting on the heads of a long row of
barrels, and were apparently all right. The varnish of the _Dawn_ and
the _Sunshine_ was scratched in a few places, and the canvas canoe had a
very small hole punched through her deck, as if she had been too
intimate with a nail in the course of her journey. The boys were,
however, well satisfied with the appearance of the boats, and, being
very hungry, walked up to the hotel to get dinner and a supply of
sandwiches, bread, and eggs for their supper.

Dinner was all ready, for, under the name of breakfast, it was waiting
for the passengers of the train, which made a stop of half an hour at
Newport. A band was playing on the deck of a steamer which was just
about to start down the lake, and the boys displayed such appetites, and
called for so many things, as they sat near the open window looking out
on the beautiful landscape, that they astonished the waiter.

A good, quiet place for launching the canoes was found, which was both
shady and out of sight of the hotel. It was easy enough to carry the
three empty canoes down to the shore; but the _Sunshine_, with her heavy
cargo, proved too great a load, and about half-way between the
freight-house and the shore she had to be laid on the ground and partly
emptied. Here Joe, who tried to carry the spars and paddles of four
canoes on his shoulder, found that there is nothing more exasperating
than a load of sticks of different sizes. No matter how firmly he tried
to hold them together, they would spread apart at every imaginable

Before he had gone three rods he looked like some new kind of porcupine
with gigantic quills sticking out all over him. Then he began to drop
things, and, stooping to pick them up, managed to trip himself and fall
with a tremendous clatter. He picked himself up, and made sixteen
journeys between the spot where he fell and the shore of the lake,
carrying only one spar at a time, and grasping that with both hands. His
companions sat down on the grass and laughed to see the deliberate way
in which he made his successive journeys, but Joe, with a perfectly
serious face, said that he was going to get the better of those spars,
no matter how much trouble it might cost him, and that he was not going
to allow them to get together and play tricks on him again.

It was tiresome stooping over, packing the canoes, but finally they were
all in order, and the Commodore gave the order to launch them. The lake
was perfectly calm, and the little fleet started under paddle for a long
sandy point that jutted out into the lake some three miles from Newport.
The _Sunshine_ and the _Dawn_ paddled side by side, and the two other
canoes followed close behind them.

"'Boys, isn't this perfectly elegant?" exclaimed Harry, laying down his
paddle when the fleet was about a mile from the shore, and bathing his
hot head with water from the lake. "Did you ever see anything so lovely
as the blue water?"

"Yes," said Charley; "the water's all right outside of the canoes, but
I'd rather have a little less inside of mine."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry. "Is she leaking?"

[Illustration: "SHE'S HALF FULL OF WATER."]

"She's half full of water, that's all," replied Charley, beginning to
bail vigorously with his hat.

"Halloo!" cried Joe, suddenly. "Here's the water up to the top of my

"We'd better paddle on and get ashore as soon as possible," said Harry;
"my boat is leaking a little too."

Charley bailed steadily for ten minutes, and somewhat reduced the amount
of water in his canoe. The moment he began paddling, however, the leak
increased. He paddled with his utmost strength, knowing that if he did
not soon reach land he would be swamped; but the water-logged canoe was
very heavy, and he could not drive her rapidly through the water. His
companions kept near him, and advised him to drop his paddle and bail,
but he knew that the water was coming in faster than he could bail it
out, and so he wasted no time in the effort. It soon became evident that
his canoe would never keep afloat to reach the sand-spit for which he
had been steering, so he turned aside and paddled for a little clump of
bushes, where he knew the water must be shallow. Suddenly he stopped
paddling, and almost at the same moment his canoe sank under him, and he
sprang up to swim clear of her.




"Now, Johnny, leave your saw."

"Ah, mamma, can't I just finish this bracket?"

"No, dear. All your Saturday evening's work is to be done yet."

It was hard, Johnny thought. A half-hour more would finish the beautiful
deer bracket; the scroll-saw still had the charm of novelty, and the
delicate pattern was a most attractive one. Johnny worked away harder
than ever (a way he had of delaying obedience), and was beginning to
hope he might yet complete his work, when a bright-faced little colored
girl came in. She tied on an apron, and began beating eggs into a foam,
adding a new clatter to the din made by Johnny's saw.

"Stop. Johnny, _stop_, I say!" and Johnny began moving his darling
machine back into its corner with rather an ill grace. "Well, Phrony
Jane, have you had a pleasant time?"

"Yes, 'm, splendid. Miss Lawton she's a-gwine to do lots o' nice things
this summer--gwine to hev a lawn party next week out to her uncle's in
the country for we uns."

"Who's we uns?" asked Johnny, teasingly.

"Why, her class--all o' we uns."

"Can't _I_ go, then?"

"No," said Phrony Jane, a little disdainfully; "Miss Lawton don't
approve o' boys, I guess. Ain't got a single one in her class."

"Couldn't get one," retorted Johnny, going out.

"Come back, Johnny," called his mother, "and put away your patterns, and
pick up your chips." She sat down to look over some blackberries, while
Phrony Jane, finishing her egg-beating, and relieved from the
disadvantage the noise had placed her under, resumed her talk as she set
the table for tea.

"Must 'a ben mighty sca'ce times when der was famines 'round." She
looked admiringly at a loaf of bread she was cutting into slices. "Not a
mite o' bread 'n' butter, nor beefsteak, nor canned fruit, nor nothin'.
Miss Lawton she tole us all 'bout how 'Lijah he went to a po'r woman,
'n' says he, 'Gi' me jus' a little speck o' bread,' 'n' says she, 'Bless
yer heart, mas'r, I ain't got but jus' one handful o' co'n meal, 'n'
jus' as soon as me 'n' de little chap eats dat up we's gwine to die,
sho's you live!' But says he, 'Don't ye be skairt now, aunty; you go 'n'
make some co'n-cake fer you uns, 'n' some fer me, 'n' you see ef tings
don't hold out.' An' she did, 'n' every day dere was more co'n meal in
de bar'l. Now you know, missus, dat was de Lord!"

Mrs. Dent assented.

"How d'you s'pose He done it?"

Phrony Jane looked as if she would like to know very much indeed.

"We can't tell, Phrony Jane. The Lord has His own way of doing wonders."

"'Twould be an awful handy way o' gittin' tings down to our house, whe'
de bacon 'n' molasses is all out. But, missus"--Phrony Jane now came to
help with the berries, and it was plain there was something more weighty
on her mind than bacon and molasses--"d'you s'pose 'twould do to war a
gingham dress to a _lawn_ party?" Mrs. Dent laughed.

"Why, Phrony Jane, a lawn party has nothing to do with a lawn dress. It
means a party in the open air--on the lawn. People who have pretty
grounds often give lawn parties."

"You sho' o' dat, missus? I hearn dat Phylly Jackman tell how she's
gwine to w'ar her lawn dress--all ruffles 'n' a over-skirt."

"Well, if you are anxious about it, Phrony Jane, you know I told you I'd
give you my brown lawn. Do you think you can alter it in time if I help

"By nex' Friday? Course I can." Phrony Jane's face beamed as she thus
happily arrived at what she had been aiming for.


All day long she was in such a state of delight that Mrs. Dent began to
fear that her little hand-maiden's wits were quite lost. Milk pails were
upset and dishes broken, and when the good lady saw Phrony Jane, in the
middle of the afternoon, sitting in the swing with the baby in her arms,
and singing

  "Nobody knows de trubble I hab"

at the top of her voice, she actually began to tremble lest the little
thing might meet with some dreadful accident through her nurse's wild
excitement. Toward evening, when the day's labors were ended, Phrony
Jane announced confidentially to Johnny:

"I's jus' gwine to run up 'n' tell dat Phyl Jackman _she_ ain't de on'y
one's got a lawn dress!"

Early the next morning Phrony Jane received news which struck dismay to
her heart. Her mother, living two miles away, had broken her leg by a
fall, and wanted her. Mrs. Dent packed a basket of comforts which would
surely be needed in the shiftless family, and poor Phrony Jane departed
in grief, wishing the news had not reached her until after
Sunday-school, when she might have heard more about the lawn party.

Johnny had appeared that morning with a suspicious hobble. He had
slightly sprained his foot the day before, and had avoided speaking of
it through fear of being forbidden to saw brackets, and he had used it
so imprudently as now to be unable to hide it any longer. So with a good
supply of Sunday reading, a lunch handy in case of need, and many
injunctions on the proper keeping of the day, Johnny's papa and mamma
left him, each having a Sunday-school class to attend to.

Johnny meant well, but, as is the case with some other boys, needed a
little looking after in order to carry out his good intentions. When the
stories in the papers were exhausted, and a marvellous amount of
gingerbread and milk consumed, he found that Sunday-school-time was not
yet over. Church would not be over until after twelve. Coaxing a quarrel
between the dog and cat took up ten minutes more, resulting in the cat's
springing to the top of the scroll-saw, and scattering in every
direction the pieces of work piled there, covered with a towel.

Johnny jumped to pick them up, much concerned at seeing that a slender
point of a leaf was broken off one of his pieces of fine work. He
thought it might be remedied by being rounded off with the saw. His foot
was near the treadle, and the saw almost rose and fell of itself as he
shaved the broken place. Then the other side had to be curved to make
things even. Then he happened to be just where he was when he had been
obliged to quit work the evening before. His foot did not hurt much as
still that saw seemed to cut of its own accord into the graceful leaves.
On it went, just _going to stop_ every moment, Johnny inwardly assuring
himself he never would think of doing such a wicked thing as saw on
Sunday, but still following that enticing pattern until he at last
stopped in alarm at seeing there was only one leaf more to do. It could
not make things worse to finish that. It was done, and Johnny covered
the saw feeling more guilty than ever in his life before, and hoping
mamma would not look right into his eyes when she came home.

Phrony Jane came back on Tuesday evening, her wages being important
enough in her family to lead them to try to get along without her. She
inquired anxiously about the lawn party, but Mrs. Dent, who went to a
different Sunday-school, and had not seen Miss Lawton, knew nothing
further concerning it. Phrony Jane worked hard, every spare minute at
the lawn dress, sitting up late on Thursday night, too busy to run and
ask Phylly Jackman about the party. Still no word came from Miss
Lawton, and on Friday afternoon Phrony Jane stood astounded in the back
porch as two spring-wagons passed carrying Miss Lawton's class out for
their country frolic.

"I never 'd 'a thought she'd 'a used me so dretful cruel." Poor Phrony
Jane went to her room and cried.

       *       *       *       *       *

"_You_ here, Phrony Jane?" asked Miss Lawton, in surprise, as she took
her place in class next Sunday.

"Yes, 'm. Didn't you spect me to come no more?" she asked, wondering
what could have come over her teacher.

"Why, certainly, always when you're in the neighborhood, but I heard you
had gone home."

"I did, 'm, but I come back a-Tuesday."

Miss Lawton called on Phylly Jackman next morning, and after some talk,
took her with her down to Mrs. Dent's. Johnny was still kept in by his
sprain, which, much to his mother's surprise, had been worse since she
had left him at home on Sunday to keep it quiet. Many a rueful glance
had he since cast at his saw, reflecting on the amount of enjoyment he
had lost for such a poor bit of fun, and wishing he had courage to tell

"Now, Phyllis," said Miss Lawton, after courtesies were exchanged, "I
want you to tell Mrs. Dent exactly what you told the girls about Phrony

"Well, 'm, I come here Sunday mornin' was a week, right after
Sunday-school, to see why Phrony Jane wasn't dar, 'n' when I come to de
door I hearn a noise, 'n' dar was dat sinful gal a-workin' away on de
sewin'-machine on de holy Sabba' day!" Phylly's head shook virtuously.

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Dent, in great surprise. "Did you come in?"

"No, 'm, I jus' went 'n' peeked in de winder--de w'ite curting was
pulled down, but I seen de shadder ob her woolly head on it."

"And what did you tell the girls?"

"I tole 'em dat wicked Phrony Jane was a-workin' at her lawn dress, she
felt so stuck up about, on de Sabba' day, 'n' Mis' Dent ought to send
her home, 'n' not keep no such trash about. She did, you see!" Phylly
was triumphant.

"That was the story which reached me," said Miss Lawton.

"It's a very strange one," said Mrs. Dent. "Phrony Jane left here early
on Sunday morning to go to her mother, who had met with an accident, and
Johnny was here all the time. Of course no one was at the
sewing-machine, Johnny?"

"No, ma'am," said Johnny, very positively.

Phylly was puzzled and crest-fallen, but stuck to her statement in a
stubborn fashion, which made both ladies feel out of patience with her.
Phrony Jane being called, was not informed of the dark accusation which
had been out against her, but was so cheered by her teacher's kindly
regrets for her disappointment, growing out of a misunderstanding, as to
spend no more regrets over the pleasure she had lost.

But Johnny, after this, became so woe-begone and peak-faced, was so
evidently drooping from his confinement to the house, that his mother
grew concerned. She cooked nice things for him, read to him, brought
boys to see him; but all to no effect. But when she staid at home from
Sunday-school with him, alone with her in the quiet of the Sabbath
morning, Johnny's reserve broke down, and in a great flood of
penitential remorse out came the burden on his conscience. Then
listening to his mother's words of sorrowful surprise, forgiveness, and
loving admonition, he formed earnest resolutions of never again
forgetting the sacredness of Sunday hours.

Then Mrs. Dent began to wonder over this queer unravelling of the
mystery of the sewing-machine story, laughing as she remembered the
"woolly head" that figured in it.

"No wonder Phylly was so sure poor Phrony Jane was running the machine
when she heard the roar of that saw of yours," she said, giving Johnny's
curly hair a pull.

"And you see," said Johnny, "the worst of it is, it was me that made
Phrony Jane miss going to the lawn party, and I'd like to make it up to
her somehow."

"Yes." They laid their heads together, and the outcome of it was that
Miss Lawton was spoken to, and she brought out her lively little colored
crowd one day, and Phrony Jane had a lawn party of her own--a _surprise_
lawn party, for which Johnny freely spent all his savings for candy, and
strode about with a lofty sense of having "made up" for his injury to
Phrony Jane in a most magnanimous manner.

"Why didn't you w'ar your style dress wid de ruffles 'n' over-skirt,
Phylly?" asked Phrony Jane of that young lady, observing that her attire
by no means exhibited the grandeur which might reasonably have been

Phylly had felt guilty over the result of her meddling and gossiping
about Phrony Jane. Moreover, Mrs. Dent had just explained to her the
mistake which Johnny's Sunday sawing had led her into making, and she
felt too proud at this recognition of herself as a truthful character to
feel inclined to tell any lies just now.

"Well, de fact ob it is, Phrony Jane," she whispered, confidentially, "I
ain't got no such a ting as a lawn dress--'n' it ain't got no ruffles,
nor yet no over-skirt."

[Illustration: THE FRESH-AIR FUND.]



We have in New York city a number of kind-hearted ladies and gentlemen,
who have arranged a plan by which the little girls and boys of our
streets are taken in great boat-loads to different parts of the country
round about, where they spend a week or two playing in the green fields,
eating good food and drinking rich milk, and enjoying themselves to
their heart's content, gaining meanwhile a stock of health and strength
that lasts them many days after their return to the warm city.

On a hot evening in July one of these excursions left the New York pier,
bound for the beautiful country bordering on Lake Champlain. A steamer
had been chartered for the trip as far as Troy, and from there a railway
train was to take the children to the lake.

From end to end the great boat was filled with wonder-eyed and rather
awe-stricken little girls, and somewhat subdued but mischievous-looking
boys. All of them were provided with luggage for a two weeks' stay in
the country, but there seemed to be a great difference in their ideas of
how much to bring. A little paper bag tied with a piece of string, and
an empty basket, were all one very serene-looking little fellow had
brought. Many of the girls brought their wardrobes packed in their
school satchels, and one little lass had under her arm such a box as a
gentleman's suit generally comes home in from the tailor's.

In the wistful little faces that peered out over the rail could be read
stories too sad to be more than hinted at to our young people. Here were
little girls and boys who had never felt the green sod under their feet,
nor picked a flower, but who had spent all their lives penned up in
great towering houses, their only play-ground the burning roof, a
hundred feet above the streets.

It did not take the little passengers long to get used to their
surroundings, and long before the darkness came the decks of the good
steamer _Minnie Cornell_ were alive with such pranks as only city
urchins ever think of. At nine o'clock, mattresses were spread upon the
cabin floors, and without any special preparation, except that some of
the boys took off their hats and stuffed them into their coat pockets,
the children lay down to sleep.

Long before the sun came up next morning the forward deck swarmed with
little folks eager to catch the first glimpse of green fields and blue
hills. It was here that your artist saw a bright little boy holding a
very large satchel, on which was painted in eccentric letters, "Jerry
Doyle, Avenue A." Beside him a tiny little fellow sat swinging his feet
in a very contented manner.

"Me and Tim are havin' a boss time," said Jerry. "We had a state-room on
de cabin floor, layin' crosswise on a mattress. We didn't allow any
snorin', and when any feller tried it, we hauled him round the deck by
the heels till he quit. There was a man there to see we didn't none of
us walk in our sleep. I don't believe he enjoyed hisself much."

Here Tim interrupted the thread of his brother's narrative to inquire
what that crooked thing was on the bank, and Jerry, who had been up to
Tompkins Square once, replied that it was a tree.

At Troy, four hundred and sixty-seven happy but very hungry youngsters
left the boat, and marched through the streets, like an invading army,
to a public hall, where tables loaded down with good things awaited

It would be impossible to tell whether their host, Mr. Shepard Tappan,
or his little guests, enjoyed the occasion most. I rather think that one
little fellow who climbed up on the platform, and drummed upon the grand
piano with his fists, while some of the boys pelted him with biscuits,
had the best time of all.

On the way to the dépôt, after breakfast, all the early risers of Troy
were out waiting to see the children pass by.

When the special train drew up at a little station on the shore of Lake
Champlain, a very lively gentleman, with a note-book in his hand, jumped
to the ground, followed by fifty or sixty little folks, who were no
sooner off the cars than they rushed into the field of buttercups and
daisies that skirted the track to gather bouquets.

After shaking hands very rapidly with the foremost of a group of
kind-hearted farmers who had come down to welcome their little guests,
and handing one of them a list of the children's names, the lively
gentleman was on the cars again, and the train was out of sight in a

My friends Jerry and Tim were among the number to get off at the
station, and a few days after, while riding by a fine old farm-house, I
was greeted by a "Hi, mister!" from Jerry himself.

"Me and Tim is puttin' up at this hotel," said he. "You oughter see me
apartments! Mrs. Bromley is the lady what lives here. Tim calls Mr.
Bromley 'Father.' He promised to take Tim out with him to hoe corn or
'taters, or somepin this mornin'; so as soon as breakfast was over, Tim
shoulders the hoe, and says he, 'Come, father, if you want to hoe, come
with me; you must hurry up.' Didn't they smile! Of course I don't say
nothin' to them," continued Jerry, confidentially, "but I think the milk
out here is kind of thick. We all went to church Sunday. I rode on
horseback this mornin'. The horses here is more frisky than the
street-car horses, and there ain't no lumps on their knees. There ain't
any milkmen or organ-grinders like there is on Avenue A, but I like to
wade in brooks better than our gutter."

Here a little girl came up, with a wreath of daisies around her head,
and little Tim ran round her chasing a butterfly. Jerry ran to help him,
and the happy children soon disappeared in the tall shrubbery of the



We were standing at the window watching Lion, the house-dog, burying a
bone in the dead leaves near the fence.

"Why does he do that?" asked my little cousin.

"Animal instinct," replied my father, to whom the question was
addressed. "He has more dinner than he cares to eat just now, and so
puts away some for the next time. Other animals do the same thing
sometimes. I once knew an old lady who when a child had a singular
adventure in connection with this same instinct."

Of course there was an immediate demand for the story. Father teased us
for a little while, and then he told it, as follows:

"Sixty or seventy years ago, my friend's father was a pioneer in the
region bordering on the Ohio River. He and his son were cutting wood in
the forest one day, and Polly, then a little girl of five years old or
so, was playing near them while they worked. When the time came to go
home, Polly was nowhere to be seen.

"'That's strange,' said her father. 'She always obeys so well. I don't
see how she could have strayed off.'

"'She wouldn't have gone home without telling us,' said her brother.
'Look! here's her sun-bonnet full of nuts. She must be somewhere

"They looked again and again in every direction, calling, 'Polly!
Polly!' all in vain. There were no Indians living near, but wolves and
panthers were plenty, and only the winter before the father and son had
killed two bears in an attack on the cow-house. So they began to feel
seriously alarmed.

"Presently the brother, looking anxiously about, espied an odd-looking
heap of leaves on the farther slope of the hill, where no wind could
possibly have tossed them. He went to have a closer look at it.
Carelessly throwing aside a portion of the heap, he uncovered, to his
joyful surprise, a bit of Polly's red frock.

"'Father, come here,' he called, and in a moment more they had the child
safe and sound, but fast asleep, in their arms.

"'That's strange,' said her father once more. 'John, take Polly home.
I'm going to stay here, and see if I can't find out what this means. She
never covered herself up this way, I'm certain. Come back as quick as
you can, and bring your rifle with you. Here, hand me mine before you

"So saying, he piled the leaves up neatly once more, putting a small log
of wood into the place where the child had lain. He then crouched down
behind a fallen tree near by to see what would happen.

"He did not have long to wait. John had scarcely had time to return,
almost out of breath with the haste he had made, when the soft patter of
paws was heard on the dry leaves, and they saw three gray wolves
approaching at full trot, with another slightly in advance leading the

"The wolf in front led his comrades straight to the heap of leaves, and
scratching eagerly, quickly uncovered the buried log. His dismay was
almost comical to behold. He sniffed and smelled and turned his head
this way and that in utter bewilderment. How a dainty little girl, plump
and soft, and just suited to the taste of a wolf who enjoys a good
dinner, could suddenly turn into a great uneatable log of wood was too
much for him to understand. He finally gave the problem up in despair,
and turned to his companions, cowering like a beaten hound.

"There were some sharp barks of disappointment, followed by snarls, as
the three guests, who had evidently been bidden to a feast which was not
forth-coming, expressed their indignation at the supposed hoax.

"The other wolf only whined dolefully, but in vain, for the three fell
upon him, and in less time than it takes to tell of it, tore him into
pieces, and began to devour him. They did not finish the meal, however,
for the two rifles behind the log cracked once and again, and all three
wolves lay dead beside the comrade whom they had punished so terribly.

"I have every reason to believe this story literally true," continued my
father; "and the other day I told it to Mr. E. S. Ellis, the well-known
writer of stories of Western adventure.

"'I have no doubt it happened just as you heard it,' he said. 'The
incident is uncommon, but not unknown in natural history. My grandfather
knew a lumberman who went to sleep in the woods in Northern New York,
and was awakened by a panther covering him with leaves. He lay still
till the animal got through and went off, when he jumped up and left
too. He didn't wait for the panther to come back.'"



As long ago as the days of the great Roman Empire pigeons were employed
as message-bearers. Since that time both the breed and training of
carriers have so steadily improved that to-day the accounts of their
intelligence and skill are almost marvellous.

In Belgium and Turkey, perhaps, of all the countries of Europe, the most
perfect results have been achieved, though Germany and France have
established government dépôts, educating the birds for practical use in
time of war or other necessity.

In America the carrier is used chiefly for sporting, and pigeon-racing
has become quite common. Associations have been formed all over the
country for the purpose of perfecting the stock, and having frequent
trials of speed, and so lively and wide-spread an interest is taken in
the sport that there is a general desire to know more of the birds and
the means by which their remarkable instincts are developed.

As the name implies, "homing" pigeons are birds which possess so strong
a love for home that their first impulse when free is to return there.
They are so keen of sense that they are able to find their way back even
from distances of several hundred miles, and in an incredibly short

The pigeon now known as the carrier was probably originally used for
homing. Its usefulness in that direction, however, has long since
departed; it is to-day simply a fancy bird, and a carrier by courtesy

The name "homing" is not given to any one variety of pigeons, several
kinds possessing the faculty. They are all large in frame, and resemble
the carrier in appearance, being undoubtedly descended from the same
stock. They are easily raised and easily taught, and the pleasure
derived from the teaching amply repays the little care required. A boy
can certainly find no more absorbing occupation for his spare hours, and
with a little patience can train a bird very successfully.

In the first place, the "loft," as the pigeon-cote is called, should be
lofty. The birds are very keen of vision, it is true, but so great a tax
is made upon their keenness that we should aid them all we can;
therefore build your cote so high that it can be readily distinguished
among surrounding objects.

As they are likely to return from a flight at any hour, the loft must be
so arranged as to admit the birds at all times, while egress is
permitted only at the owner's pleasure. Either or both of two very
simple devices will meet this need. One is a square opening in the roof
large enough to allow the passage within of a bird with folded wings,
but too small to permit its outward flight with wings spread. The other
is a wire drop door, which yields easily to pressure from the outside,
and falling after the pigeon has entered, keeps him a prisoner.

Having prepared the loft, in buying be careful to select only young
birds. Old ones, if good for anything, will upon the first opportunity
return to the home from which you have taken them. Remember, in
training, that the simple secret of success lies in teaching your bird
to know its home and its vicinity thoroughly.

To aid you in this, let your cote be provided with a broad wire-inclosed
ledge, from which the pigeons may have an uninterrupted view of the
neighborhood even while confined. Their education may begin as soon as
they are grown. Commence it by carrying them half a mile from home in a
covered basket, and loosing them by tossing well up in the air. If made
of the right stuff, they will rise high enough to command a good view,
then fly directly to the loft. Should any fail to do so, they are little
loss to the brood, and had far better show their uselessness at an early
stage of their training than later. So waste no time in regrets over any
such good-for-naughts; they are not worth it.

Those that return should be taken out again, the day following, about
the same distance, but in a different direction, and this process
continued until they are perfectly familiar with all the landmarks
within half a mile of home. When this has been accomplished, half the
battle is won.

The distances may then be increased, by one or two mile stages, up to
ten miles, always loosing the birds hungry. From ten miles advance by
five-mile steps to twenty-five miles, and thence by ten-mile increases
to fifty miles. Long flights must be gone over by longer or shorter
stages, depending upon the smartness of the pigeon in training. It is
almost useless to expect one to reach home over a wholly unknown route.
The probabilities are that some of the birds will fail to reach the cote
in almost every flight. This is to be expected, and the young trainer
may be reconciled to their loss by the thought that those that have
returned have proved themselves all the more worthy of his care and

Their speed is almost beyond belief, thirty, sixty, and even ninety
miles an hour being recorded of them--a rate which would carry one
across the Atlantic in three days.

Aside from the pure sport derived from their rearing, the practical uses
to which their intelligence may be put are very many.

During the siege of Paris a daily pigeon-post was established, by means
of which persons within the beleaguered city were enabled to correspond
with friends without.

The messages, were printed and photographed microscopically upon a very
thin film of paper, which was rolled in a quill, and fastened to the leg
or one of the tail feathers. At intervals numbers of the pigeons were
returned in balloons, so that constant communication was had. Country
doctors in England long employed carriers to convey medicines to distant
patients, and only a few days since it was announced that the Prussian
government had determined to make use of them in the coasting service to
establish communication with the light-ships lying off the coast of the
North Sea. Since 1876 experiments with them have been made with great
success. Such communication is of the utmost importance not only to the
light-ships themselves, but to incoming vessels that may be in distress.
Birds are being bred and trained especially for this service, and a
number have made the distance from light-ship to shore--thirty-five
miles--in thirty minutes, and that in the face of a heavy gale. News of
distress can be thus sent to the land with the greatest dispatch and
under circumstances when life may depend upon the loss of a moment; a
single "homer" may be the means of saving a crew.

At this season of the year particularly very many trials of speed are
taking place, and often birds are on the way home a number of days,
returning long after they have been given up.

Raising homing pigeons is a pursuit which all who are fond of pets must
enjoy, and one which the boys would do well to engage in.


In an old country like Japan, which has a history of two thousand years,
there must be much treasure buried in the soil. There have been
centuries of war, when people lived in continual danger of robbers or

In those times money and other valuables were often secreted in the
ground, out in the woods or meadows, or under the foundations of a
house. The death of the owner would leave the spot unknown, to lie in
obscurity forever, or to reward some accidental finder of the prize. In
almost all the old settled parts of Japan every spot of ground has been
built and burned, farmed and fought over, many times, and the discovery
of hidden treasure is a common occurrence. The Japanese government has
passed laws declaring that all such treasure belongs to the state. The
honest finder is always, however, liberally rewarded.


While living in Japan, from 1870 to 1874, I heard of several cases of
buried treasure coming to light. Some of them were old pieces of money,
like bullets, or lumps of silver and gold of all shapes, and simply
stamped in one place. The happy finder in the picture has struck upon a
mass of the thin oval gold coins called obans, which are worth from ten
to fifty dollars each in our money. Even his dog shares his glee, while
behind him is his envious neighbor, who is vexed because he did not see
the coins first.

There are many foolish persons in the United States who have spent great
labor and wasted much time to find the pots of gold which Captain Kidd
is said to have buried near the sea-shore. So in Japan: I met, while
there, several foolish people, whose whole mind was set on getting
suddenly rich by finding buried money. The amount of spade-work and
field-digging which they accomplished without any success would have
sufficed to have made good farmers of them. It is a surer thing in
Japan, as in America, to seek to find gold by steady work and a mind on
the lookout for opportunities than by digging for it at random.

The Chinese way of talking about a person who is "waiting for something
to turn up" is "sitting beside a stump, on the watch for a hare." A
farmer in ancient times was ploughing a rice field, when he saw a hare
dash itself against a stump that stood in his field; and immediately
fall dead. The foolish farmer, leaving his plough, sat down upon the
stump and waited for another hare to come and do likewise, which no
other hare was foolish enough to do.


  Do you know where the laurel climbs over the mountain
    In great blushing clusters so dewy and sweet?
  Do you know where the buttercups laugh in the meadow,
    And the daisies shine out on the edge of the wheat?

  Come wander with me in the glad sunny morning;
    I'll show you where flowers by hundreds are found;
  Some up on the hill-tops, some down in the valleys,
    And some like stars dropped on the green mossy ground.

  Do you know a wise robin with three little children?
    Could you find, safely hidden, the humming-bird's nest?
  Do you think, if you saw it, you'd guess by the color
    The flash of the tanager's beautiful crest?

  Come, I know the birdies; they sing for me often;
    They fly in and out, and don't mind me at all;
  I watch their bright eyes and their quick little motions,
    And I know when in anger or trouble they call.

  I've an armful of flowers and feathery grasses--
    I'm taking them home to my mother, you see;
  She'll help me to weave them in baskets and bunches
    For pale Susy Rice and for lame Mattie Lee.

  I'm so strong and so well, and I never am tired,
    And they are so quiet, and often in pain,
  That I'm sure they'll be glad when they hear my steps coming,
    And ask me to gather them flowers again.

[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]

A real satisfaction is afforded us in the perusal of such a note as the
following from an appreciative reader. We are very glad indeed that
while our paper delights the little ones, it also receives the cordial
approbation of their parents.


     DEAR HARPERS,--I just want to thank you for publishing HARPER'S
     YOUNG PEOPLE. Though not a youngster--in fact, my oldest son is
     nineteen, and wears a mustache--I doubt whether anybody gets more
     solid enjoyment from the periodical than I do. I am what is called
     a great reader. Even during the busiest period of my life I always
     allowed myself one hour at least per day for reading. So my
     enjoyment is not exactly that of a vacant mind. Gratefully yours,


       *       *       *       *       *


     I thought you would like to hear from a girl in Scotland who gets
     your paper, and enjoys it so much. I have had it from the first
     number. If you would like a bit of heather, I will send it to you
     when it is in bloom. The next letter I write will be in my native
     tongue--Scotch; that is to say, if you are pleased with this one.
     My best love to the Postmistress.

  A. M. G.

If by your native tongue you mean the Gaelic, I fear I will just have to
keep your next letter as a curiosity; but if the sweet Scottish dialect
which rings so tunefully through the songs of the poet Burns is what you
are thinking of, dinna forget your promise, dear bairn. And be sure you
send the bit of heather, the mere mention of which this summer day sends
my thoughts off to breezy moors and purple hills, where sheep graze and
goats scramble.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl nine years old. I have two little sisters,
     Saidie and Laura. Saidie is six years old, and Laura is four years
     old. Grandma lives with us, and teaches Saidie and me. I study
     geography, arithmetic, spelling, reading, writing, and music. We
     have a swing and a baby doll apiece. My baby is named Nellie,
     Saidie's Lily, and Laura's Annie. We have one old cat and three
     little kittens. The old cat's name is Mammy; she is mine. My
     kitten's name is Topsy, Saidie's Beauty, and Laura's Nannie. They
     don't know any tricks, but Mammy broke my cup and saucer that papa
     and mamma gave me on Christmas. I can sew very well on the machine.
     I made a dress all by myself. I am making a quilt. I hope you can
     find room for this in my dear, dear paper, as it is my first
     letter. I don't know what I would do without my YOUNG PEOPLE. I
     live in the country.


I think it must be very pleasant for three little sisters to go to
school to a dear grandma. Mammy was quite tricksy when she broke your
cup and saucer, whether she knows any tricks or not. I am always very
much pleased when I hear that little girls are learning to sew. Do you
know that thimble used to be called thumb-bell, and that those clever
people the Dutch brought thumb-bells to England with them in 1605?
Finger-cap would be a pretty name for the tiny thimble which, no doubt,
fits Bettie's rosy finger-tip to a T.

       *       *       *       *       *


     We subscribed for you again, dear YOUNG PEOPLE, and you can not
     imagine with what pleasure the first copies were received. We ran
     to meet papa on Thursday, and how we shouted when we saw that our
     books had come! But we made still more noise when we saw our old
     friends Toby Tyler and Jimmy Brown. We saw one grand improvement in
     HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and it was the Postmistress. What a dear,
     kind, patient lady she must be! We have a great many pets. Perhaps
     we would not have so many if we did not make pets out of almost
     everything; even the calves and pigs are pets. We have got a very
     cunning little kitten. She is very playful, but will not make
     friends with our dog Hunter. Do you think she could be taught to
     sit up and beg as some dogs do? Kitty _can_ sit up when she wants
     to, but it seems so easy for her to fall over. We have a pretty
     little red calf that is a pet, and we named her Baby, because she
     was smaller than any of the other calves of her age. We have a
     handsome black colt that is two years old, and he is the greatest
     pet of all. He is a little orphan. His mother died when he was a
     very young colt, and my sister and I have raised him by hand. I
     could fill a whole page telling you how cute he is, but I am afraid
     you would not want to print so much. We have not any little birds,
     but we have an empty cage, and could catch a great many wild birds
     if we wished to; but we don't think they would love us if we took
     them out of the beautiful woods and shut them in a narrow cage.
     There are a great many wild birds' nests close around here, and in
     the morning they make the woods echo with their sweet songs. In the
     winter the snow-birds come every morning for their breakfast of
     bread-crumbs; so we always have birds around us, winter or summer.
     Rosalie P.'s letter was the first I ever saw in Our Post-office Box
     written by any person that I knew. Now we will close, and, dear
     Postmistress, we hope we have not made your head ache by such a
     long chatterbox letter.


Made my head ache? No indeed; though you did make me blush when I read
those complimentary adjectives. You are quite right not to catch and
cage the wild birds, and the pets you now have are enough in number to
occupy all your spare moments. Probably you can teach kitty to beg if
you try; but is it worth while?

       *       *       *       *       *

  Polly and Patty one summer day
    To the dentist had to go,
  For the little white teeth in Polly's mouth
    Were not in an even row.
  And Patty had one that ached and hurt,
    Until she was fairly wild;
  So mother said to her two sweet girls,
    "You must each be brave, dear child!"

       *       *       *       *       *


     The Post-office Box is very interesting to us little folks, and I
     have long wanted to contribute to it, but my papa tells me to write
     only when I have something of interest to say, so I have waited
     until now. Among our many Christmas gifts this year was HARPER'S
     YOUNG PEOPLE, which has given us a great deal of pleasure; indeed,
     we are so anxious we read it together. "We" means my sister Fanny
     and myself. My little brother, three years old, saw a circus
     procession last spring, and was delighted with it. When he came
     home he said he saw "great big pigs with logs tied on in front, and
     strings fastened on behind" (meaning the elephants), and "great big
     horses with lumps on their backs" (meaning the camels).


       *       *       *       *       *


     I will tell you about our Indian excitement in Arizona last spring.
     We were living in Galeyville at the time of the Apache outbreak
     (some of you will remember the letter from there in No. 128). We
     were dreadfully frightened. We heard the firing one day when one of
     the men was shot. He went out to look for his horses, when the
     red-skins saw and killed him. We could see them (the Indians) the
     same evening as they passed just below town; they had hundreds of
     stolen horses along. At night the women and children slept in an
     adobe house which was barricaded. All the men in the camp were
     armed, and took turns at keeping guard; they expected to have a
     fight some morning at daybreak.

     My papa and another gentleman talked the matter over, and decided
     to send their families to Tucson. So we got ready very hastily, and
     on the morning of the 26th of April we said "good-by" to the dear
     old camp where we had had such good times. It was a drive of
     twenty-five miles to our station on the Southern Pacific Railroad.
     There were two ladies, five children, and five riflemen, besides
     papa, who drove. A mile out of town we came to an encampment of
     soldiers, about five hundred in number. Two companies were mounted
     and moving, and the others were drawn up in line, ready to mount;
     each man stood at his horse's head, and took off his hat as we
     passed. We boys thought it very fine. But the scouts who
     accompanied them, about eighty Yuma Indians, looked hideous in
     their war-paint. They wore but little clothing, and all had red
     turbans on to show that they belonged to the United States service.

     When ten miles from home we crossed a fresh trail, and a few
     moments later discovered a band of Indians on either side, the one
     at our right being the larger, and some two miles away. Those at
     the left--there were twenty--were nearer, and as soon as they saw
     us, wheeled about, and came dashing after us. Papa whipped Kate and
     Jennie, and they broke into a regular runaway, which lasted for a
     mile or more, the Indians, of course, gaining on us all the while,
     and soon we were almost in shooting distance. Papa then stopped the
     team to prepare for an attack, when the Indians halted, seeming to
     hold a council, then turned and rode back as fast as they had come.
     They no doubt saw we were well armed, and that they might get the
     worst of it. The large band was mostly composed of stolen horses
     without riders, but this we could not at first make out. I can
     never tell you how frightened mamma and Mrs. S. were, and how glad
     we all were to see the last of the hostiles.

     We reached the railroad without any accident, and in time for the
     train. Mamma, brother, and I were in Tucson ten days, and then came
     here to my grandpa's house. The folks here had heard that we were
     all killed. A number of papa's friends were killed, and it was a
     most dreadful time. There are now no ladies or children at
     Galeyville, nor will there be for a long time. It makes us homesick
     to think about it all. My papa came on a few weeks ago, and we
     intend to stay here all summer. This is a very pleasant town. A
     river flows through it, bordered by grand old trees and sloping
     grassy banks, and spanned by a handsome suspension-bridge. We have
     nice times riding black Charlie, my grandpa's horse.


What a jubilee there must have been at grandpa's when you arrived there
safe and sound.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I never saw a letter from this "City of the Angels," so I thought I
     would write you one. I am a little girl only ten years old, but I
     like to read. I am very glad when Tuesday comes, for that is the
     day I get the YOUNG PEOPLE. It takes a long time for the paper to
     get here, and I suppose that while I am reading this week's number
     some little girls in New York are reading the next number. I expect
     you would like to hear something about this city so far away. Here
     the weather is so very fine--just the same the whole year round. We
     do not have hot days as they do in the East, and the nights are
     always cool. The winter is the prettiest part of the year, for then
     everything is green. You ought to see the orange groves and
     vineyards. They pick oranges every day in the year. I tell you, I
     love oranges. Papa says he could catch me in a dead fall with
     oranges--whatever that is. Besides oranges, they grow lemons, figs,
     cherries, apricots, limes, walnuts, and oh, so many things! And oh,
     the roses--I do love roses so!--bloom all the time. You must not
     think that because we are so far away we do not see anything nor
     have anything that other people see and have. We have everything
     you have East. My favorite piece is "Toby Tyler." I like Our
     Post-office Box ever so much. I have no pets; but I have a nice
     doll, and a mischievous brother who is five years old. His name is


       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl ten years old. I have a little tortoise-shell
     kitten. He is so cunning! I named him Twinkletum Shine, after a
     star that was in YOUNG PEOPLE. Tell the Postmistress to tell Jimmy
     Brown to write some more. This is my second letter, but the other
     was not printed. I was so sorry!

  ELLA W. F.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl twelve years old, and have taken HARPER'S YOUNG
     PEOPLE nearly a year, and I enjoy it so much! Papa has a beautiful
     orange grove, ten miles from Tampa, and we do enjoy the oranges,
     for they are so sweet. Tampa is beautifully situated on Tampa Bay.
     We have a splendid view of the Gulf of Mexico. I have eighteen
     dolls, and a cat named Baby, who eats raw cabbage and turnips, and
     talks for his dinner. He will let me dress him up in my dolls'
     clothes, and put him in my dolls' carriage, and take him to ride. I
     had a nice dog named Spot, but some one poisoned him, and he died.
     I have only one sister, and she is older than myself. We are the
     only children. I have tried a great many of your candy receipts,
     and they have proved to be splendid. I fear my letter will weary
     you. Much love to the Postmistress.


       *       *       *       *       *


     I was nine years old on April 15. We have two cats named Jack and
     Tabby, and a dog named Franklin. He can beg, walk, fetch things,
     jump over a stick, die, and will put things down when you tell him
     to. I take music lessons, and go to school. I have all the numbers
     of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE from No. 1 to No. 144. I have a croquet
     set. The wickets are made of wire and corks. The stakes are corks,
     and for mallets and balls I have sticks and marbles. You can use it
     in the house, on the table or on the floor. We did not buy the set,
     but it was made at home. I have more than eleven dolls. I will
     mention some: Bertha King, Mary King, Eddie King, Susan Stuart,
     Nellie Stuart, Emma Stuart, Daisy Stuart, Lily King, Maud Stuart,
     Cherubina Stuart, and others. I have a brother and a sister. My
     brother is eleven years old, and my sister is sixteen.


Perhaps some ingenious boys who read Helen's letter will try to make a
croquet set like hers for their sisters.

       *       *       *       *       *


     As brother Tom takes YOUNG PEOPLE, and we like it so much on
     account of the good stories it contains, I thought I would write a
     letter to Our Post-office Box. I am eleven years old, and have been
     going to school up at Navidad to Mr. S. It is ten miles from here,
     and my older brother Tom and I come home every Friday evening, and
     go back Sunday evening. We board with our sister Irene. It is now
     vacation, and we are at home helping our papa and mamma work. I see
     so many writing about their pet cats, dogs, birds, etc. I have two
     cats, one a yellow one, and the other a white and gray; but papa
     does not like them much, especially when they come about the table.
     My business is to hunt up the hens and guineas' nests. Sometimes I
     find several dozen eggs in the same nest. I also look after the
     turkeys. We have sixty-two young turkeys, some nearly half grown.
     They go off every morning, after I feed them with clabber, to the
     millet patch and prairie after grasshoppers, and at night come home
     to roost. There are nineteen small ones that we keep in the
     yard--too small to let out yet. We also have twenty-five young
     guineas; they are small, and have to be kept in the yard. They have
     a box to roost in to keep from getting drowned when it rains.

     We have not had much rain until yesterday for a long time. Our
     garden had been parched up, but now I reckon it will revive. There
     are a great many cracks in the ground here when it gets very dry,
     large enough to put your foot in, and it is very dangerous then to
     run a horse on the prairie. I send you two Spanish butterflies
     (that is what we call them). They are the most voracious things you
     ever saw. Our railroad is completed to Victoria.


The butterflies are very handsome, and quite formidable-looking.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I have just got home from Europe. I was over there one year, so I
     became quite accustomed to it, but I like America far better than
     any other land. When we left England all you could hear was about
     the Egyptian war; it was on every tongue. England may be large and
     great, but I like Scotland best. It is so beautiful! Everywhere you
     go it is lovely, and it has such romantic old castles! And, do you
     know, I saw the place where poor Rizzio was killed. I will tell you
     how we came to go to Europe. It was my birthday, and papa asked me
     what I wanted for a present. I did not know, so I said that I would
     like to go to Europe. All our folks laughed at me, but still papa
     gave me no present. So one day our carriage stopped at the door
     just as usual, and mamma, papa, and I got in, as I thought to go
     riding; but we went down such dirty streets that they attracted my
     attention, and I asked papa about it, and he said we were going a
     new way. At last we came in sight of a large vessel. We went on
     board, for papa said he wanted to show me the _Illinois_, and as we
     stepped upon it all our friends and relations were there. They all
     kissed me in a hurry, and said, "May you well enjoy your birthday


Very few girls have had a nicer birthday present than the one your papa
gave you. What a charming surprise!

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am eleven years old, and have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for
     three years, but have never attempted to write to you before. I
     have only been going to school a year, for we have always lived so
     far out in the country that mamma has been afraid to send me so far
     from home. It is vacation now, but mine is almost spoiled by my
     having the whooping-cough, which I do not particularly enjoy. My
     sister Jessie and I often take turns riding horseback down to the
     depot to meet our papa, who comes home every evening on the
     seven-o'clock train. We spent last winter in the city of St. Louis.
     Jessie and I have each a flower bed of our own. Jessie's is in the
     shape of a letter J for her name, and has a great many pretty
     flowers in it, such as pansies, verbenas, phlox, heliotrope, and
     other plants. Mine is round, and has a great many geraniums, and in
     the centre is a plant called the hibiscus, which has a very pretty
     large red flower on it. We have a great deal of fruit now. The
     peach, pear, apple, and plum trees are so full that we have to prop
     them up with poles.


I think if one must have the whooping-cough, it interferes less with
vacation pleasures than with school duties.

       *       *       *       *       *


     I am a little girl, nine years old. We have two dogs; their names
     are Dan and Frisk. Dan is a pointer. He is very loving and full of
     fun, and if you throw a ball, he will run and bring it back to you,
     and he plays hide-and-seek as well as a little girl could. Frisk is
     a little yellow dog. He is very ugly, but very funny. While I was
     writing this letter Dan came in and jumped on the paper with muddy
     paws, so I had to copy it over.


       *       *       *       *       *


Little Jimmie Evereux stood on the pier looking at a white sail-boat
with two seats in it, and wondering if his papa would ever come and give
him the long-looked-forward-to first ride in it. Jimmie had on his new
blue sailor suit, and it was no wonder that passers-by looked with
interest at the "blue-eyed laddie," who had waited so patiently for half
an hour. But all things come to an end at last, and Jimmie's patience
was no exception. After a long look up and down the shore, Jimmie
crossed the street and went up the walk toward the pretty cottage where
he and his mamma and papa and auntie lived all summer.

Mamma and auntie sat on the piazza, sewing and talking. Said mamma:

"Mrs. Gray has been ill, I hear. I pity her so much! She doesn't seem to
enjoy life one bit."

"Oh, I don't know," said auntie. "Perhaps she needs rest. Why not invite
her out here for a little while?"

"I'll let her ride in the new boat," said Jimmie, anxious to be good to
Mrs. Gray.

"You wouldn't the first time, would you?" said auntie.

"Y--yes," said Jimmie. "Only--well, she isn't here."

"Jimmie," said mamma, "go down to the post-office and see if there's a
letter from grandma there."

"I'm afraid papa will come."

"Well, what if he does? You won't be long."

"All right, then," said Jimmie; and away he went.

At the post-office was a letter for auntie, a paper for mamma, his own
HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and the _Daily News_. Jimmie started home gayly;
but when he reached the gate, his joy turned to sorrow, for Mrs. Gray
sat on the piazza. Papa beckoned to Jimmie, who followed him into the

"Jimmie," said papa, "will you give up your sail-boat ride to Mrs.

"Oh, papa!" Then, after thinking a minute: "Yes, I will."

"That's my good little boy," said papa; and in a few minutes they were

Jimmie soon forgot his disappointment in laughing over "Mr. Stubbs's
Brother," and mamma helped to console him by a little gold dollar from

  A. R. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

Frank R. writes about his dog Prince, who protects the chickens against
cats, and helps his master catch them when they run away. Ernest D.
tells about the quartz mines near his home in California. Richard H. has
a dog named Flora, a Newfoundland. This splendid animal weighs 100
pounds, and, harnessed to the baby's carriage, draws that little lady
about the town. Thomas M. has a calf which is pure white except its
ears, nose, and legs above the hoof, which are red. Alice F. must write
a longer letter next time. Jimmie R. has five hives of bees, two Italian
and three hybrid, and is very successful in getting large quantities of
honey. This Jimmie sends his regards to Jimmy Brown. Winifred C. has a
good time practicing with her bow and arrows, and riding her gentle
horse Ned. Lillie C., L. C. L., Willie B., and a great many more girls
and boys are enjoying this vacation very much. The Postmistress sends
her love to all her correspondents. She often wonders what this and that
one is doing, and the little fishermen, apple-gatherers, bee-keepers,
and home-helpers have her good wishes. Write again, little fingers, and
don't be discouraged, even though Our Post-office Box does not print
your letters.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.


"So that things are done," says Theo, "it does not matter how they are

The Postmistress differs with you, Theo. There are kind-hearted people
in this world who spoil the effect of their best actions by cross or
surly manners. The most beautiful gift will not please you if thrown in
your face. Gifts are valued for the love they signify, and so they need
loving looks and words to make them welcome. I have seen a family of
young people perfectly devoted to an auntie who never did anything for
them except tell them stories, show them her curiosities and treasures,
and listen to their perplexities; and they were not in the least fond of
another auntie, whose money was spent freely for them. She bought them
new dresses and bonnets, sent the boys on vacation trips, and often took
the girls to see pictures and hear fine music, yet they did not love

The aunt who did so much that was kind had a habit of constantly
snubbing her nieces and nephews. If they made a mistake, she spoke of it
publicly. If a reproof was given, it was in the severest terms. Her face
wore a frown most of the time, and she made everybody around her
uncomfortable. And so, though her poor heart was hungry for affection,
she got only a crumb of it, while the happy, merry, fun-loving auntie
had a whole feast.

Many of you are taking piano lessons. If you are in company, and are
asked to play, consent without waiting to be coaxed. If you intend to
sing your new song, or perform your last piece, you will do so
gracefully by beginning at once without persuasion. If you must decline,
let it be because you feel that you do not play well enough to give
pleasure to the listeners. Do not, of all things, say, with a little
toss of the head and pout of the lips, "I can not play on any piano but
my own." That is very ungracious as well as ungraceful, and besides,
like most impoliteness, it hurts the feelings of others.

When you have a friend to entertain, let nothing that you do for him or
her appear to give you trouble. Keep your difficulties out of sight, and
let only the pleasant things come to the front. Watch mamma when she has
guests, and you will observe that she never makes a fuss, nor seems to
be in a flutter, and still she takes care of them, consults their
wishes, and forgets nothing which can add to their happiness while under
her roof.

You will learn how to do it, whatever _it_ may stand for, by imitating
your mother. Don't you think so?

       *       *       *       *       *

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. to the article on
"Egyptian History," and to "A River Gets Into Trouble," by Charles
Barnard. The boys will be specially interested in an article on "Homing
Pigeons," by Mr. C. W. Fisher.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.


1.--1. A letter. 2. Part of a fish. 3. A finger. 4. A point. 5. A

2.--1. A letter. 2. A small cushion. 3. Relating to ships. 4. A boy's
name. 5. A letter.

3.--1. A letter. 2. A plug. 3. Savory. 4. A trap. 5. A letter.

4.--1. A letter. 2. To caress. 3. Purport. 4. Fashion. 5. A letter.


5.--1. A letter. 2. Not young. 3. Glitter. 4. Parched. 5. A letter.

  S. X.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

1. A monkey. 2. A pronoun. 3. To bind. 4. Cunning. 5. A month. 6. A
girl's name. 7. A color. 8. Sick. 9. To discover. 10. Timid. 11. A
falsehood. 12. A period of time. Centrals spell the name of an important
city of the United States.


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.


1. To kill. 2. Part of the dress of a Roman citizen. 3. Frugal. 4. To
complete. 5. To dissolve. Primals and finals compose the name of a


       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.


My first is one hundred. My second is nothing. My third is twice
yourself. My fourth is fifty. My whole is a monk's hood.

  W. C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. 1.

  H oo F
  A rn O
  R ea R
  T oa D

No. 2.

  S A I D
  A L T O
  I T E M
  D O M E

  P A T   O W L   T U B
  A I R   W Y E   U S E
  T R Y   L E T   B E E

No. 3.

    H O G
  V O W E L
    G E T

No. 4.

Toby Tyler. Tower of Babel.

       *       *       *       *       *

Answer to Pictorial Puzzle on page 656--Skipper, Beetle, Walking-stick,
Spider, Cricket.

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Josephine Chesley,
Charlie Schilling, "Eureka," A. B. Sinclair, Mary B. Breed, Lulie,
Howard O. Smith, John Wallis Clearman, "Sunshade," May Worthington, "I.
Scycle," "Ed. U. Cation," James Tipton, Harry Johnston, Arthur Slade,
Royal Thompson, Van Dyke Forester, E. G. F., Maggie Simmons, "Fuss and
Feathers," Isabella Niven, Richard Winn Courts, Effie R., Kate Marshall,
Lillie Clark, Carrie E. Howard, John A. Staats, Walter Brainerd, Eddie
S. Hequembourg, Philip McLaun, H. Van Horn, D. C. Wolcott, "Fidelie,"
Addie and Arthur S., Maggie and Rosa B., Alice Comstock, M. F., J.
Payson, Hugh McIntosh, Ada Wheeler, Rosa R., Jack, Fred Smith, and

       *       *       *       *       *

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


  Take the moon from out the sky,
  And the same then so apply
  That you will see what this saucy puss
  Is giving to her cousin Gus.

       *       *       *       *       *


I am older than the Pyramids, yet continually made new. In infancy I am
of a cold disposition, but in youth am heated with passion, and I then
usually acquire a permanent blush. My composition is very peculiar: I am
made up of the head of an insect and the tail of an alligator joined to
an organ, a sea, and part of a monkey. If the insect is exchanged for a
vegetable, I may hurt you; if it is replaced by a Chinese plant, I may
deceive you. I am found in the homes of the poor and humble, in the
palaces of princes, in the temples of religion, and in the low places of
the earth. I have assisted in the worship of the true God, and in the
extravagant rites of the heathen. I often support insignificant and
contemptible undertakings, yet I once took part in the most ambitions
and presumptuous enterprise of mankind. Usually peaceful in disposition,
I have caused the death of rioters, and once excited a mighty rebellion.
Though used to rough treatment at the hands of ignorant men, I am highly
esteemed and much sought for by learned scholars. By my aid rivers are
spanned, tunnels strengthened, prisoners held in captivity, and iron
industries rendered possible; without me, many would lose their
livelihood, and London would be desolate. Finally, I am most useful when
in bed.

       *       *       *       *       *


Don was a retriever that could never be taught to retrieve. A great romp
of a fellow, jet black, relieved by a single white star on his throat.

Don is excessively fond of sweets and fruit, notably ripe gooseberries,
of which his master grows some fine varieties. During the season a great
quantity of ripe, yellow fruit disappeared from the bushes, but no one
could discover the thief; at the same time, however, it was noticed that
Don's nose was always covered with scratches. His master put two and two
together, and resolved to watch the dog. He did so, and saw Don go
toward a door in the garden wall, stand on his hind-legs, and press down
the latch with his fore-paw.

The door yielded, and in went Don to feast on the yellow gooseberries.
He scratched his nose in the operation, but evidently thought the fruit
worth suffering for.

The same dog occasionally paid visits with his master, and one lady,
knowing his liking for sweets, always gave Don a piece of cake when she
offered it, with wine, to her guest.

It happened, however, on a single occasion that the lady's stock of cake
was almost exhausted. The piece she had was small and somewhat stale,
too shabby to offer to a gentleman; so the wine was brought out alone.

Don's master took no notice of this, but Don, after looking expectant
for some time, marched to the lady, placed his great paws on her knee,
and cast imploring glances toward the side-board. When this failed, he
went to the door and tried to open it.

He was only scolded for scratching it, and in despair of making himself
understood, he took advantage of the open house door, and set off home
as fast as he could go.

After he was gone, the lady expressed her surprise at Don's unusual
conduct. The master smiled, and said the dog had not forgotten that she
usually gave him cake, and had been trying to make her understand that
when wine was brought out for the master, _his_ share of the dainties
ought also to be forth-coming.

[Illustration: "Oh, do, dear Grandma, get in behind, and let us drive
you home."]


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