St. Nicholas, Vol. 13, No. 12, October 1886

By Various

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Title: St. Nicholas, Vol. 13, No. 12, October 1886

Author: Various

Editor: Mary Mapes Dodge

Release date: May 5, 2025 [eBook #76024]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Century Co, 1886

Credits: Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. NICHOLAS, VOL. 13, NO. 12, OCTOBER 1886 ***





[Illustration: MARTHA WASHINGTON.

FROM AN UNFINISHED PORTRAIT BY GILBERT STUART. ENGRAVED FOR ST. NICHOLAS
BY W. B. CLOSSON.

(See page 912.)]




                              ST. NICHOLAS.

             VOL. XIII.       OCTOBER, 1886.        NO. 12.

                  [Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.]




AUTUMN TO SPRING.

BY EDITH M. THOMAS.


    I wish the stately golden-rod
      Might kiss the little wind-flower sweet,
    That asters might to cowslips nod,
      And eyebright run in haste to greet
    The violet from the April sod—
      So once the Fall and Spring might meet.

    I wish my Little Self and I
      Might sometime cross each other’s way.
    My Little Self is wondrous shy;
      I can not meet her any day,
    Howe’er I search, howe’er I pry
      About these meadows autumn-gay.

    The runaway, the teasing elf!
      She flits where woodland blossoms drift;
    She has a world of pretty pelf
      She gathered from the ripples swift;
    Such joys she has, my Little Self
      Will not be lured by any gift.

    She’s light as bird upon the wing,
      Her cheeks and eyes are all aglow.
    To me what gladness she could bring!
      To her I should be strange, I know.
    My Little Self holds fast the Spring,
      And Autumn will not let me go!

    Yet still I wish the golden-rod
      Might kiss the little wind-flower sweet,
    That asters might to cowslips nod,
      And eyebright run in haste to greet
    The violet from the April sod.—
      But Fall and Spring can never meet!




LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.

BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.


CHAPTER XIV.

It is astonishing how short a time it takes for very wonderful things
to happen. It had taken only a few minutes, apparently, to change all
the fortunes of the little boy dangling his red legs from the high stool
in Mr. Hobbs’s store, and to transform him from a small boy, living the
simplest life in a quiet street, into an English nobleman, the heir to
an earldom and magnificent wealth. It had taken only a few minutes,
apparently, to change him from an English nobleman into a penniless
little impostor, with no right to any of the splendors he had been
enjoying. And, surprising as it may appear, it did not take nearly so
long a time as one might have expected, to alter the face of everything
again and to give back to him all that he had been in danger of losing.

It took the less time because, after all, the woman who had called
herself Lady Fauntleroy was not nearly so clever as she was wicked; and
when she had been closely pressed by Mr. Havisham’s questions about her
marriage and her boy, she had made one or two blunders which had caused
suspicion to be awakened; and then she had lost her presence of mind and
her temper, and in her excitement and anger had betrayed herself still
further. All the mistakes she made were about her child. There seemed
no doubt that she had been married to Bevis, Lord Fauntleroy, and had
quarreled with him and had been paid to keep away from him; but Mr.
Havisham found out that her story of the boy’s being born in a certain
part of London was false; and just when they all were in the midst of the
commotion caused by this discovery, there came the letter from the young
lawyer in New York, and Mr. Hobbs’s letters also.

What an evening it was when those letters arrived, and when Mr. Havisham
and the Earl sat and talked their plans over in the library!

“After my first three meetings with her,” said Mr. Havisham, “I began to
suspect her strongly. It appeared to me that the child was older than she
said he was, and she made a slip in speaking of the date of his birth and
then tried to patch the matter up. The story these letters bring fits in
with several of my suspicions. Our best plan will be to cable at once for
these two Tiptons,—say nothing about them to her,—and suddenly confront
her with them when she is not expecting it. She is only a very clumsy
plotter, after all. My opinion is that she will be frightened out of her
wits, and will betray herself on the spot.”

And that was what actually happened. She was told nothing, and Mr.
Havisham kept her from suspecting anything by continuing to have
interviews with her, in which he assured her he was investigating her
statements; and she really began to feel so secure that her spirits rose
immensely and she began to be as insolent as might have been expected.

But one fine morning, as she sat in her sitting-room at the inn called
“The Dorincourt Arms,” making some very fine plans for herself, Mr.
Havisham was announced; and when he entered, he was followed by no less
than three persons—one was a sharp-faced boy and one was a big young man
and the third was the Earl of Dorincourt.

She sprang to her feet and actually uttered a cry of terror. It broke
from her before she had time to check it. She had thought of these
newcomers as being thousands of miles away, when she had ever thought
of them at all, which she had scarcely done for years. She had never
expected to see them again. It must be confessed that Dick grinned a
little when he saw her.

“Hello, Minna!” he said.

The big young man—who was Ben—stood still a minute and looked at her.

“Do you know her?” Mr. Havisham asked, glancing from one to the other.

“Yes,” said Ben. “I know her and she knows me.” And he turned his back on
her and went and stood looking out of the window, as if the sight of her
was hateful to him, as indeed it was. Then the woman, seeing herself so
baffled and exposed, lost all control over herself and flew into such a
rage as Ben and Dick had often seen her in before. Dick grinned a trifle
more as he watched her and heard the names she called them all and the
violent threats she made, but Ben did not turn to look at her.

“I can swear to her in any court,” he said to Mr. Havisham, “and I can
bring a dozen others who will. Her father is a respectable sort of man,
though he’s low down in the world. Her mother was just like herself.
She’s dead, but he’s alive, and he’s honest enough to be ashamed of her.
He’ll tell you who she is, and whether she married me or not.”

Then he clenched his hand suddenly and turned on her.

“Where’s the child?” he demanded. “He’s going with me! He is done with
you, and so am I!”

And just as he finished saying the words, the door leading into the
bedroom opened a little, and the boy, probably attracted by the sound of
the loud voices, looked in. He was not a handsome boy, but he had rather
a nice face, and he was quite like Ben, his father, as any one could see,
and there was the three-cornered scar on his chin.

Ben walked up to him and took his hand, and his own was trembling.

“Yes,” he said, “I could swear to him too. Tom,” he said to the little
fellow, “I’m your father; I’ve come to take you away. Where’s your hat?”

The boy pointed to where it lay on a chair. It evidently rather pleased
him to hear that he was going away. He had been so accustomed to queer
experiences that it did not surprise him to be told by a stranger that
he was his father. He objected so much to the woman who had come a few
months before to the place where he had lived since his babyhood, and who
had suddenly announced that she was his mother, that he was quite ready
for a change. Ben took up the hat and marched to the door.

“If you want me again,” he said to Mr. Havisham, “you know where to find
me.”

He walked out of the room, holding the child’s hand and not looking at
the woman once. She was fairly raving with fury, and the Earl was calmly
gazing at her through his eyeglasses, which he had quietly placed upon
his aristocratic, eagle nose.

“Come, come, my young woman,” said Mr. Havisham. “This won’t do at all.
If you don’t want to be locked up, you really must behave yourself.”

And there was something so very business-like in his tones that, probably
feeling that the safest thing she could do would be to get out of the
way, she gave him one savage look and dashed past him into the next room
and slammed the door.

“We shall have no more trouble with her,” said Mr. Havisham.

And he was right; for that very night she left the Dorincourt Arms and
took the train to London, and was seen no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the Earl left the room after the interview, he went at once to his
carriage.

“To Court Lodge,” he said to Thomas.

“To Court Lodge,” said Thomas to the coachman as he mounted the box; “an’
you may depend on it, things is taking a uniggspected turn.”

When the carriage stopped at Court Lodge, Cedric was in the drawing-room
with his mother.

The Earl came in without being announced. He looked an inch or so taller,
and a great many years younger. His deep eyes flashed.

“Where,” he said, “is Lord Fauntleroy?”

Mrs. Errol came forward, a flush rising to her cheek.

“Is it Lord Fauntleroy?” she asked. “Is it, indeed!”

The Earl put out his hand and grasped hers.

“Yes,” he answered, “it is.”

Then he put his other hand on Cedric’s shoulder.

“Fauntleroy,” he said in his unceremonious, authoritative way, “ask your
mother when she will come to us at the Castle.”

Fauntleroy flung his arms around his mother’s neck.

“To live with us!” he cried. “To live with us always!”

The Earl looked at Mrs. Errol, and Mrs. Errol looked at the Earl. His
lordship was entirely in earnest. He had made up his mind to waste no
time in arranging this matter. He had begun to think it would suit him to
make friends with his heir’s mother.

“Are you quite sure you want me?” said Mrs. Errol, with her soft, pretty
smile.

“Quite sure,” he said bluntly. “We have always wanted you, but we were
not exactly aware of it. We hope you will come.”


CHAPTER XV.

Ben took his boy and went back to his cattle ranch in California, and he
returned under very comfortable circumstances. Just before his going,
Mr. Havisham had an interview with him in which the lawyer told him that
the Earl of Dorincourt wished to do something for the boy who might have
turned out to be Lord Fauntleroy, and so he had decided that it would be
a good plan to invest in a cattle ranch of his own, and put Ben in charge
of it on terms which would make it pay him very well, and which would lay
a foundation for his son’s future. And so when Ben went away, he went as
the prospective master of a ranch which would be almost as good as his
own, and might easily become his own in time, as indeed it did in the
course of a few years; and Tom, the boy, grew up on it into a fine young
man and was devotedly fond of his father; and they were so successful and
happy that Ben used to say that Tom made up to him for all the troubles
he had ever had.

But Dick and Mr. Hobbs—who had actually come over with the others to see
that things were properly looked after—did not return for some time. It
had been decided at the outset that the Earl would provide for Dick, and
would see that he received a solid education; and Mr. Hobbs had decided
that as he himself had left a reliable substitute in charge of his store,
he could afford to wait to see the festivities, which were to celebrate
Lord Fauntleroy’s eighth birthday. All the tenantry were invited, and
there were to be feasting and dancing and games in the park, and bonfires
and fireworks in the evening.

[Illustration: “‘ARE YOU QUITE SURE YOU WANT ME?’ SAID MRS. ERROL.”]

“Just like the Fourth of July!” said Lord Fauntleroy. “It seems a pity my
birthday wasn’t on the Fourth, doesn’t it? For then we could keep them
both together.”

It must be confessed that at first the Earl and Mr. Hobbs were not as
intimate as it might have been hoped they would become, in the interests
of the British aristocracy. The fact was that the Earl had known very
few grocery-men, and Mr. Hobbs had not had many very close acquaintances
who were earls; and so in their rare interviews conversation did
not flourish. It must also be owned that Mr. Hobbs had been rather
overwhelmed by the splendors Fauntleroy felt it his duty to show him.

The entrance gate and the stone lions and the avenue impressed Mr.
Hobbs somewhat at the beginning, and when he saw the Castle, and the
flower-gardens, and the hot-houses, and the terraces, and the peacocks,
and the dungeon, and the armor, and the great staircase, and the stables,
and the liveried servants, he really was quite bewildered. But it was
the picture gallery which seemed to be the finishing stroke.

“Somethin’ in the manner of a museum?” he said to Fauntleroy, when he was
led into the great, beautiful room.

“N—no—!” said Fauntleroy, rather doubtfully. “I don’t _think_ it’s a
museum. My grandfather says these are my ancestors.”

“Your aunt’s sisters!” ejaculated Mr. Hobbs. “_All_ of ’em? Your
great-uncle, he _must_ have had a family! Did he raise ’em all?”

And he sank into a seat and looked around him with quite an agitated
countenance, until with the greatest difficulty Lord Fauntleroy managed
to explain that the walls were not lined entirely with the portraits of
the progeny of his great-uncle.

He found it necessary, in fact, to call in the assistance of Mrs. Mellon,
who knew all about the pictures, and could tell who painted them and
when, and who added romantic stories of the lords and ladies who were the
originals. When Mr. Hobbs once understood, and had heard some of these
stories, he was very much fascinated and liked the picture gallery almost
better than anything else; and he would often walk over from the village
where he staid at the Dorincourt Arms, and would spend half an hour or so
wandering about the gallery, staring at the painted ladies and gentlemen
who also stared at him, and shaking his head nearly all the time.

“And they was all earls!” he would say, “er pretty nigh it! An’ _he’s_
goin’ to be one of ’em, an’ own it all!”

Privately he was not nearly so much disgusted with earls and their mode
of life as he had expected to be, and it is to be doubted whether his
strictly republican principles were not shaken a little by a closer
acquaintance with castles and ancestors and all the rest of it. At any
rate, one day he uttered a very remarkable and unexpected sentiment:

“I wouldn’t have minded bein’ one of ’em myself!” he said—which was
really a great concession.

What a grand day it was when little Lord Fauntleroy’s birthday arrived,
and how his young lordship enjoyed it! How beautiful the park looked,
filled with the thronging people dressed in their gayest and best, and
with the flags flying from the tents and the top of the Castle! Nobody
had staid away who could possibly come, because everybody was really glad
that little Lord Fauntleroy was to be little Lord Fauntleroy still, and
some day was to be the master of everything. Every one wanted to have
a look at him, and at his pretty, kind mother, who had made so many
friends. And positively every one liked the Earl rather better, and felt
more amiably toward him because the little boy loved and trusted him so,
and because, also, he had now made friends with and behaved respectfully
to his heir’s mother. It was said that he was even beginning to be fond
of her, too, and that between his young lordship and his young lordship’s
mother, the Earl might be changed in time into quite a well-behaved old
nobleman, and everybody might be happier and better off.

[Illustration: “‘MY GRANDFATHER SAYS THESE ARE MY ANCESTORS,’ SAID
FAUNTLEROY.”]

What scores and scores of people there were under the trees, and in the
tents, and on the lawns! Farmers and farmers’ wives in their Sunday suits
and bonnets and shawls; girls and their sweethearts; children frolicking
and chasing about; and old dames in red cloaks gossiping together. At the
Castle, there were ladies and gentlemen who had come to see the fun, and
to congratulate the Earl, and to meet Mrs. Errol. Lady Lorredaile and
Sir Harry were there, and Sir Thomas Asshe and his daughters, and Mr.
Havisham, of course, and then beautiful Miss Vivian Herbert, with the
loveliest white gown and lace parasol, and a circle of gentlemen to take
care of her—though she evidently liked Fauntleroy better than all of them
put together. And when he saw her and ran to her and put his arm around
her neck, she put her arms around him, too, and kissed him as warmly as
if he had been her own favorite little brother, and she said:

“Dear little Lord Fauntleroy! dear little boy! I am so glad! I am so
glad!”

And afterward she walked about the grounds with him, and let him show her
everything. And when he took her to where Mr. Hobbs and Dick were, and
said to her, “This is my old, old friend Mr. Hobbs, Miss Herbert, and
this is my other old friend Dick. I told them how pretty you were, and
I told them they should see you if you came to my birthday,”—she shook
hands with them both, and stood and talked to them in her prettiest way,
asking them about America and their voyage and their life since they
had been in England; while Fauntleroy stood by, looking up at her with
adoring eyes, and his cheeks quite flushed with delight because he saw
that Mr. Hobbs and Dick liked her so much.

“Well,” said Dick solemnly, afterward, “she’s the daisiest gal I ever
saw! She’s—well, she’s just a daisy, that’s what she is, ’n no mistake!”

Everybody looked after her as she passed, and every one looked after
little Lord Fauntleroy. And the sun shone and the flags fluttered and the
games were played and the dances danced, and as the gayeties went on and
the joyous afternoon passed, his little lordship was simply radiantly
happy.

The whole world seemed beautiful to him.

There was some one else who was happy, too,—an old man, who, though he
had been rich and noble all his life, had not often been very honestly
happy. Perhaps, indeed, I shall tell you that I think it was because he
was rather better than he had been that he was rather happier. He had
not, indeed, suddenly become as good as Fauntleroy thought him; but, at
least, he had begun to love something, and he had several times found a
sort of pleasure in doing the kind things which the innocent, kind little
heart of a child had suggested,—and that was a beginning. And every day
he had been more pleased with his son’s wife. It was true, as the people
said, that he was beginning to like her too. He liked to hear her sweet
voice and to see her sweet face; and as he sat in his armchair, he used
to watch her and listen as she talked to her boy; and he heard loving,
gentle words which were new to him, and he began to see why the little
fellow who had lived in a New York side street and known grocery-men and
made friends with boot-blacks, was still so well-bred and manly a little
fellow that he made no one ashamed of him, even when fortune changed him
into the heir to an English earldom, living in an English castle.

It was really a very simple thing, after all,—it was only that he had
lived near a kind and gentle heart, and had been taught to think kind
thoughts always and to care for others. It is a very little thing,
perhaps, but it is the best thing of all. He knew nothing of earls and
castles; he was quite ignorant of all grand and splendid things; but he
was always lovable because he was simple and loving. To be so is like
being born a king.

As the old Earl of Dorincourt looked at him that day, moving about the
park among the people, talking to those he knew and making his ready
little bow when any one greeted him, entertaining his friends Dick and
Mr. Hobbs, or standing near his mother or Miss Herbert listening to their
conversation, the old nobleman was very well satisfied with him. And he
had never been better satisfied than he was when they went down to the
biggest tent, where the more important tenants of the Dorincourt estate
were sitting down to the grand collation of the day.

They were drinking toasts; and, after they had drunk the health of the
Earl, with much more enthusiasm than his name had ever been greeted
with before, they proposed the health of “Little Lord Fauntleroy.” And
if there had ever been any doubt at all as to whether his lordship was
popular or not, it would have been settled that instant. Such a clamor
of voices, and such a rattle of glasses and applause! They had begun to
like him so much, those warm-hearted people, that they forgot to feel any
restraint before the ladies and gentlemen from the castle, who had come
to see them. They made quite a decent uproar, and one or two motherly
women looked tenderly at the little fellow where he stood, with his
mother on one side and the Earl on the other, and grew quite moist about
the eyes, and said to one another:

“God bless him, the pretty little dear!”

Little Lord Fauntleroy was delighted. He stood and smiled, and made bows,
and flushed rosy red with pleasure up to the roots of his bright hair.

“Is it because they like me, Dearest?” he said to his mother. “Is it,
Dearest? I’m so glad!”

And then the Earl put his hand on the child’s shoulder and said to him:

“Fauntleroy, say to them that you thank them for their kindness.”

Fauntleroy gave a glance up at him and then at his mother.

[Illustration: LORD FAUNTLEROY MAKES A SPEECH TO THE TENANTS.]

“Must I!” he asked just a trifle shyly, and she smiled, and so did Miss
Herbert, and they both nodded. And so he made a little step forward, and
everybody looked at him—such a beautiful, innocent little fellow he was,
too, with his brave trustful face!—and he spoke as loudly as he could,
his childish voice ringing out quite clear and strong.

“I’m ever so much obliged to you!” he said, “and—I hope you’ll enjoy my
birthday—because I’ve enjoyed it so much—and—I’m very glad I’m going to
be an earl—I didn’t think at first I should like it, but now I do—and I
love this place so, and I think it is beautiful—and—and—and when I am an
earl, I am going to try to be as good as my grandfather.”

And amid the shouts and clamor of applause, he stepped back with a little
sigh of relief, and put his hand into the Earl’s and stood close to him,
smiling and leaning against his side.

       *       *       *       *       *

And that would be the very end of my story; but I must add one curious
piece of information, which is that Mr. Hobbs became so fascinated
with high life and was so reluctant to leave his young friend that he
actually sold his corner store in New York, and settled in the English
village of Erlesboro, where he opened a shop which was patronized by
the Castle and consequently was a great success. And though he and the
Earl never became very intimate, if you will believe me, that man Hobbs
became in time more aristocratic than his lordship himself, and he read
the Court news every morning, and followed all the doings of the House
of Lords! And about ten years after, when Dick, who had finished his
education and was going to visit his brother in California, asked the
good grocer if he did not wish to return to America, he shook his head
seriously.

“Not to live there,” he said. “Not to live there; I want to be near
_him_, an’ sort o’ look after him. It’s a good enough country for them
that’s young an’ stirrin’—but there’s faults in it. There’s not an
auntsister among ’em—nor a earl!”

THE END.




OCTOBER.

BY SUSAN HARTLEY.


    October comes across the hill
    Like some light ghost, she is so still,
      Though her sweet cheeks are rosy;
    And through the floating thistle-down
    Her trailing, brier-tangled gown
      Gleams like a crimson posy.

    The crickets in the stubble chime;
    Lanterns flash out at milking time;
      The daisy’s lost her ruffles;
    The wasps the honeyed pippins try;
    A film is over the blue sky,
      A spell the river muffles.

    The golden-rod fades in the sun;
    The spider’s gauzy veil is spun
      Athwart the drooping sedges;
    The nuts drop softly from their burrs;
    No bird-song the dim silence stirs,—
      A blight is on the hedges.

    But filled with fair content is she,
    As if no frost could ever be,
      To dim her brown eyes’ luster;
    And much she knows of fairy folk
    That dance beneath the spreading oak
      With tinkling mirth and bluster.

    She listens when the dusky eves
    Step softly on the fallen leaves,
      As if for message cheering;
    And it must be that she can hear,
    Beyond November grim and drear,
      The feet of Christmas nearing.

[Illustration]




SOME CURIOUS MARINERS.

BY C. F. HOLDER.


One bright spring morning, two boys were walking out into the open
country, near the little village of Cowes, on the Isle of Wight. Each
lad carried under his arm a miniature cutter. It was the day of the
great race between the Sea Mew and the Prince Albert, the reputations of
which, as winning cruisers, had been earned in many a hard-fought battle
on the pond then in sight. A number of boys were already at the shore,
and their boats, beating up and down the lake, gave it a very animated
appearance. As Ralph and Dick approached, bringing the champion cutters,
all the competitors moved to the head of the lake, and soon the signal
for the race was given. The Sea Mew and the Prince Albert got off first;
then came the smaller boats; while following up the race, some in a
skiff and some along shore, the boys shouted and cheered the imaginary
skippers of the various crafts, who, it must be confessed, sailed them
in a rather curious way. As the Prince Albert rounded the stake on the
homestretch, a queer personage came aboard. The boys were allowed to put
their crafts about, and Ralph had waded out and was just about to stop
his boat, when it came in collision with a floating mass of leaves that
threw it up into the wind. From the wrecked leaves nimbly darted the only
survivor, a large spider, so alarmed at the catastrophe that it reached
the crosstrees of the Prince Albert before it even looked about it.

“The Prince has been boarded by a shipwrecked crew!” shouted Ralph,
giving the mast a rap that sent the spider to the topmast-head.

“Let him stay,” said Dick, picking up the leaves that now floated by.
“You ran him down, and now you must take him ashore, or we’ll treat you
as they did the man in America who was tarred and feathered and carried
in a cart.”

So the spider was taken back by the cutter to the starting-point, and it
must have brought good luck to the cutter, for the Prince Albert came
in ahead and won the “cup,” as the boys called the old-fashioned blue
soup-tureen, ornamented with figures of Neptune and dolphins. And within
this receptacle the shipwrecked spider was carefully placed after the
race was over.

“Here’s his craft!” said Dick. “Let’s put it in some water and see if
he’ll take to it again.”

So the “cup” was filled and the layer of leaves thrown in, when the
spider, without a moment’s hesitation, leaped into the water from the
side of the tureen—or “cup”—and soon clambered upon the leaves, much to
the amusement of the young yachtsmen, who had gathered around to see what
it would do.

In this manner, Dick and Ralph carried the spider home to Dick’s
father, who told the boys, much to their astonishment, that it was a
ship-building spider.

“Examine the leaves more closely,” he said. “Don’t you find that the
bunch has not been accidentally caught together, but that the leaves have
been drawn carefully one over another, and fastened together by silken
cords, forming a perfect boat?”

[Illustration: THE SPIDER AND HIS CRAFT.]

The boys soon saw that this was indeed the fact, and, much interested,
they started out next day, determined to become better acquainted with
these nimble little boatmen. They were amply repaid for their trouble;
for they had not gone far when Dick cried:

“Here is one, Ralph!” In a little bay, Dick had discovered a small bunch
of leaves whirling around and around, and lying closely upon it a large
and handsome spider that might easily have been the First Lord of the
Admiralty of the Spider-Queen’s navy. Around its brown body was a band,
or sash, of rich orange color barred in a curious manner; while a double
row of white spots upon the under side, Ralph said, represented its
rank. Its legs were a light red—and altogether its outward coloring made
up a very fanciful and appropriate uniform.

But I grieve to say that the spider was really a pirate of the boldest
and most cruel type. Finding that the circular motion was caused by the
peculiar way in which the turned-up tip of a leaf caught the breeze,
Ralph gave the craft a start, and away it went before the wind, the
red-legged skipper lying low for plunder.

Near the head of the pond several members of the _Dolomedes fimbriatus_
family (for this is their scientific name) were found, and the boys came
upon one fellow in the very act of starting out on a voyage.

By lying upon the bank and keeping very still, the lads finally gained
possession of many secrets of this cunning ship-builder. At first the
spider seemed to be looking for something in the grass near the water’s
edge; finally he seized upon a dead leaf, which he dragged down a slight
decline, where the boys now saw several other leaves collected. By deft
movements of his long legs, the leaf was lifted and tucked in between the
others—the builder lashing them together by silken cords which he spun,
and fastened them by a simple pressure of his body against the leaf.
This leaf being satisfactorily placed, another was brought, and the same
process repeated, the creature running rapidly about, passing silken
cords over the entire mass, and now and then raising himself up and down,
as if testing the strength of his craft. The vessel gradually grew in
size until it was an inch and a half thick and four inches across, when
it seemed to satisfy its owner.

[Illustration: THE SPIDER BUILDING HIS BOAT.]

The spider now ran down to the water several times, returning every time
thoroughly to inspect the vessel; finally, taking the craft in his strong
mandibles, or jaws, he drew it several inches toward the water. Then,
resting for a moment, he took it a second time by the side and drew it
fairly to the water’s edge. Once there, he took a last hold, the leafy
ship glided clear of the shore, and the gay launcher, leaping aboard with
surprising skill, sailed out into the stream.

But the launch was not even yet a success. A spear of grass growing from
the water became entangled in the silken cables, and stopped the fairy
craft. The spider rushed at the obstruction, seized it in his mandibles,
and, to the astonishment of the watchers, walked down it into the water.
Soon he re-appeared and again scrambled aboard. But as he now seemed to
be greatly agitated and disturbed, the boys here interfered, and cast off
the raft for him, whereupon the skipper settled down as if completely
satisfied. If they touched him with a blade of grass, he darted into the
water and clung to the under side, coming out when the danger was over.
Soon an unfortunate fly alighted near the raft, when the pirate, instead
of rowing his boat alongside, actually dashed into the water to secure
his victim, swimming back to the raft to devour it at his leisure. The
last the boys saw of the spider, he had jumped again at something that
rippled the water; but he never returned. Possibly a self-satisfied young
frog that soon hopped upon the bank could have explained the absence of
the skipper of the now deserted craft.

Thoroughly interested, the boys repeatedly watched the spiders, and
studied their manners and their labors. They found also another spider,
which, although it did not make a raft, had no fear of the water, and
frequently went fishing; while Dick’s father told them of still another
that lived under water by carrying down bubbles of air with it. Its
home, too, might be called a queer diving-bell, as may be seen from the
illustration.

[Illustration: THE SPIDER THAT LIVES UNDER WATER.]

There are certain ants that show quite as much intelligence as the
spider, and the “driver ants” not only build boats, but launch them,
too; only, these boats are formed of their own bodies. They are called
“drivers,” because of their ferocity. Nothing can stand before the
attacks of these little creatures. Large pythons have been killed by
them in a single night, while chickens, lizards, and other animals
in Western Africa flee from them in terror. To protect themselves from
the heat they erect arches under which numerous armies of them pass in
safety. Sometimes the arch is made of grass and earth gummed together by
some secretion, and again it is formed by the bodies of the larger ants,
which hold themselves together by their strong nippers, while the workers
pass under them.

[Illustration: THE DRIVER ANTS FORMED INTO A FLOATING BALL.]

At certain times of the year, freshets overflow the country inhabited by
the “drivers,” and it is then that these ants go to sea. The rain comes
suddenly, and the walls of their houses are broken in by the flood, but
instead of coming to the surface in scattered hundreds and being swept
off to destruction, out of the ruins rises a black ball that rides
safely on the water and drifts away. At the first warning of danger,
the little creatures rush together, and form a solid ball of ants, the
weaker in the center; often this ball is larger than a common base-ball,
and in this way they float about until they lodge against some tree,
upon the branches of which they are soon safe and sound. And from this
resting-place they escape by their curious bridges, a description of
which was given in “Jack-in-the-Pulpit,” in ST. NICHOLAS for July, 1881.

[Illustration: THE GREBE AND HER FLOATING NEST.]

One would scarcely look for ship-builders among birds, so many of which
are boats in themselves, going either upon or under the water; but in
the curious family of grebes, one branch of which produces the beautiful
feathers so coveted by ladies, there is one kind that forms a nest which
is a veritable ark. Instinctively these birds seek the low boggy marshes
to build their nests. But there they are in continual danger from the
high tides that often cover the marshes, or from the drift-wood which
washes in, or from many other accidents. So the ingenious grebe, looking
like a clerk with feathery pens behind her ear, constructs a nest
that will rise and fall with the tides, and can be moved from place to
place. The boat is first built of rushes and grass; this is then packed
with moss, and lined and relined until it is perfectly water-tight;
and in this the eggs are laid. The home either is anchored to tufts of
grass, or drifts, perhaps, here and there, though always guided by the
mother-skipper, as she stands by the helm in all kinds of weather. We
have seen that the spider is completely at the mercy of the wind, but
the grebe propels her boat along. If the young are half grown, they
readily take to the water; but if they are just hatched, the mother, at
the approach of danger, steps upon one side of the boat, and uses one of
her webbed feet as an oar to paddle away from the enemy into one of the
innumerable inlets or lanes in the marsh, where she is almost sure to
escape.

[Illustration: THE SAILOR-FISH OF THE INDIAN OCEAN.]

In the warm waters of the Indian Ocean a strange mariner is found that
has given rise to many curious tales among the natives of the coast
thereabout. They tell of a wonderful sail often seen in the calm seasons
preceding the terrible hurricanes that course over those waters. Not a
breath then disturbs the water, the sea rises and falls like a vast sheet
of glass; suddenly the sail appears, glistening with rich purple and
golden hues, and seemingly driven along by a mighty wind. On it comes,
quivering and sparkling, as if bedecked with gems, but only to disappear
as if by magic. Many travelers had heard with unbelief this strange tale;
but one day the phantom craft actually appeared to the crew of an Indian
steamer, and as it passed by under the stern of the vessel, the queer
“sail” was seen to belong to a gigantic sword-fish, now known as the
sailor-fish. The sail was really an enormously developed dorsal fin that
was over ten feet high, and was richly colored with blue and iridescent
tints; and as the fish swam along on or near the surface of the water,
this great fin naturally waved to and fro, so that, from a distance, it
could easily be mistaken for a curious sail.

Some of these fishes attain a length of over twenty feet, and have large,
crescent-shaped tails and long, sword-like snouts, capable of doing great
damage.

In the Mediterranean Sea, a sword-fish is found that also has a high fin,
but it does not equal the great sword-fish of the Indian Ocean.




NAN’S REVOLT.

BY ROSE LATTIMORE ALLING.


CHAPTER VI.

December came and went, and although the girls had agreed to postpone
their accustomed giving of gifts to one another until spring, when
they hoped to present trophies of the winter’s warfare, the season was
otherwise filled with the usual gayety.

Our heroines had not in the least relaxed their interest in the world in
general, because of their interest in their own worlds in particular, and
had not “cut loose,” as Nan at first had threatened. But, as their lives
began to have more of purpose in them, their tastes changed somewhat,
so that gradually the most “frothy” of their society friends drifted
away unregretted, while new people, whom they had “found out,” as Evelyn
phrased it, one by one slipped into the vacant places.

So it was that with less frequent but more spirited contact with society,
the winter months flew away, and when the first rays of June sunshine
streamed through the glass roof into “Cathy’s kingdom,” the most joyous
sight they fell upon was the happy face of the proud mistress, as she
went about among the radiant blooms and verdure, cutting her choicest
buds for Evelyn’s luncheon, to be given that day in honor of Nan’s return
and the reunion of the “jolly four.”

When the girls met in the Ferrises’ dining-room, and surveyed Evelyn’s
beautiful table arrangements, they were more than usually jolly, and as
that sweet young housekeeper had taken much pride in her festive board,
she was deeply gratified by their exclamations of approval.

They pirouetted around and around it, admiring everything, beginning with
the artistic lunch-cloth, embroidered by the same fingers which had laid
a handful of Cathy’s flowers across each napkin; and they would have
proceeded to scrutinize each separate detail, had not Bert seized upon
a card bearing her name, attached to a cunning basket, which, in its
turn, was tied with a gorgeous bow to one of the chairs. This discovery
stimulated research on the part of the others, and immediately each guest
was “pouncing,” as Bert said, on her own particular basket.

Nan was the first to investigate the contents. “Bonbons!” she shouted.
“What richness! After luncheon, let’s toast these marsh-mallows on the
ends of hat-pins over a lamp!—But who is the giver?”

Diving among the sweets for a clew, Cathy succeeded in finding a card
which bore the inscription: “From the cook. Warranted pure.”

“_You_ didn’t make ’em, Evelyn?” exclaimed Bert, popping a
chocolate-cream into her mouth.

“Yes, I did,” laughed Evelyn, “and it’s as _easy_!—But see here!” and she
held aloft a tawny yellow vase, with a flight of butterflies, in all rich
hues, encircling the top.

“Waiting for the flowers with which I hope soon to be able to fill them,”
Cathy said, as the girls looked radiantly at her work, and Bert hugged
one of Pompeiian red, with dull blue butterflies, while Nan suggested
the “divine” effect that scarlet nasturtiums would make with the yellow
butterflies and the peacock-blue background of hers.

In the meanwhile, Bert, making further search under the fringe of the
table-cloth, brought to view a fascinating cabinet. “With a place for
a plaque, a place for a jug, and a place for my jar!” she shouted;
while Cathy added, as she lovingly surveyed hers, “Yes, and a place for
_secrets_ behind the cunning little door!”

“Don’t, girls!” protested Nan, as they heaped thanks upon her. “You
needn’t worry; they are not mahogany, nothing but pine, and a cheap
carpenter made them, and I stained and polished them myself, so they cost
hardly anything.”

“Oh, now, Nan, if you _have_ been to New York and do up your hair in a
new way, you can’t get me to believe that!” said Bert decidedly; while
Evelyn asked sarcastically, “And did you also design them, Nannie?”

“Of course! What am I studying for, if I can’t design a simple shelf?”
cried her sister.

The girls opened their eyes wide, but Nan averted another avalanche of
praise by producing the last article on her chair. She gave a deep sigh
of satisfaction as she comprehended that Bert had bestowed upon her a set
of photographs of the most famous pictures in the world; while Cathy sat
down and gloated over her “Goethe Gallery,” and Evelyn smiled into the
faces of her favorite authors.

“I beg pardon, Bert,” said Nan, “for the vulgarity of admiring the
setting as much as the gem,—but, girls, will you just observe the
magnificence of these Japanese leather portfolios?”

The girls observed with joy, and Evelyn said:

“Considering how smart we have already shown ourselves to be, I venture
to inquire, dear Bert, if you took the photographs yourself, or only
tanned the leather?”

“Neither,” laughed Bert; “I only _earned_ them with my inky fingers, so
they are the first real presents I ever gave! And now let us sit down and
admire one another.”

“You would be more sensible to admire my _bouillon_,” suggested Evelyn,
as she ordered in the cups containing the first course.

So the merriment went on, through all the changes of Evelyn’s dainty
banquet, while the girls compared notes on their various experiences.

[Illustration: “BERT SEIZED UPON A BASKET TIED TO ONE OF THE CHAIRS.”]

“Let us add up, subtract, and get our totals, both financially and
spiritually,” said Bert. “Who’ll begin?—Ah, what delicious chicken
croquettes these are, Evelyn!—Come, Nan! You are responsible for the
whole social and moral revolution, you know; so lead off with your
account.”

“Nonsense,” replied that young woman; “if I hadn’t begun it, one of you
would have fired our noble hearts,—for we should have died of inanition
if we had lolled in the lap of luxury another week. So as you, Bert,
scrambled down to the ground first, you should begin the reports. How is
your exchequer?”

“Low, very low; but my spirits are not, and what matters it therefore,
so long as I’m happy?” answered the confidential clerk. “No, money isn’t
everything, for I have a gain far better. I feel genuine; I respect Miss
Me; and, best of all, I have found my father. So, Nannie dear, I thank
you sincerely, for I never was so happy in my life. So much for my grand
total, with a large deficit of _ennui_.”

There was a general clicking of spoons in the after-dinner coffee-cups
by way of applause, as Bert finished; and she at once demanded that Nan
should next be heard.

The young artist responded promptly:

“Well, we all are happy, I hope,—because, thank goodness, it is no longer
the chief object of our lives to be so;—that is one of the valuable
lessons I have learned as I sat, day after day, at table between fat Miss
Lee and thin Miss Jennings. I have been dreadfully discouraged at times,
but I used to have worse ‘blues’ when I was only trying to amuse myself.
I have had a happy winter; and even if I never sell a design (I hope to
sell at least one next year), I never shall regret the experiment I have
made; for the feeling of self-reliance is better than a bag of gold to
your friend Nan!”

“But how about the fun you were bent on having?” mildly inquired Cathy.

“Oh, I’ve had a delightful time! Girls with a purpose are twice as
interesting as those without; and as most of us were impecunious, we had
numberless gay little three-cent larks. Ha, I can tell you there was no
lack of fun!” and Nan laughed at certain merry remembrances. “But now,
Cathy,” she resumed, “I pine to know all about that famous greenhouse.”

“Green-_houses_,” replied the young florist, with dignity. “All flowers
can’t grow in the same temperature, my dear.”

“Oh,—I want to know!” drawled Nan. “But are you dreadfully in debt? And
do things really sprout?”

“Sprout!” exclaimed Evelyn. “You would think so, Nan, if you had seen the
big basket of yellow pansies she sent to old Mrs. Burk on the anniversary
of her wedding-day! But Cathy will never roll in wealth; she gives all
her flowers away. She ought to hang out a sign with the words ‘Flower
Mission’ on it.” And Evelyn gave her friend a loving glance.

“Never mind,” retorted Cathy, blushing a little. “Our crusade was not so
much to earn money as for the right to be happy, each in her own way;
and since I have repaid what Fred loaned me, I can give away my very
own things if I wish to, especially as they are usually in the good
company of jellies and other lovely delicacies from Evelyn’s larder,” she
added. “But don’t be disturbed, my dears, about my generosity; I shall
charge you opulent creatures a good round dollar for every bud you get
of me.—And now, Evelyn, it’s your turn; but your luncheon has been more
eloquent than words——”

“No, no!” broke in Nan, with sudden mournfulness; “Evelyn has been an
egregious failure, so far as her family is concerned; she has struck for
higher wages——”

But a look from her sister warned Nan not to go further, while Cathy
burst out:

“Oh, Evelyn, let _me_ tell!”

“No,” she said, with an odd expression of mingled pride and timidity on
her face. “I will tell it myself; why shouldn’t I? Besides, all but Bert
know of it already, and I’m sure she suspects.”

“Are you _really_?” wildly demanded Bert, inconsequently except to the
feminine mind.

“Yes, really!” answered Evelyn with shining eyes and flushed cheeks,
while Nan groaned:

“Oh, Bert, woe is me! To think that I aided and abetted in this miserable
business by encouraging Cathy to become independent, and so allowed her
brother Fred to engage my sister for a wife!”

“You gave me a sister!” cried Cathy, as she tipped over her chair in an
excited rush at Evelyn, whom she clasped in her arms, crying a little
for joy, although her brother had partly prepared her for the glad
news,—while Bert exclaimed heartily:

“You have my blessing, Evelyn dear!—And are there any more secrets to be
divulged? Nan, you are in the designing business. Is there any decorative
youth in view?”

“Not for me!” laughed Nan. “But, Bert, where has all your money gone? I
expected you to ask me to accompany you and some delightful chaperon to
Europe this summer, at your expense.”

“Oh, I frittered my funds away!” she cried. “Come, come; let us toast the
marsh-mallows. Light the droplight, Evelyn. Where are the hat-pins?”

“Now, Bert,” said Evelyn, seriously, “I have found out your secret,
and I’m going to tell——” But Bert had escaped and was flying upstairs,
while Evelyn continued: “She has given a library to the working-girls’
association, and all that the world knows is that it came from ‘a girl
who is thankful to have found out how much better work is than idleness.’
That’s what Bert has done with her money!”

THE END.




IN THE GARDEN.

BY BESSIE CHANDLER.


    We were working in the garden,
    My little boy and I,
      Both digging weeds,
      And planting seeds
    To blossom by and by.

    “Here is some pop-corn, dear,” I said,
    “I’ll give you for your own;
      To plant and hoe,
      And watch it grow,
    And have it when it’s grown.”

    He took the kernels eagerly,
    His little hoe he dropped,
      Then, out he burst:—
      “Let’s pop it first,
    So it will come up popped!”




[Illustration: THE CREW OF THE CAPTAIN’S GIG.]

BY REV. CHARLES R. TALBOT.


The Fair Rosamond, sloop yacht, N. Y. Y. C., lay at anchor off the east
shore of Cape Cod Bay, her polished brasswork and white hull glittering
like gold and silver in the morning sunlight. No one was visible on
board, forward or aft, until presently a youthful form showed itself
above the cabin hatch, halting there a moment to survey the scene, and
then stepping forth in full view upon the deck. This was Jasper. The
noticeable things about Jasper were his homely, freckled face, his slim,
ungainly figure, and his intensely solemn air. One would have thought, to
look at him, that he was the most sober person in the world, whereas, in
point of fact, he was never known to be serious two minutes at a time,
and was forever making fun. He stood there for several moments, his hands
in the pockets of his yachting jacket, yawning lazily and looking forward
along the deck.

“Well,” he at length observed, “this is a hilarious state of things, I
must say! I wonder when those men are coming?” Suddenly he assumed an
attitude of declamation, and, raising his head and throwing out his right
hand by way of gesture, he exclaimed:

    “‘The boy stood on the burning deck,
    Whence all but him had fled——’”

These lines, not altogether inappropriate so far as they went, were
interrupted here by some one coming up softly from behind and seizing the
speaker by the collar. He quickly freed himself, however, and turning
about, with hand still extended, finished his verse in good order:

    “‘When some one seized him by the neck.
    He turned; ’twas Captain Fred.’”

Captain Fred laughed.

“So here you are,” said he, “come up like a whale to spout.”

“A very good joke, my dear brother,” replied Jasper. “I’ll tell you a
better, though.”

“What’s that?” asked Captain Fred.

“Your merry men have not appeared yet.”

“What!” exclaimed the captain, scowling and looking forward.

Owing to a serious disagreement between the yacht’s foremast hands,
Captain Fred had summarily discharged them all, and sent his
sailing-master to Provincetown to pick up a new crew. It was now the
third day that he had been absent on this errand; and Captain Fred had
counted upon his arrival, with the four sailor men, by an early train
that morning. “This is dreadfully annoying!” he declared.

    “‘In vain the captain shouted——’”

Jasper began quoting again.

Jasper had a talent for quotations, as the reader will presently
perceive. But again he was cut off by an arrival on deck, this time
that of three young ladies and a small boy. These were Captain Fred’s
pretty young wife, his niece Ethel, her intimate friend Kitty, and little
Fred,—the last sometimes known as Frederick the Little, as distinguished
from his uncle, Captain Frederick the Great. The girls looked wonderfully
fresh and pretty, considering they had just made their toilet in a seven
by nine state-room. Kitty was Ethel’s school friend, and had only been
with them a few days. She was a bright, vivacious young person, however,
and had already made herself quite at home on board. It was she who spoke
up now.

“What is the matter, Captain Fred?” cried she. “Are the tea-kettle
halliards foul again, this morning?” This was in allusion to a joke of
Jasper’s, the first morning she had been on board.

“The matter is,” said Captain Fred, looking as pleasant as he could,
“that our crew has not yet arrived; and we may have to lie here a day or
two longer.”

At breakfast, Captain Fred announced that he was going ashore. Something
must be done at once about a crew. He should run down to Provincetown
himself, and should not return until the afternoon at the earliest.
Meanwhile, they must get along as best they could. The yacht was in a
perfectly safe position; the steward (the only man left on board) was an
entirely competent and trustworthy person; and the sailing-master himself
would be back, without fail, before night. “And since I am without a
crew,” Captain Fred concluded, “I think that you young people will have
to man my gig for me.”

[Illustration: ON BOARD THE YACHT, “FAIR ROSAMOND.”]

This proposal was agreed to, willingly enough; and a few minutes later,
the gig being brought alongside, Jasper called “Giglers away!” and
they all got in, Ethel and Kitty at the oars (they were accustomed to
rowing together), Freddy in the bow, and Captain Fred and Jasper in the
stern-sheets. Mrs. Fred preferred to remain on board and read. They
pulled directly inshore. The village and railroad station were some
distance below, but much nearer by land than by water. “Good-bye, all!”
said Captain Fred as he jumped ashore. “Take good care of yourselves.
And, Jasper, do try to behave yourself for one day.” Then he waved his
“gripsack” and was gone.

They rowed along, not caring to land,—for the shore everywhere had the
genuine Cape aspect, barren and unattractive,—but finding it pleasure
enough to float upon the bosom of the sparkling blue water, now drifting
idly, now pulling themselves here and there as the fancy seized them.
They chatted and laughed and shouted, growing even boisterous by and
by, Freddy and the two girls getting into a regular romp at last in the
forward part of the boat. Jasper (who was not strong) sat looking down
upon this with an air of elderly indulgence. It was one of Jasper’s
delights to give himself patriarchal airs. Although just Ethel’s age,
sixteen, he was, like Captain Fred, uncle to both her and Freddy,—a
relationship which had, by courtesy, been extended to Kitty during her
stay with them, though that young lady had professed herself quite
indifferent to the honor,—and he loved to talk of his “avuncular
responsibilities.”

“Ah, children,” he now declared, “it does your poor old uncle good to see
you enjoying yourselves in this way.

    “‘I love to look on a scene like this,
      Of wild and careless play,
    And persuade myself that I am not old,
      And my locks are not yet gray.’”

“Jasper,” asked Kitty, flushed with exercise and suddenly resting on her
oar, “can you sing?”

“Sing!” Jasper looked at her as though he thought her crazy. “My
dear niece, what can you be thinking of? I could no more sing than I
could—raise a pair of side-whiskers.” He gave his cheek a melancholy tap.

“Oh, yes, you can!” said Kitty. “You can sing _something_,—can’t you?
Some old song or other.”

“Some old song?” Jasper shook his head. “No,” said he,

    “‘I can not sing the old songs’;
        It is not that I deem them low,
    ’Tis that I can’t remember
        How they go.”

“Pshaw!” cried Kitty, who evidently had some object in view. “I am sure
you can sing something,—and you must. Don’t you know ‘Hail Columbia,’ or
‘Home, Sweet Home,’ or ‘Bonnie Doon’?”

“I know ‘Old Grimes,’” said Jasper.

“‘Old Grimes’? Well let me hear it.”

So Jasper began to sing, to a tolerably correct air but in a voice which
was far from musical, the song “Old Grimes is Dead.” He grew somewhat in
love with his own performance as he proceeded, and gave the “old gray
coat” such a thorough “buttoning down before” in the chorus, that Kitty
grew impatient.

“Why, to be sure!” she interrupted. “That air is the same as ‘Auld Lang
Syne,’ and will do perfectly.” Then she turned to Freddy: “Now, Freddy,
what can you sing?”

“Oh, I say,” protested Jasper, “you’re not going to make Freddy exhibit
himself, too?

    “‘Strike, if you will, this old gray head,’
    But spare a little boy like Fred.”

Kitty inexorably repeated her question; and Freddy, showing no
disposition to plead his tender years as an excuse, declared that he
could sing “’Way down upon the Suwanee River,” and he freely opened his
mouth and delivered himself of a verse of the song indicated, in proof of
his assertion.

“That will do capitally,” pronounced Miss Kitty. “And, Ethel, you can
take ‘Ben Bolt,’ say, and I will take ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ The simpler and
more familiar the tunes the better. And now I’ll tell you what I wish
you to do. It’s ever so much fun! We tried it one day, up at Lenox, and
we got into a perfect gale over it. It’s just this: Whatever any one of
us has to say, no matter what it is and without any exception, we must
_sing_ it instead of saying it, every one using the tune assigned him or
her. Do you understand?

    “It’s the eá-siest thing in the wuh-órld, when wuh-ónce you have
      triéd-it.”

She calmly illustrated her meaning to the tune of “Home, Sweet Home.”

“Of course,” she added, “it’s perfectly ridiculous. But that’s the fun of
it, you know.”

They all fell in with the scheme at once, though Jasper proposed to
improve it a little.

“Wouldn’t it be well,” he suggested, “to prescribe some penalty or
forfeit in case anybody forgets, and talks instead of singing? Suppose,
for instance, we agree, each of us, to pay ten cents every time we break
the rule, all money so obtained to be devoted to some charitable object.”

“I consent to that,” said Ethel, quite approving.

“And I, too!” cried Kitty. “It will make us all the more particular.”

“Well, then, _I don’t_!” shouted Freddy, rising up, very red in the face.
“It’s all very well for you people who have allowances. But I’m not as
rich as the Pennsylvania Railroad Company myself.”

“Well, youngster,” said Jasper, “we’ll only charge you five cents when
you break over.”

To this Freddy assented.

“And, of course,” Jasper continued, “we’ll have to make the agreement
for a certain length of time—two hours, say. Will that do? Very
well,”—looking at his watch,—“it is distinctly understood then that from
this moment—it is now half-past eleven—for two whole hours we shall
_sing_ everything we have to say, every one to the tune agreed on, and
that we shall pay the sum of ten cents for every violation of this
rule,—with the exception of Freddy, who is to pay five cents.—Each, upon
honor, agrees to this solemn compact.”

He looked about, and all gravely nodded assent.

“All right,” said Jasper. Then, to the familiar strains of “Auld
Acquaintance,” without the slightest hesitation he sang these lines,
giving his words the proper rhyme and rhythm almost unconsciously:

    “My gallant boys (or rather, girls),
      Take now your oars and row;
    For, if you don’t, ’tis very clear
      This boat will never go.”

Four young people, full of frolic, found it easy to laugh at this, as
well as at a number of similar outbursts on the part of the others,
equally ridiculous if somewhat less elaborate. And the fun went on for
some minutes. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that Miss Kitty’s plan,
promising as it had seemed, did not turn out quite so well as she had
expected. Admirably adapted, as no doubt it was, to a picnic party, where
all sorts of people would be constantly moved to say all sorts of things,
it was found not to work at all well among four persons of about the same
age, in an open boat, where there was no especial necessity for saying
anything. Somehow or other, after a little, the singing began to grow
less funny, and presently everybody appeared to have discovered that
it was easier to keep still than to express one’s self, and so a grim
silence fell upon the boat. Freddy played with the water alongside; the
girls bent to their oars; and Jasper attended to his steering. And, bound
as they were by their absurd agreement, it is to be feared that the crew
of the gig would have had a dreary time of it for the next two hours, but
for an idea that suddenly suggested itself to Jasper’s fertile mind.

All at once the coxswain gave the helm a turn; and then the boat’s keel
was heard grating softly upon the sand. The others looked around in
surprise. The boat was close inshore, and the next moment it brought up
with a gentle bump against the bank. A short distance away a railroad
crossing could be seen, and, just beyond it, a red house. Jasper rose to
his feet, and sang:

    “Now, what say you, my gallant crew,
      To going with me ashore?
    Methinks ’twould be a goodly thing
      To tread the land once more.”

“I’m ready, for one,” cried Freddy, jumping ashore at once, painter in
hand.

“Ahem!” uttered Jasper loudly.

And Master Frederick, looking up, found a finger warningly pointed in his
direction, and realized that he had broken the rule. Jasper solemnly took
out his note-book and made an entry. Next he leaped ashore himself and
stood waiting to help the girls, who, after a moment’s hesitation, also
stepped ashore. Then, the boat being made fast to a convenient post, they
all started leisurely up the bank.

They soon came to a road which led them directly across the railroad and
toward the red house. This house was a small, one-story cottage, very
humble, but with the thrifty Cape Cod look, having a bright garden in
front and a neat walk, bordered with curious shells, running down to the
gate. Jasper, catching sight of a well near the side door, was about to
make an excuse for turning in, when Kitty forestalled him.

“Oh,” sang she, her spirits already revived by the change from sea to
shore, “Be it ever so humble, I must have some water.”

They went in, therefore, and Jasper was about to let down the bucket,
which worked by some modern arrangement, when a woman came running out
with a glass.

“Here, here!” she cried shrilly. “We don’t ’low strangers to meddle with
that well! _I_’ll draw it for you, if you please.” And she put Jasper one
side, carefully letting down the bucket, and then breathlessly drawing
it up. “You gave me quite a turn, I declare!” she observed as she handed
Ethel the glass. “I thought you were that sewin’-machine man when I first
heard ye. He said he sh’d come to-day.”

She eyed them curiously. She was a spare, energetic-looking woman, with
a pinched face and small bright eyes. She seemed rather puzzled when no
one spoke, though the two girls and Freddy bowed their thanks profusely
as they finished drinking. Her bewilderment may well have grown to wonder
as she beheld Jasper, with one hand still extended after handing back the
glass and the other laid dramatically upon his heart, open his mouth and
begin to sing, to the air of “Auld Lang Syne,” familiar in Cape Cod homes
as everywhere else in the world,

    “‘Thanks,’ said the judge, ‘a sweeter draught
    A fairer hand ne’er _quaffed_——’”

The combined exigencies of the tune and the effort to adapt the quotation
to it, left the singer, attitude and all, hanging, so to speak, at the
end of a high note; and the effect was supremely ludicrous. Jasper’s
comrades could not restrain their laughter.

The woman regarded him for an instant with a look of amazement; but
people on the Cape have a way of keeping their feelings to themselves,
and she quickly recovered her self-possession.

“Humph!” said she, glancing keenly from Jasper to the rest. “Where do you
folks come from, anyway?”

“We came,” Jasper answered, still true to “Auld Acquaintance,”

    “We came, in yonder noble ship,
    From lands beyond the sea;
    And we’ve landed on this barren shore
    To—to—see what we could see.”

He broke a little on the last line and finished rather lamely.

“Humph!” the woman dryly repeated. “You’ve come to a dangerous place,
then. P’r’aps you may not be aware that ’twas only right down here a bit
that Cap’n Cook was killed.”

Here Kitty, delighted to see her scheme displaying at last some of
the qualities she had claimed for it, took it upon herself to answer,
clasping her hands in horror at the announcement made:

    “Alas, my good woman, how dreadful! And, pray,
    What’s the name of this barbarous land, did you say?”

Her rhythm was not quite as smooth as Jasper’s; but she was true to her
air, and the rhyme at the end fairly surprised herself.

“Well,” the woman answered seriously, “we gen’rally call it the Cape.
Though they do say,” she added, “that they’re tryin’ hard to make an
island of it, up to Sandwich.” This was a reference, no doubt, to the
famous Cape Cod Canal. Then, still looking her visitors over and trying
to make them out, “Do they all sing their words,” she inquired, “in the
country you come from?”

Kitty was about to reply again; but at this instant a diversion occurred.
Master Freddy, moved to exploration on his own account, had strayed away
to the kitchen door, and, peeping within it, his eye had fallen upon a
huge dish, full of freshly made crullers, resting upon the table. Utterly
ravished by the sight, he had given vent to a prolonged “Oh!” and then,
mindful of forfeits, but quite compelled to utter himself, he, too, began
to sing, and the well worn notes of the “Suwanee River” rose rapturously
to the breeze:

    “Oh, how I wi—i—i—i—_ish_-I
    Ha—ad a cruller!”

“Sakes alive!” exclaimed the woman, looking around. “That reminds me.
There’re my crullers all this time. I must run. Come in, won’t ye? Come
in an’ try ’em.”

Ethel being the only one inclined to hold back, and she being of a
yielding nature, they all followed the woman indoors, and were ushered
presently into a little sitting-room next the kitchen. It was a poorly
furnished, but neat and pleasant apartment, with snow-white curtains,
worn haircloth furniture, and a parlor organ, and with a sewing machine
in one corner. Freddy came in after the rest, a huge ring of a cruller
firmly grasped in one hand, and another of more elongated proportions
thrust deeply down his throat. The woman followed immediately with the
dish, and her cordially repeated invitation to “try ’em” was gladly
accepted. Jasper possessed himself of a magnificent specimen, and loudly
sang the praises of itself and donor, pleasing himself immensely by an
ingenious combination of “try ’em” and “fry ’em.” Ethel glanced at him
reproachfully, feeling a pang of shame that he should persist in his
joking in the face of this kindly hospitality. But Jasper was not to
be stopped at such a time. Nor did Kitty seem disposed to be prudent.
She was, as she herself might have expressed it, gradually working
up to “concert pitch”; and she and Jasper, evidently, were having a
much better time with their singing than they had while they were in
the boat. Kitty also sought to celebrate in song the virtues of the
crullers, even venturing upon a little parody wherein “sweet crullers”
was substituted for “sweet home,” and “crumble” for “humble,” which,
absolutely nonsensical as it may have been, caused Jasper to go off in
fits of laughter and clap his hand upon his knee and cry “capital!” in
utter violation of his vow. And then Freddy sang, too, and even Ethel
sang; and they all got to laughing harder and harder, with that absurd,
unreasonable laughter that laughs at almost anything, and that the more
it laughs, the more it will laugh, until by and by it grows to be quite
uncontrollable. All of which, the writer is aware, was exceedingly silly
and ridiculous on the part of these young people whom he has introduced
to the reader; but he begs the latter to remember that they were only
boys and girls after all, and that they were really a little beside
themselves that morning, and that, at any rate, no single one of them
meant a particle of real harm by it. The only person who preserved her
countenance was their hostess. That problem of a woman went in and out
among them, never so much as smiling at anything that was said or done,
watching them closely with her small, sharp eyes, always seeming to be
“making them out,” but letting no sign of any conclusion to which she
might have come find its way into her face.

At length Ethel, thinking to quiet things, glanced toward the organ and
asked respectfully (though to music, of course) if she might “try the
instrument.”

“Oh!” replied the woman, following Edith’s glance, and with an odd,
scared look coming into her face as she did so, “I _couldn’t_ let ye
touch that, Miss; indeed, I couldn’t. Why, ’taint mine, yet; an’ I don’t
know now as ’t ever will be.” Then she interrupted herself with an air of
deep chagrin. “Why, you mean the melodyun, don’t ye? I thought all the
while you meant the sewin’-machine. How stupid! Seem’s if I can’t think
o’ anythin’ lately but that sewing-machine. It’s nigh worritted my life
out. You see, I bought it last winter of an agent, an’ agreed to pay
ten dollars a month for it till ’twas paid for. But, somehow or ruther,
Silas hasn’t earned anythin’ to speak of, sence he came back from Georges
Banks, an’ things ha’ gone hard; an’ now the time is up, an’ there’s
twenty-seven dollars still due. I’ve scraped up twenty, here and there,
but I’m lackin’ seven, yet. The man’s comin’ to-day to take the machine,
an’ I’ve got to lose all I’ve paid him. That was the bargain. But,”—she
hesitated and her thin lip quivered,—“I vow it’s too bad! An’ I don’t
believe the law would allow it.”

At this instant, as it happened, a step and a heavy rap were heard at the
outer door. The woman started.

“There he is now!” she exclaimed. “I know his knock’s well ’s I do the
minister’s or the doctor’s. ’Xcuse me a minute.” And, with lips shut
tight, she left the room. Then the occupants of the sitting-room heard a
man’s voice roughly explaining that he could not take the machine to-day,
but that he should be along again to-morrow and should certainly take it
then if the money was not ready. The woman seemed to have very little to
say in reply; and presently, having dismissed her unwelcome caller, she
came back into the sitting-room.

“About that melodyun, Miss,” she resumed at once with an absent air;
“you’d be welcome to play on it, but Salome’s gone over to Hyannis for a
visit, an’ she accidentally took the key off with her in her rettycule.
Salome’s my daughter,” she added, with a touch of motherly pride. “She’s
took lessons. If she was here, _she’d_ play for ye!”

What a mischievous spirit it was that prompted Kitty to break forth, in
accents as tenderly regretful as any ever attained in the singing of
“Sweet Home” itself!—

    “Salome! Salome!
    Would—that you—were home!”

She wondered herself, the next moment, what had possessed her, realizing
that in thus turning the absent daughter’s name to ridicule, she was
doing a distinctly rude and unkind thing. She started up, sincerely
meaning to apologize. But the woman had turned away, seeming not to have
noticed it; and Kitty sank back in her chair again.

The woman had noticed, however, and there was a faint flush on her cheek
and a resentful glitter in her eye as she stood at the table, pretending
to look for something in her work-basket, and for several moments
speaking not a word. Suddenly, with an air of decision, she turned and
walked straight out to the kitchen, going to a back door that was there
and opening it. Then they heard her calling somebody in her shrill,
far-reaching voice:

“Silas! Si—las! _Si_las!”

Silas—whom all understood to be the woman’s husband—must have been close
at hand, for almost immediately a man’s voice sounded without, and then
the two were heard talking together in low tones inside the kitchen. The
next moment they appeared at the sitting-room door.

The woman, when they entered the room, was preparing to throw a shawl
about her shoulders. But nobody, at that moment, thought very much
about her. Her visitors were too much struck by the appearance of the
remarkable individual who attended her. He was a man of immense physical
proportions, more than six feet high, and correspondingly broad. His
short, stubby hair was of a dull red color, as were also the thick,
wiry whiskers that covered his face. His skin, where it could be seen,
was deeply burned. One of his eyes was closed and sightless. He was
dressed in a big green baize jacket, oil trousers, and “fish boots.”
In his hand he carried a short, heavy clam hoe. Altogether he was a
formidable-looking person. The two girls uttered a little cry of dismay
when they saw him; Jasper himself looked troubled, and Freddy fixed upon
him a look of fascinated horror. Freddy was thoroughly familiar with the
story of Polyphemus (Jasper had told it to him many times), and his one
thought now was that that awful monster stood before him.

“Silas,” said the woman sharply, turning toward him as she pinned her
shawl, “here’s some people. I don’t know who they air, nor where they
come from; but I do know that they’re stark, starin’ crazy, every one of
’em. They can’t do anythin’ but sing an’ laugh. I’m afraid of ’em; an’
I’m goin’ to run down to Squire Baker’s an’ have him send up a constable,
an’ have ’em taken care of. They ought to be put in the mad-house. I want
you to stay here an’ keep guard over ’em till I come back.”

And with that, before Jasper and the rest had at all grasped the meaning
of her words or comprehended her intention, she was gone.

The giant, who was left behind, reached over to draw to him a large
rocking-chair that stood near by and sat down before the door, not saying
a word. Freddy felt quite certain now that he was Polyphemus—Polyphemus,
with his terrible single eye, sitting at the door of his cave and keeping
guard over Ulysses and his band. As for the rest, they knew not what to
do or say. What did it all mean? What strange people these they had come
among,—the woman who took them for lunatics, and that grim creature at
the door? Could the woman really have believed them crazy? She had said
so. And her manner from the first, as they now recalled it, suspicious
and uneasy, seemed to say so too. And, indeed, it was hardly to be
wondered at, considering their absurd actions. What then would come of
it? Would the constable, when he came, think they were crazy too?—and the
magistrate? Cape Cod people, they had always heard, were queer people.
The situation seemed really serious. They looked at each other soberly,
not speaking yet, but all thinking some such thoughts as these.

But Jasper, as the man of the party, felt that it behooved him to do
something at once. He got up from his chair and advanced, with as
determined a bearing as he could assume, in the direction of their
keeper. Ethel turned pale.

“Oh, Jasper!” she murmured. “What are you going to do? Please don’t go
near him.”

“No,” Kitty whispered, equally alarmed; “pray don’t. Let us wait quietly
till the constable comes. It will be all right then.” No one of them
thought any longer of maintaining their agreement as to singing, which,
indeed, had been quite driven out of their minds.

“Pooh!” answered Jasper with lofty valor, “I’m only going to request our
monumental friend here to move one side a little so that we can pass
out. It’s time we were going.” Then, as the person alluded to paid no
attention, he addressed him directly. “If you please, my friend, we’d
like to pass out.”

[Illustration: “‘I WANT YOU TO KEEP GUARD OVER ’EM TILL I COME BACK,’
SAID THE WOMAN.”]

The other shook his head,—calmly and quietly enough. It was not anything
the man did, nor indeed anything he said, when he came to speak, that
was so terrible, after all; it was simply his forbidding face and his
gigantic figure.

“I’m very sorry,” said he in a voice so deep and sepulchral one might
well have fancied it was supplied to him somehow from the cellar below,
“very sorry indeed. But the fact is ye can’t be allowed to go,—not till
Malviny comes back.”

“Look here, now,” observed Jasper, straightening up and trying to look
terrible himself.

“Wall, I’m lookin’ here.” The man calmly regarded him with his single eye.

“Do you know who we are?” Jasper continued.

The giant shook his head again. “Hevn’t the slightest idee. Couldn’t no
more say who ye air ’n I could say who’ll be keepin’ Highland Light in
the year nineteen hundred ’n eighty-six. Malviny says ye’re a passel o’
crazytics, an’ that’s all I want to know about ye. I never go behind what
Malviny says. She’ll be back with the cunstable presently, an’ they’ll
settle your case. Meanwhile, here you’ll hev to stay till they come.”

He leaned back in his chair and began rocking to and fro, resting his
clam hoe across his knees.

“But see here,” persisted Jasper; “that is all nonsense, you know, about
our being crazy. We——”

“Hi! hi!” interrupted the giant, stopping his chair. “What’s that ye say?
Be keerful, young man. _Be_ keerful!” He lifted his ponderous fore-finger
and slowly waved it back and forth with an air of solemn warning. “Don’t
you ventur’ fur to dare fur to assertify that anything Malviny says is
nonsense! She allus knows what she’s talkin’ about. If she says you’re
crazy, crazy you _be_,—an’ ye can’t help yourselves.”

“But I say——” poor Jasper once again began.

“Now, be keerful, young man. _Be_ keerful!” The awful finger again cleft
the air.

“Oh!” cried Jasper, stamping his foot in impotent rage. “This is
intolerable! You’ve not a particle of right to keep us here. Move one
side, I say, and let us pass.”

He advanced a step and threateningly confronted his enemy.

But the latter remained perfectly unmoved, save that again he gravely
shook his head.

“Not till Malviny comes,” was his imperturbable answer. “Not till Malviny
comes.”

And Jasper, brave as any lad, but well aware in his heart that he would
no more think of actually attacking that gigantic adversary than of
throwing himself upon an advancing locomotive, yielded to the renewed
entreaties of Ethel and Kitty, and sullenly returned to his seat.

Then for many minutes—just how many, no one knew—there was perfect
silence in the house,—or silence the perfection of which was only marred
by the ticking of the little Waterbury clock on the kitchen mantel. The
prisoners sat there in a dazed, despairing sort of mood, their eyes most
of the time bent upon the floor, content to wait without further motion
the issue of events.

All at once, from the watcher’s direction, there came a sound, loud,
clear, sonorous, unmistakable—the sound of a human snore. They all looked
up surprised, and a single glance at the mammoth form in the doorway
assured them of the fact which the sound had intimated. Their keeper
slept.

Jasper, with a swift gesture of caution to his comrades, sat and watched
the sleeper for a moment, to be sure that it was so; then he rose to his
feet. The time for action had undoubtedly arrived. He glanced about the
room, marking its ways of egress. The windows were open, but not far
enough, and it would not do to risk the noise of opening them farther.
There were four doors in the room, besides that leading to the kitchen,
all closed. Jasper passed three of these by as admitting without doubt
to bedrooms or cupboards, and turned to the fourth. This opened, as he
had expected, into a little front hall; and there, right at hand, was
the outer door. Jasper’s heart sank as he saw that the key was gone; but
he tried the door, and lo! to his surprise, it was not locked at all.
Here then was freedom at last, in their very grasp! “Come! Come!” he
whispered, beckoning eagerly to his companions. And then, like a captain
who must be last to quit the wreck, he stood holding open the door for
the others to pass through.

Freddy came first, painfully tiptoeing his way, and scarcely able even
now to remove his glance from the fearful being across the room. Then
Kitty glided out and Ethel followed, and the three stood safely outside.
Jasper lingered a moment, latch in hand, glancing back at the grim
sentinel in the rocking-chair. The man still sat there, his head thrown
back and his dreadful eye fast closed, wrapped apparently in profoundest
slumber. Jasper felt all his old assurance coming back. He kissed his
hand to the sleeper.

“Good-bye, my dear guardian, good-bye!” he cried, half aloud.

    “‘My boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea;
    But before I go, once more I must say farewell to thee.’”

But what meant that movement on the part of the sleeper? Jasper stared.
The huge frame was certainly shaking in its chair. Could it be that
the man was laughing in his sleep? The lad did not stop to ponder the
question, but closed the door behind him and hurried after the rest.

At the crossing, they came suddenly upon Mrs. Malviny. Jasper made her a
bow.

“May I ask,” he inquired, “if you saw Squire Baker?”

“Yes,” answered she gloomily; “I saw him. He says it’s no use. Unless I
pay the money, the man can take the machine. I can’t—But sho! There I am
again. You mean did I see him about the constable? Well, no; I didn’t.”
She looked at them now with a humorous twinkle in her eye. “The fact is,
that was one o’ my jokes. You seemed to be havin’ a good deal o’ fun at
my expense, up to the house, an’ so I thought I’d have a little at yours.
I hope ye didn’t have any trouble with Silas. He’s the best-natered man
in the world,—wouldn’t harm a toad-fish. If he would, I’d set him after
that sewin’-machine man! There’s Silas at the front gate now! What’s he
laughin’ at, I wonder? Well, good-day! If anybody in your country asks
after us Cape folks, you tell ’em we aint all fools down here. We don’t
live on fish for nothin’.”

“Well!” uttered Jasper, gazing after her a moment with an air of profound
admiration, and then looking down at himself in equally deep disgust.
“If we haven’t been most beautifully and artistically circumvented
_this_ time, I should like to know the reason why! I feel as cheap as an
eighty-cent dollar.”

“We certainly have had a good fright!” declared Kitty.

“It seems to me,” observed Ethel seriously, “that this ought to be a
lesson to us not to turn everything and everybody to ridicule quite so
freely in the future.”

“Yes,” cried Freddy. “And how about all that money you three will have to
pay for talking all this while, instead of singing?”

“Sure enough!” said Kitty.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” suggested Ethel. “We will let ourselves
off, once for all, for seven dollars; and we’ll make up that sum and send
it to Mrs. Malviny to complete the twenty-seven dollars she owes her
sewing-machine man.”

“Done!” shouted Jasper with enthusiasm.

And done it was, that very night.




THE WEASEL AND THE ADDER.

[Illustration]


Of all the sharp-toothed and vindictive little animals that prey upon
their comrades and sometimes do service for man, none is sharper or more
vindictive than the weasel—a bright-eyed little beast, with a coat of
golden-brown fur and a clean white shirt-front. It somewhat resembles the
rat, and also the squirrel; but it is, really, the deadly enemy of both.

And of all the hateful reptiles that crawl and coil and sting, there are
few more venomous and hateful than is the little olive-brown snake known
as the adder—a rattlesnake without rattles, and the untiring foe to mice
and birds and moles, thus also occasionally proving of service to man.

Both the weasel, which belongs to the family known as the _mustelidæ_, or
mouse-eaters, and the adder, which belongs to the _viperidæ_, or viper
family, are, as you see, agreed upon one thing—a liking for mice for
dinner. And they are just as heartily united upon another subject—their
hatred of each other.

So when, as in the above picture, weasel and adder meet in the way, there
is certain to be a duel to the death.

The weasel is a spry and fiery-tempered little animal; the adder is
treacherous and equally hot-headed. And although, as the rule, the weasel
is worsted in such encounters, sometimes the coils of the adder squirm
and droop and stiffen as, with one quick snap, the sharp teeth of the
weasel seize and break the mottled neck of the snake.




GEORGE WASHINGTON.

[_An Historical Biography._]

BY HORACE E. SCUDDER.


CHAPTER XXIV.

PRESIDENT WASHINGTON.

It was on April 16, 1789, that Washington left Mount Vernon for New York,
where Congress first met, and where he was to be inaugurated President.
The country all along the route was eager to see him, and at every place
through which he passed there were processions and triumphal arches and
ringing of bells. Some of the signs of welcome were queer, and some
were beautiful and touching. When he crossed the Schuylkill, there was
a series of arches under which he was to ride; and when he came to the
first one, a laurel wreath was let down upon his head. The people who
arranged that exhibition must have been very anxious as to how it would
turn out. At Trenton, where everybody remembered the famous battle he
had fought, the women had put up a great triumphal arch resting upon
thirteen columns, with a great dome crowned by a sunflower; then, as he
rode through, he came upon a company of women and girls who came toward
him, strewing flowers and singing. When he reached New York, guns were
fired; and a vast crowd of people, headed by the Governor, was waiting to
receive him.

Congress had begun its sessions at Federal Hall, which stood where the
present Treasury building stands in Wall street. The day set for the
inauguration was April 30. Precisely at noon, the procession moved from
the house where Washington was lodged, through what is now Pearl street
and Broad street, to the Hall. Washington entered the Senate Chamber,
where John Adams, who was Vice-President and therefore presiding over the
Senate, received him in the presence of the Senate and House, and then
escorted him to a balcony at the front of the Hall. A crimson-covered
table stood on it, holding a large Bible. Below, Broad street and Wall
street were packed with people, as were also the windows and the roofs of
the houses near by. They set up a great shout as Washington appeared. He
came to the front, laid his hand on his heart, and bowed to the people.

The multitude could see the commanding figure of the great general as
he stood bare-headed on the balcony. He was dressed in a suit of brown
cloth, of American manufacture, with knee-breeches and white silk
stockings and silver shoe-buckles. His hair was dressed and powdered,
as was the custom then. They saw near him John Adams and Robert R.
Livingston, the Chancellor of the State of New York, and distinguished
men—generals and others; but their eyes were bent on Washington. They
saw Chancellor Livingston stand as if speaking to him, and the Secretary
of the Senate holding the open Bible on which Washington’s hand lay.
Those nearest could hear the Chancellor pronounce the oath of office and
Washington’s reply, “I swear—so help me, God!” and could see him bow and
kiss the Bible.

Then the Chancellor stepped forward, waved his hand, and said aloud:
“Long live George Washington, President of the United States.” At
the same time, a flag, as a signal, was run up on the cupola of the
Hall. Instantly cannon were fired, bells rung, and the people shouted.
Washington saluted them, and then turned back into the Senate chamber,
where he read his inaugural address, in a low voice, for he was evidently
deeply affected,—great occasions always solemnized him,—and after the
address, he went on foot, with many others, to St. Paul’s Church, where
prayers were read by Dr. Provoost, Bishop of the Episcopal Church, and
one of the chaplains of Congress. At night, there were fireworks and
bonfires.

Thus, with the good-will of the people and the confidence of all the
sections,—however suspicious they might be of one another,—Washington
began his career as President. For eight years, he remained in office.
His character was now so fixed that there is little new to be learned
about it from that time forward; but there were many events that made
more clear how wise, how just, how honorable and how faithful to his
trust he was. He had been very loath to take upon himself the duties of
President, but when once he had been placed in the chair, he let nothing
stand in the way of the most thorough discharge of his duties.

[Illustration: INAUGURATION OF WASHINGTON AS PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED
STATES.]

Now came into play all those habits which he had been forming from
boyhood. As President of the whole people, it was his business to have
an oversight of all the interests of the young nation, and, as the first
President, he had the opportunity of setting an example to those who were
to come after him. It is one of the most excellent gifts to the American
people that they should have had for their first President a man so well
rounded and so magnanimous as George Washington. There were as yet no
political parties, though there were the seeds of parties in the opposite
ways in which public men regarded the new Constitution. Washington called
to his cabinet men who disliked one another and who were really as much
opposed to one another as if they belonged to antagonistic parties; but
they never could draw Washington away from a strict impartiality. He
made Thomas Jefferson Secretary of State, because he was most thoroughly
acquainted with foreign affairs; and he made Alexander Hamilton Secretary
of the Treasury, because he had shown himself the most competent man to
plan a way out of the greatest peril which beset the young nation. But
Jefferson and Hamilton cordially disliked each other, and were decidedly
of opposite ways of thinking.

[Illustration: ST. PAUL’S CHURCH, NEW YORK.]

Washington, however, did not rest contented with choosing the best men
to carry on the Government. In those days, when the country had only a
small population, a small area, and a small business, it was possible for
one man to know very much more fully the details of government than it is
now. His lifelong habits of methodical industry enabled Washington to get
through an amount of work which seems extraordinary. For example, he read
from beginning to end all the letters which had passed between Congress
and foreign governments since the treaty of peace in 1783, making
abstracts and briefs of them, so as to know thoroughly the whole history
of the relations of the country to foreign governments. He required
from every head of department whom he found in office, a report of the
state of public business. He treated these reports as he had the foreign
correspondence, and in this way he mastered all the internal affairs of
the nation. The result was that he had his own judgment about any matter
of importance which came up, and was not obliged to follow the lead of
the cabinet officers.

There were, of course, only a few public offices to be filled then, and
it was quite possible for Washington to know personally most of the men
who should be appointed to fill them. He thought this one of the most
important parts of his work as President; because he knew well that it
is not rules and regulations, but men, that carry on any government or
any business, and that, if he could put honest and capable men, who
were unselfishly devoted to the country, into all the offices, he would
secure a wise administration of the laws. From the first, he began to
be besieged by applicants for office, and he made immediately the very
sensible rule that he would not give any pledge or encouragement to any
applicant. He heard what they and their friends had to say, and then made
up his mind deliberately. He had, however, certain principles in his mind
which governed him in making appointments, and they were so high and
honorable, and show so well the character of the man, that I copy here
what he said with regard to the matter:

    “Scarcely a day passes in which applications of one kind or
    another do not arrive; insomuch that, had I not early adopted
    some general principles, I should before this time have been
    wholly occupied in this business. As it is, I have found the
    number of answers, which I have been necessitated to give in
    my own hand, an almost insupportable burden to me. The points
    in which all these answers have agreed in substance are, that,
    should it be my lot to go again into public office, I would
    go without being under any possible engagements of any nature
    whatsoever; that, so far as I knew my own heart, I would not
    be in the remotest degree influenced in making nominations
    by motives arising from the ties of family or blood; and
    that, on the other hand, three things, in my opinion, ought
    principally to be regarded, namely: the fitness of characters
    to fill offices, the comparative claims from the former merits
    and sufferings in service of the different candidates, and the
    distribution of appointments in as equal a proportion as might
    be to persons belonging to the different States in the Union.
    Without precautions of this kind, I clearly foresaw the endless
    jealousies and possibly the fatal consequences to which a
    government, depending altogether on the good-will of the people
    for its establishment, would certainly be exposed in its early
    stages. Besides, I thought, whatever the effect might be in
    pleasing or displeasing any individuals at the present moment,
    a due concern for my own reputation, not less decisively than a
    sacred regard to the interests of the community, required that
    I should hold myself absolutely at liberty to act, while in
    office, with a sole reference to justice and the public good.”

To protect himself from being at everybody’s call, and so unable to be
of the greatest service, he established certain rules. Every Tuesday,
between the hours of three and four, he received whoever might come.
Every Friday afternoon Mrs. Washington received with him. At all other
times, he could be seen only by special appointment. He never accepted
invitations to dinner, and that has been the rule of Presidents ever
since; but he constantly invited to his own table foreign ministers,
members of the Government, and other guests. He received no visits on
Sunday. He went to church with his family in the morning, and spent the
afternoon by himself. The evening he spent with his family, and sometimes
had with him an intimate friend.

He still kept up his old habit of rising at four and going to bed at
nine. Mrs. Washington had a grave little formula with which she used to
dismiss visitors in the evening:

“The General always retires at nine o’clock, and I usually precede him.”

His recreation he took chiefly in driving and riding. He never lost
his liking for a good horse, and he knew what a good horse was. He had
a servant who had been General Braddock’s servant, and had been with
Washington ever since the battle of the Monongahela. Bishop, as he
was named, was a terrible disciplinarian, and devoted to his master’s
interests. At sunrise every day, he would go to the stables, where the
boys had been at work since dawn grooming the General’s horses. Woe
to them if they had been careless! Bishop marched in with a muslin
handkerchief in his hand and passed it over the coats of the horses; if a
single stain appeared on the muslin, the boy who groomed the horse had to
take a thrashing. It was no light matter to groom a horse in those days,
for, just as the heads of gentlemen were plastered and bewigged, so the
horses were made to undergo what would seem to us now a rather absurd
practice. The night before a horse was to be ridden, he was covered from
head to foot with a paste made of whiting and other ingredients; then he
was well wrapped in cloth and laid to sleep on clean straw. By the next
morning the paste had hardened, and it was then vigorously rubbed in, and
the horse curried and brushed. The result was a glossy and satiny coat.
The hoofs were blackened and polished, the mouth washed, the teeth picked
and cleaned, and the horse was then ready to be saddled and brought out.

Mrs. Washington was a domestic, home-loving body, but a lady of great
dignity and sweetness of disposition, who moved serenely by the side of
her husband, receiving his guests in the same spirit. She never talked
about politics, but was evenly courteous to every one. She was like her
husband, too, in her exactness and her attention to little details of
economy. While she was in the midst of her duties as President’s wife,
she wrote to one of her family: “I live a very dull life here, and know
nothing that passes in the town. I never go to any public place, indeed,
I think I am more like a state prisoner than anything else. There are
certain bounds set for me which I must not depart from; and, as I can not
do as I like, I am obstinate and stay at home a great deal.” But her real
heart was at Mount Vernon and in her household affairs. “I send to dear
Maria,” she writes, “a piece of _chene_ to make her a frock, and a piece
of muslin, which I hope is long enough for an apron for you. In exchange
for it, I beg you will give me a worked muslin apron you have, like my
gown that I made just before I left home, of worked muslin, as I wish to
make a petticoat to my gown, of the two aprons.”

Washington himself never lost sight of Mount Vernon. Just as in his
absence, during the war, he required weekly reports from the manager of
his plantation, so now he kept up the same practice. Occasionally, when
Congress was not in session, he could go home, but his visits were short
and rare. It may seem strange to some that a soldier and a statesman like
Washington should be also an ardent farmer; but that he was. I suppose
the one occupation that Washington loved was farming; in his earlier
life there is no doubt that he cared most for a soldier’s fortune, but
after he was fairly in possession of Mount Vernon, the care of that place
became his passion, and for the rest of his life he was first and last
a farmer. For my part, I like to think of Washington in this way, for
the one indispensable art is the art of agriculture; all other arts are
built upon it, and the man who has a piece of land, and can raise from it
enough to feed and clothe and shelter himself and his family, is the most
independent of men, and has a real place on the earth which he can call
his own.

During his presidency, Washington made two tours through the
country,—one into the Eastern and one into the Southern States. He was
received with special honor in New England, for he was less familiarly
known to the people there, and they made a great holiday in every town
through which the President passed. By these tours, he made himself
acquainted with the needs of the country and with the persons who were
the leaders of the people.

But there were parts which he could not visit, yet in which he felt
the deepest interest and concern. We have seen how, from time to time,
he visited the country beyond the Alleghanies, and how much importance
he attached to the settlement of the West. The greatest difficulty in
the early days was through the relations which the people had with the
Indians. Washington knew the Indians well; he knew how to get along with
them, and he knew also what dangerous enemies they were. At the end of
his first term as President, it became necessary to send a military
expedition to the frontiers, and General St. Clair was placed at the
head of it. When he came to bid Washington good-bye, his old chief gave
him a solemn warning: “You have your instructions from the Secretary
of War. I had a strict eye to them, and will add but one word: Beware
of a surprise! You know how the Indians fight. I repeat it—beware of a
surprise!”

But St. Clair was surprised and terribly defeated. It was a bitter
disappointment to Washington, who received the news of the disaster one
December day when he was at dinner. His private secretary, Mr. Lear,
was called out of the room by a servant, who said there was a messenger
without who insisted on seeing the President. Mr. Lear went to him and
found that he was an officer from St. Clair’s army with dispatches which
he refused to give to any one but President Washington. Mr. Lear went
back to the dining-room and whispered this to Washington, who excused
himself to the company and went out to hear the officer’s news. He came
back shortly after and resumed his place at the table, but without
explaining the reason of his absence. He was, however, absorbed, as he
often was, and muttered to himself; and one of his neighbors caught the
words, “I knew it would be so!”

It was the evening when Mrs. Washington held her reception, and the
gentlemen, when leaving the dining-room, went directly into the
drawing-room. Washington went with them. He was calm and showed no signs
of disturbance. He spoke as usual to every one, and at last the guests
had gone. Mrs. Washington also left, and the General was left alone
with his secretary. He was silent at first, walking to and fro in the
room. Then he took a seat by the fire, and motioned Mr. Lear to sit by
him. He could no longer contain himself; he must have some relief, and
suddenly he burst out: “It’s all over! St. Clair’s defeated! routed! The
officers nearly all killed; the men by wholesale; the rout complete—too
shocking to think of, and a surprise into the bargain!” He jerked out the
sentences as if he were in pain. He got up and walked up and down again
like a caged lion, stood still, and once more burst out in passionate
speech: “Yes, _here_, on this very spot I took leave of him; I wished
him success and honor. ‘You have your instructions from the Secretary of
War,’ said I, ‘I had a strict eye to them, and will add but one word:
BEWARE OF A SURPRISE! You know how the Indians fight; I repeat it—BEWARE
OF A SURPRISE!’ He went off with that, my last warning, thrown into
his ears. And yet!—To suffer that army to be cut to pieces, butchered,
tomahawked, by a surprise—the very thing I guarded him against!”—and the
strong man threw up his hands while he shook with terrible emotion: “He’s
worse than a murderer! How can he answer for it to his country! The blood
of the slain is upon him—the curse of widows and orphans—the curse of
Heaven!”

[Illustration: GEORGE WASHINGTON. (FROM THE PORTRAIT BY GILBERT STUART.)]

Mr. Lear was dumb. He had never seen or heard Washington like this. It
was a pent-up volcano bursting forth. Washington himself recovered his
control. He sat down again. He was silent. He felt, as a strong man does
who has for a moment broken the bounds of restraint, a noble shame, not
at his indignation, but at having for a moment thus given way. “This must
not go beyond this room,” he said presently, in a quiet, almost whispered
tone. Then he added, after a pause: “General St. Clair shall have
justice. I looked hastily through the dispatches; saw the whole disaster,
but not all the particulars. I will receive him without displeasure; I
will hear him without prejudice; he shall have full justice.”

Washington kept his word. Perhaps all the more for this outbreak, he
determined that St. Clair should be treated with scrupulous justice.
But the incident illustrates the character of Washington. Deep down in
his nature was a passionate regard for law, for obedience, for strict
accountability. It was this which made him in minor matters so punctual,
so orderly, so precise in his accounts; in larger matters, it made him
unselfishly and wholly consecrated to the country which trusted him,
just in all his dealings, and the soul of honor. This consuming passion
for law made him govern himself, keep in restraint the fierce wrath
which leaped up within him, and measure his acts and words with an iron
will. The two notable scenes when his anger blazed out and burned up
his self-control as if it were a casing of straw, were caused by Lee’s
faithlessness at Monmouth and St. Clair’s carelessness. On each of these
occasions, it was not an offense against himself which woke his terrible
wrath, it was an offense against the country, against God; for in the
moment of his anger he saw each of these two men false to the trust
reposed in him.

Yet the difficulties with the Indians were as nothing to the perils
which beset the country in its intercourse with Europe. At that time,
the United States was almost a part of Europe. All its business was with
France and England. It had declared and achieved political independence,
but was nevertheless connected by a thousand ties of commerce, law, and
custom with the Old World. The fierce revolution in France was in part
set in flame by the example of America; and when war broke out between
England and France, there was scarcely a man in America who did not take
sides in his mind with one country or the other. There was the greatest
possible danger that the country would be drawn into the quarrels of
Europe.

In the midst of all these commotions, when the very members of his
cabinet were acting and speaking as if they were the servants either of
England or of France, Washington maintained his impartiality, and saw to
it that the United States was kept out of European disputes. What was the
result? He saved the country from fearful disaster; for he was like the
pilot that conducts the ship through rapids and past dangerous reefs. But
he himself suffered incredible contumely and reviling from the hot-headed
partisans who were ready to plunge the country into the dispute. “If ever
a nation,” said one newspaper, “was debauched by a man, the American
nation has been debauched by Washington. If ever a nation was deceived
by a man, the American nation has been deceived by Washington. Let his
conduct, then, be an example to future ages; let it serve to be a warning
that no man may be an idol; let the history of the Federal Government
instruct mankind that the mask of patriotism may be worn to conceal the
foulest designs against the liberties of the people.” That is the way
some people wrote about Washington when he was President.


CHAPTER XXV.

THE FAREWELL.

When Washington had completed his two terms of office, he was unalterably
fixed in his resolution to go back to private life. The reasons which
had induced him to accept the presidency against his inclination were no
longer forcible. The government was established. The country was on the
road to prosperity. No one man any longer had it in his power greatly to
help or greatly to hurt the people. Moreover he was weary of public life.
He was tired of standing up and being pelted with mud by all sorts of
obscure people; of having his motives misconstrued; of listening to the
endless bickerings of public men about him. For more than twenty years
he had really been at the head of the nation. Now he meant to go back to
his farm; but before he went, he had it in him to say one word to his
countrymen.

That Washington should write his famous “Farewell Address to the People
of the United States,” indicates how accurately he understood his
position. He was a great man, a splendid figure in history, and he knew
it. But he was too great to be vain of his distinction. He was not too
great to use even his distinction for the benefit of his country. He knew
perfectly well that any speech which he might make when he retired from
office would be listened to as almost no other political paper was ever
listened to by a people, and he determined to gather into his “Farewell
Address” the weightiest judgment which he could pronounce, as summing
up the result of his long study and observation of public affairs. He
wrote, of course, with a special eye to the needs of the people who were
immediately to hear and read the address. They had dangers about them
which have since largely disappeared; for example, we do not especially
need to-day the caution which the men of that day needed when Washington
wrote: “A passionate attachment of one nation for another produces a
variety of evils.”

Nevertheless, the address is so full of sound political wisdom, that I
wish it might be read in every public school in the land on the 22d day
of February. In it, the large-minded Washington speaks, thinking of the
whole country, and pouring into his words the ripe and full judgment
of a man whose one thought in his life had been to serve his country
faithfully.

The observance of Washington’s birthday began in a quiet way during
Washington’s lifetime. As early as 1783, when the war was over, but
before the treaty of peace was signed, some gentlemen met together to
celebrate it, and during his presidency, the day was observed by members
of Congress and others who paid their respects to him, and the observance
of the day became more and more general, especially after Washington’s
death.

The day before he was to leave office, Washington gave a farewell dinner
to the Foreign Ministers and their wives, and eminent public men
including the new President, John Adams. The company was in excellent
spirits, until Washington raised his glass to wish them all good health,
after the fashion of those days. He smiled and said: “Ladies and
gentlemen, this is the last time I shall drink your health as a public
man; I do it with sincerity, wishing you all possible happiness.” Perhaps
he was thinking at the moment of his own happiness in going back to
private life; but it suddenly rushed over the minds of those present what
such a toast meant, and all mirth was gone. The next day he attended the
ceremonies of the inauguration of John Adams. As he moved toward the door
to retire, there was a rush of the people toward him. They cheered and
cheered as he passed into the street. He answered, smiling and waving his
hat, his gray hairs blown by the wind. The people followed him to the
door of his house. He turned, as he entered, and looked on them. Now it
was his turn to feel the pain of parting. After all, he was going away
from those busy haunts where he was sure to see men who honored and loved
him. Tears stood in his eyes; his face was pale and grave; he raised his
hand, but he could not trust himself to speak.

       *       *       *       *       *

He was once more at Mount Vernon, in the quiet of his home, and again the
days went by in that regular routine which suited him. Here is a letter
which he wrote to James McHenry, the Secretary of War:

    “I am indebted to you for several unacknowledged letters; but
    never mind that; go on as if you had answers. You are at the
    source of information, and can find many things to relate;
    while I have nothing to say that could either inform or amuse a
    Secretary of War in Philadelphia. I might tell him that I begin
    my diurnal course with the sun; that, if my hirelings are not
    in their places at that time I send them messages of sorrow for
    their indisposition; that, having put these wheels in motion,
    I examine the state of things further; that, the more they are
    probed, the deeper I find the wounds which my buildings have
    sustained by an absence and neglect of eight years; that, by
    the time I have accomplished these matters, breakfast (a little
    after seven o’clock, about the time, I presume, you are taking
    leave of Mrs. McHenry) is ready; that, this being over, I mount
    my horse and ride round my farms, which employs me until it is
    time to dress for dinner, at which I rarely miss seeing strange
    faces, come, as they say, out of respect for me. Pray, would
    not the word curiosity answer as well? And how different this
    from having a few social friends at a cheerful board! The usual
    time of sitting at table, a walk, and tea, bring me within
    the dawn of candle light; previous to which, if not prevented
    by company, I resolve, that, as soon as the glimmering taper
    supplies the place of the great luminary, I will retire to my
    writing-table and acknowledge the letters I have received;
    but when the lights are brought, I feel tired and disinclined
    to engage in this work, conceiving that the next night will
    do as well. The next night comes, and with it the same causes
    for postponement, and so on. This will account for your letter
    remaining so long unacknowledged; and, having given you the
    history of a day, it will serve for a year, and I am persuaded
    you will not require a second edition of it. But it may strike
    you, that in this detail no mention is made of any portion of
    time allotted for reading. The remark would be just, for I have
    not looked into a book since I came home; nor shall I be able
    to do it until I have discharged my workmen, probably not
    before the nights grow longer, when possibly I may be looking
    in Doomsday Book. At present I shall only add, that I am always
    and affectionately yours.”

But the time came when a letter to the Secretary of War was not a piece
of pleasantry. There was imminent danger of war with France; Congress
issued an order to raise an army, and President John Adams immediately
nominated George Washington as Commander-in-Chief. The Senate promptly
confirmed the nomination, and Washington accepted on two conditions: that
the principal officers should be such as he approved, and that he should
not be called into the field till the army required his presence. He did
not think there would be war, but he believed the best way to prevent it
was to show that the people were ready for it.

It was in March, 1797, that Washington left Philadelphia for Mount
Vernon; in July, 1798, he was appointed Commander-in-Chief. He conducted
most of his business by letter, though he spent a month in Philadelphia.
He took up again the burden he had laid down, quietly, readily, since it
was necessary, and without complaint; but he had not very long to bear it.

On December 12, 1799, he had been riding over his farms as usual, but
a rain and sleet storm came up, and he returned to the house chilled
through by the exposure. The next day was still stormy, and he kept
indoors; but he had taken cold and suffered from a sore throat. He
passed the evening with his family, however, read the papers and talked
cheerfully. In the night he had an attack of ague, and on the next
morning, which was Saturday the 14th, he breathed with difficulty, and
messengers were sent for one doctor after another. He suffered acutely,
but did not complain. Toward evening he said to Dr. Craik: “I die hard,
but I am not afraid to die. I believed from my first attack that I should
not survive it. My breath can not last long.” He said little more, only
thanked his attendants for their kindness, and bade them give themselves
no further trouble,—simply to let him die in quietness. Between ten and
eleven o’clock that night he died.

Chief-Justice Marshall, when the news reached Congress, said a few simple
words in the House of Representatives, and asked that a committee be
appointed in conjunction with a committee of the Senate “to consider on
the most suitable manner of paying honor to the memory of the man, _first
in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his fellow-citizens_”;
but no manner has been found more suitable than the study of that life
which is the most priceless gift to America.

THE END.




THE CHILDREN’S EXHIBITION.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.


One morning last March there appeared in the New York newspapers an
advertisement of a “Children’s Industrial Exhibition.” At first many
persons could not imagine what it could be. But when the doors were
opened and the reporters went to look at the exhibition, the newspapers
began to tell of the many curious things to be seen in the hall. No such
exhibition had ever been seen in New York, and then people began to
wonder why one had not been held before. Now the true way to understand
a thing is to look at it again and again. It so happened that I went to
this exhibition several times, and that a ST. NICHOLAS artist went too,
and so perhaps we can together give you an idea of the principal things
that were on view at that curious show.

[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF THE EXHIBITION.]

The exhibition was held in a large and handsome hall, and was arranged
just like any grand fair intended to exhibit the artistic or mechanical
achievements of men and women. There was only this difference: the
objects to be seen were all made by little women and very youthful
men. There were medals to be given for the best work, and there was
a catalogue, and there were officials to explain everything to the
visitors. Were there sums on slates, compositions, exercises or examples
of penmanship? No. Better than these—very much better—there were real
things made by boys and girls with their own hands, and, best of all,
things made in school.

On entering the hall, however, the first objects to attract attention
were those made by boys at home and out of school. These objects were
arranged on tables by themselves, some of the work being by children in
New York, and some by young folk in Yonkers. There were wood-carvings,
hammered brasswork, drawings and designs, embroidery, and hundreds of
curious things either useful or merely ornamental; models of boats,
houses, shops, forts, and even a _carousel_ with woolly elephants that
career madly around the ring whenever the clockwork is wound up. Some of
the things were well made, but many were very poorly done, which shows
that we must go to school to learn to make boats as well as to learn to
do sums in long division. The work of the girls showed more training than
that of the boys, and the sewing was very good,—some of the artistic
sewing being worthy of high praise.

Speaking of sewing, our old ST. NICHOLAS friends, the kitchen-garden and
the cooking-garden, were wonderfully displayed with full examples and
models, and even a tea-table set in proper order precisely as arranged
by the little housekeepers. The exhibit was well worth looking at, and
there was always a crowd around the table, but for us it was chiefly
interesting because there the noble art of sewing was demonstrated
precisely as if it were a lesson in geography.

[Illustration: PART OF THE EXHIBIT BY THE CHILDREN OF YONKERS, NEW YORK.]

The true way to study about islands and capes and all the other divisions
of land and water is to have some sand and water in a box, and then to
build up the sand into miniature islands and capes, just like the real
things out-of-doors. When I went to school, all the boys could say,
“An island is a portion of land entirely surrounded by water,” and yet
not a boy in the class knew that he lived on an island. So it is with
sewing. The girls I knew years ago cried so hard over the long, dreary
seams, that I used to be glad I was not a girl. But nowadays there is
sewing without weeping: a neat box all ready for school,—with thimbles,
needles, pins, thread, scissors; hundreds of pieces of cloth, basted
and ready to be stitched; no dreary seams to tire young fingers, but
easy graded lessons, like a needle-work kindergarten. And as we crossed
the exhibition-hall, we saw another method. There on a long table were
hundreds of garments and parts of garments made by the public-school
girls of Philadelphia. There, in a frame, were all the lessons
arranged in regular order, showing every step—hemming, over-seaming,
back-stitching and running, reversible seam, felling, gathering, darning,
and mending, up to the fine art of button-hole making. The girls are
from eight to fifteen years of age, and that work they did in school,
while attending to their regular school lessons. We passed on to the
tables where the work of school-girls of Boston and New Haven and Hoboken
was shown; and in every instance, we saw regular, graded lessons in
needle-work, from the plainest hemming up to the finest embroidery. New
York girls, too, in the schools of the Children’s Aid Society, in mission
and church schools, showed by their samples that they also were students
of stitchery. I saw one piece of sewing that seemed truly wonderful. It
was in a glass case, and it was the “graduation exercises” of a young
girl, fourteen years of age, on leaving Fräulein Calm’s school in Cassel,
Germany. It consisted of half a yard of muslin ornamented with every kind
of sewing that can be done on a machine; half a yard of dress fabric
worked up by hand into the most beautiful pleatings, in a style that
would bring tears of joy to the manly eyes of a ladies’ tailor; a piece
of wonderful patching; and a square of darning so perfect that it was
impossible to tell which was the new cloth, and which the old garment.
Why, the girl must have been a finished dress-maker! She could earn
good wages to-morrow by simply showing her “graduation exercise.” And
as we turned to a dozen other exhibits in the hall, we saw more sewing,
from the work of the first class in hemming up to that of the little
dress-makers, who could cut, fit, and make their own clothes.

What can boys do? Judging by their grand exhibit, we thought to ourselves
“they can do almost anything!” Some boys who attend one of the uptown
schools on the east side had formed a club for home work and study in
mechanics, and there was a table filled with their work. It was chiefly
models in wood of real things the boys had seen—a crane, a dumb-waiter,
a stone-saw, a pile-driver, and other mechanical implements. It was all
excellent work, but it was home work done out of school hours.

[Illustration: EXHIBIT OF THE HEBREW TECHNICAL INSTITUTE.]

The opposite table showed school work done by the boys of the Hebrew
Technical Institute. Those young master mechanics, it seems, attended
school every day and at the same time learned the use of tools, the
pencil, the saw, the hammer, and the plane. First of all, every boy had
to learn to draw, not merely to make a pretty picture of something,
but to make a regular working-drawing, so that the real thing could be
constructed from it, and so that when the thing is finished, the drawing
will be a true picture of it, whatever it may be. So we found there
regular graded lessons in drawing, and in making joints in wood, and in
construction. As the boy improves, he studies pattern-making and learns
to make a mold from the pattern, and to melt lead and make a casting. We
saw all the carpentry lessons arranged in order, and glanced at every
lesson a boy has to take, from learning to draw to making a step-ladder.
There were stools, tables, small bureaus, and other furniture made,
finished, stained, and varnished by boys in the school. There was even
a window-frame ready to put in the wall of a house, with sash, blinds,
and all, complete and in working order; and the boy who made it was only
fourteen years old.

There are in every school queer girls or odd boys who somehow fail often
and are at the foot of every class. These children may be as bright
as any, but there is nothing in the school to bring them out. In this
exhibition we found the work of some such girls and boys. They see
beautiful things in fields and wood, and they have wise teachers. It is
not every child that can express itself in a composition. These boys and
girls express the ideas that are in them with a pencil. They study real,
living things, plants and flowers, and they learn to place the forms of
these things on paper and add to them something of their own day-dreams,
and soon every one who sees them exclaims: “What beautiful designs!”
These so-called dull children who never can understand the multiplication
table, and who shed useless tears over the tables of weights and
measures, here find the right kind of school for them: and they appeared,
with their work, in this children’s exhibition, as bright, as interested,
as eager to learn as any prize-medal scholar in any grammar school.

Now we must not think that only the quiet, thoughtful girls can do such
work. Every child has some sense of beauty; the trouble is that unless it
is given instruction in such things, it will probably never, except by
accident, find out what it can do. They are wiser about such things in
Chicago.

On the wall of the exhibition-room, under the gallery, was a grand
display of work, and so arranged that we could see just what every child
in the public schools of Chicago studies from year to year. The pictures
were arranged in three rows to illustrate the different kinds of work;
and below the pictures, on a long table, was a collection of little
models, made by the children in the schools. There were balls, cubes, and
pyramids shaped in clay by little hands. Even the youngest children in
primary schools can do this. Why, it is only fun, to shape the soft clay!
Of course, every little seven-year-old fellow is in a hurry every morning
to get to so grand a school, where he learns what a cube is by making
a true, fair cube in soft clay. Having learned to make various shapes
in clay, he then learns to make simple outlines of the same objects by
placing straws together in those shapes on his desk. Next, he can go one
step further, and with a pair of scissors cut cardboard into shapes that
represent those forms. Then he can proceed to use these shapes in various
ways to make designs, or he can cut in paper or in white wood, with a
scroll-saw, pretty figures suggested by the clay-models. He can even make
new lines on the old shapes, and decorate the clay forms he first made.

If your teacher tells you that a cube is a “rectangular parallelopiped,
which has its six sides squares,” you may think it is all right, and say
it after him without tripping, and yet not have the least notion that
the wooden blocks on which you learned your letters were all cubes. This
Chicago youngster would not use those dreadful words to describe a cube.
He would make one and give you a picture of it. Did he not construct one
out of wet clay? He knows a cube anywhere, and he will never forget it.
All his life long he will see cubes of every size, and he will know in an
instant whether they are true cubes with all the six sides truly square.
And if you give him a piece of paper, he will cut it out into a perfect
cross, and then fold it up in a certain way and make a box that is a
cube. Besides all this, his cubes are ornamented, so that he is already
an artist, and enjoys making things beautiful.

The picture here given shows the three ways in which the Chicago
primary scholar works. At the base are the forms he constructs in clay;
then the outlines made of bits of straw; then the figures cut out of
cardboard; and finally the decorated figures made from these forms. In
this way, he studies construction or making things; representation, or
picture-making; and decoration, or the making of beautiful figures that
are like the things he constructed and represented. We walked along that
beautiful exhibit and saw hundreds of things molded in clay or cut out
of soap or carved in wood, and then saw the drawings and ornaments made
from those things. We perceived just how the Chicago boy or girl goes on
from work with straw to simple drawings on a slate, and then to finished
drawings in pencil on paper, until we wondered if every child in Chicago
is to be an artist.

[Illustration: PART OF THE EXHIBIT BY THE CHICAGO PUBLIC-SCHOOLS.]

Next to that fine display of children’s work from Chicago came a series
of drawings by the pupils of the schools of Worcester, Mass. Here, too,
we find the boys and girls making drawings of real things that they
have made themselves or that were made by others. The first drawings
are to show how the things are constructed, the others to show how they
look. Then the pupils take flowers or other objects and make from them
original designs that may be used for decoration. In this exhibit, too,
were beautiful pictures in water-colors to show that the young artists
understood the harmony of colors. If the exhibition had shown us nothing
more than the admirable work by those Massachusetts boys and girls, it
would have well repaid us for coming.

[Illustration: PART OF THE EXHIBIT BY THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF WORCESTER,
MASS.]

Next to the Worcester exhibit stood the New Haven tables. What fine
times those New England children must have! Here we found more drawings,
by Connecticut boys and girls, showing that they also know how things
are made, and how they look on paper. Here, too, were more of those
curious shapes, cut out of paper, to be folded up into cubes and prisms,
cylinders and pyramids. There even were little pots and pans, cut out
of paper, every part made by itself from a drawing, and the little
model made by pasting the parts together. What an easy way that must be
to study squares and circles, parallel lines and the whole family of
angles! New Haven boys will never stumble over that trying old question,
as to the difference between two square feet and two feet square. They
learn all about it in a new kind of game with scissors and paper and a
pot of paste. We might spend hours in looking over the work of those New
Haven boys and girls—the handsome furniture, the neat sewing and pretty
embroidery, the “busy work” of kindergarten tots, and the carpentry work
of the big boys; and the more we studied that school work, the more we
should wish, probably, that all schools were like those schools.

[Illustration: SEWING-KIT FURNISHED TO GIRL PUPILS OF THE PHILADELPHIA
PUBLIC SCHOOLS. SAMPLES OF WORK.]

Leaving the New Haven tables we came to the grand exhibit made by the
school-children of Philadelphia. In that city, there are twenty-five
thousand girls studying plain sewing every week of the school year. The
piled-up tables loaded with sewing showed only a small part of the work.
On other tables we could see excellent designs and work in hammered
brass, fine carvings, and even furniture and stamped leather-work. Then
there was one very interesting table. On the wall above it were working
drawings showing how wooden joints of all kinds are made; and on the
table itself were dovetails, mortises and tenons admirably done in wood.
There too were pieces of cast iron chipped and filed into various
shapes. Very few workmen in shops could do better, and yet all we saw was
the work of public-school boys.

[Illustration: SAMPLES OF JOINING-WORK IN WOOD AND METAL, SENT BY THE
PHILADELPHIA MANUAL TRAINING SCHOOL.]

As we turned away from those tables, we saw another marked “St. Louis.”
Here was shown more work by little hands, more drawings, too, and all
proving that those Western youngsters are having happy times in school
with busy fingers. Next, we came upon some excellent drawings by pupils
of a South End Industrial School at Boston. The boys of that school have
a printing-press, and the girls can make bread as well as trim bonnets,
for they exhibited both the hats and the loaves. Jamestown, in New York,
is also teaching its boys and girls to work with their hands, and some of
their work in the exhibition is excellent.

Did you ever think what it is to be blind?—to be unable to tell whether
the paper you hold in your hand is white or blue or some other color.
How could we do anything if we could not see? But in the Children’s
Exhibition, on a table covered with knitting and fancy work of blind
children, was the strangest display of all—kindergarten work made by a
hundred blind girls and boys! No bad work in it either; it all was neat
and perfect. Yet those children have never seen the work their young
hands have made.

[Illustration: PART OF THE EXHIBIT SENT BY THE MANUAL TRAINING SCHOOL OF
CHICAGO.]

A boy may lose a foot or a leg and be a cripple all his life. Shall he
give up in despair and do nothing, or beg, which would be even worse? No.
He has his hands and a brave heart. He will have a manly spirit even if
he has a broken body. Well, on a table near the blind children’s work,
was a collection of brooms and brushes,—new, well-made brushes, as good
as you can find, and all made by the young workmen of the Crippled Boys’
Brush Shop in New York.

There, too, were tables loaded with work from four orphan asylums in
New York and Brooklyn, and we saw sewing, bread-making, net-making and
cabinet-work done by young hands that have lost their hold on fathers’
and mothers’ fingers. Other friendly hands are leading them to be useful
and skillful in many good works.

We may have been accustomed to think of Indian boys and girls as little
savages, unable to do anything except to use a bow and arrow or to take
care of the wigwam. But the exhibition included also a display of objects
made by Indian children at school. There was a set of harness, a pair of
shoes, and some sensible coffee-pots made by Indian boys and girls. Like
so many others, they are learning to use their hands.

We may pity those halt and blind, those neglected children from the
wilderness, and those little ones who have known grief; but see how brave
they are! They have wiped away all tears and found it sweet and wise to
learn to work, to forget their griefs in industry. Depend upon it, if
we had learned nothing more by coming to this exhibition than this, we
should have learned a great deal—that work is a cure for many ills, that
work actually means happiness.

[Illustration: WORKING-DRAWINGS AND MODEL OF A SUSPENSION BRIDGE. DRAWN
AND CONSTRUCTED BY THE BOYS OF THE GRAMERCY PARK SCHOOL.]

Near the door of the main hall was a fine model of a suspension bridge
with towers and cables complete. Beneath it were drawings showing how
the bridge was made. This was the work of the boys of the Gramercy Park
School and Tool-house Association. They drew the plans, and constructed
the model bridge from the working drawings. They built up the foundations
and towers, piece by piece, and strung the cables and suspended the
roadway. All, too, while the builders were attending school and without
loss of time from their regular lessons.

[Illustration: EXHIBIT BY THE CRIPPLED BOYS’ BRUSH FACTORY.]

And even now I have not told you of half the things in that beautiful
exhibition. As we sat there, people were flocking in, young and old,
teachers and pupils, eager to see what children can do.

And now, what does it all mean? Let us have a little talk about it.

To that exhibition, more than four thousand children sent the work of
their hands. We do not think of them as Western children, as Eastern
boys, or New York girls, as Hebrews, Catholics, as orphans, or blind, or
anything else. They are children at school, and there is the wonder of it
all. It is plain their schools are not like other schools and are very
different from those I saw when a boy. It is plain that those children
can do many things that children without their advantages can not do. And
besides, they are probably happier than any children who ever went to
school before.

Let us see why this is so. Most children go to primary school and then to
grammar school and perhaps to high school and college, or to some private
school. This exhibition plainly shows us that there is a new kind of
school, that there are new lessons and new teachers coming. Books we must
have. To learn, we must read; but we may read all about boats, and yet we
can never learn to sail a boat till we take the tiller in hand and trim
the sail before the breeze. The book will help wonderfully in telling
us the names of things in the boat and, if we have read about sailing,
we shall more quickly learn to sail; but we certainly never shall learn
till we are in a real boat. We can read in a book how to turn a heel in
knitting, and may commit to memory whole rules about “throwing off two
and purl four,” and all the rest; yet where is the girl who can learn to
knit without having the needles in her hands?

This then is the idea of the new school—to use the hands as well as the
eyes. Boys and girls who go to the ordinary schools, where only books
are used, will graduate knowing a great deal; but a boy who goes to one
of these new schools, where, besides the books, there are pencils and
tools, work-benches as well as writing-books, will know more. The other
boys and girls may forget more than half they read, but he will remember
everything he learned at the drawing-table or at the work-bench, as long
as he lives. He will also remember more of that which he reads because
his work with his hands helps him to understand what he reads.

[Illustration: EXHIBIT OF THE AMATEUR TECHNICAL UNION.]

Again, a boy who goes to one of the new schools, where once a week he
spends two hours in a shop, and works with his hands, say to make a
square block of wood “true,”—exact to the hundredth part of an inch,—will
soon see that bad work is not square, is not true and fair. A piece of
false work will seem ugly and show bad workmanship. He will go out of the
shop proud that he can do true work; and all false things, whether in
wood or only in thought, will seem bad and wrong to that boy. He can not
make a crooked joint in woodwork and be satisfied; neither is he likely
to be content with crooked work in word or deed.

The four thousand children whose work filled that exhibition hall, read
books and study lessons precisely as do you; but they do more. For two,
or perhaps four, hours every week they lay down their books and take up
those splendid tools, the pencil, the needle, the hammer, the saw, and
the file. Are they any less readers than those who only read? No; they
are better readers, because they are workers; because by work they better
understand reading.

I remember long ago a tear-stained book of tables of weights and
measures, and a teacher’s impatience with a stupid child who could not
master the “tables.” And I have seen a school where the tables were
written on a blackboard—thus: “two pints are equal to one quart,” and
on a stand in the school-room was a tin pint measure and a tin quart
measure, and a box of dry sand. Every happy youngster had a chance to
fill that pint with sand and pour the sand in the quart measure. Two
pints filled it. He knew it. Did he not see it, did not every boy try
it? Ah! Now they knew what it all meant. It was as plain as day that two
pints of sand were equal to one quart of sand; and with merry smiles
those six-year-old philosophers learned the tables of measures; and they
will never forget them. This is, in brief, what is meant by industrial
education. To learn by using the hands,—to study from things as well
as from books. This is the new school, these are the new lessons. The
children who can sew, or design, or draw, or carve wood, or do joinering
work, or cast metals, or work in clay and brass, are the best-educated
children, because they use their hands as well as their eyes and their
brains.

You may say that in such schools all the boys will become mechanics,
and all the girls become dress-makers. Some may, many will not; and
yet whatever they do, be it preaching, keeping a store, or singing in
concerts, they will do their work better than those who only read in
books. The new schools are the best schools. Will there not be more of
them every year? I think parents will see that it is an excellent thing
for all boys and girls to learn to use their hands, that not to use the
hands at all is to be helpless in the great school we all attend when
we are men and women. The exhibition held last March may be only the
beginning of a new education wherein the hard lessons of the books, that
no little fellow ever could understand, shall give place to bright and
interesting books about work and about things. There may yet be shops
in every schoolyard, and embroidery frames on every girl’s desk. There
will be books, of course, and there also may be tools. There will be
examinations indeed, but there may also be in every town an exhibition
like the one I have told you of; and the fathers and mothers and all the
good people flocking to the schools may see what the children can do with
their hands. There will be speeches and recitations and music as now, and
there may also be drawings and brasswork, embroidery, and designs in clay
and in wood; and every child may be able to work as well as to study. No
more tears over unmeaning lessons, but everywhere pleasure and interest
because study is joined to work, and to learning is added industry.




THE TELL-TALE BARN.

BY ESTHER B. TIFFANY.


    Oh, the funny little barn on a hill-side near our town!
      With two wee, squinting windows in a row,
    And a great wide-open door-way, like the mask-mouth of a clown,
      It seems to be forever saying, “Oh!”
        “Oh!” cries the little barn; “Oh!”
        If you break a china dish
        Or run away to fish,
        “Oh!” cries the little barn; “Oh!”

    One morning very early, we stole two pumpkin pies,
      And thought we’d go and eat them by the lake,
    But when we looked behind us, there stared those watchful eyes,
      And oh, they stared so hard it made us quake!
        And “Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”
        If you stole a pumpkin pie
        To eat it on the sly,
        “Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”

    “I tell you now,” said Jenny, “the old thing won’t keep still
      Until we put those pies right back, I know.
    Let’s slip ’round to the pantry and lay them on the sill,
      Or it will wake the folks up shouting, ‘Oh!’”
        For, “Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”
        Till we put away those pies
        Before its very eyes,
        “Oh!” cried the little barn; “Oh!”

[Illustration]




WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

BY HENRY ECKFORD.


As I have already told you, men can convey ideas to one another by making
various kinds of marks. They can also speak to one another without
using spoken words, by means of gestures. Animals likewise gesticulate,
though in a much cruder way. You have probably seen deaf-mutes converse,
eying one another sharply while their fingers kept fluttering and their
features working in a lively play of expression. They were speaking
a silent language, which is the motion-language of animals and the
signal-language of savages carried to the highest point. Watch in any
black berry patch the large brown thrush, the cat-bird, or the chewink.
Every motion of the bird as it bustles about, is unconcerned. But let it
catch sight of you, or let its eyes fall on snake or hawk or cat, and you
will see the difference in its motions. Four-footed wild animals exhibit
different emotions, such as anger or alarm, by various movements of the
head and limbs.

Among savage nations, like our Indians and the wild tribes of Asia, whose
nomadic habits cause their languages to become distinct from one another
even when they belong to the same parent stock, and where intercourse
is apt to be dangerous on account of feuds, the language of gestures
has been wonderfully developed. A Zuñi will signal to an Apache, his
enemy, and sustain a very full conversation with him across one of those
tremendous canyons which are the marvel of our Southwest. For instance,
putting the hand to the cheek and inclining the head means “sleep.”
Touching the heart means, “I am sincere.” Thrusting forward the two
fingers from the lips, to imitate the forked tongue of the snake, means,
“you tell lies.”

The lower orders of people in Italy have always been famous for quickness
in making and reading signals, and a Neapolitan is often as expert as an
Indian of the plains in the language of signals; in fact, he is smarter,
for he will even talk by means of it to one of his kind while a stranger
remains unconscious that they are communicating with each other before
his face.

Some writers have argued that our letters must have been developed from
signs once drawn roughly to indicate gestures made by the human limbs.
An ingenious person has proposed an entirely new alphabet, which he
considers much quicker and more sensible than our own. It is based on
gestures natural to mankind and reduced from those which he considers
the most important. But into this and into the endless varieties of
short-hand writings and abbreviated writings proposed by inventors in
what is called stenography, tachygraphy, and other strange-looking words
selected from the Greek dictionary, we can not enter.

By sounds, too, ideas are conveyed between animals and between men. As
used by mankind, we call the sounds speech; owing to the gulf that man in
his pride wishes to set between himself and beasts, we call the sounds
made by animals anything rather than speech. When your dog wags its tail,
it uses a sort of gesture language. But when it barks, does it not speak?
If you ever saw the great actor Salvini play “Othello,” you will remember
that he uses cries, like those of animals, to express rage, grief, or
remorse, which are too great to find the measured relief of words. Birds
sing their happiness and cry their distress. Between the disconsolate
mewing of the cat-bird and its rich song of gladness at sunset, while
the mother is safe on the nest, the difference is astonishing; so is
the difference between the mellow song of the brown thrush and its
squirrel-like bark at the certainty of danger, or its vicious clucking
and hissing when its nest is found and touched. Jays have a discordant
cry, but also a charming bell-like call note, which sounds rarely in
the deep pine forests. Even fish sometimes make voluntary sounds, while
the cries of our frogs and toads and insects, which make the wilderness
joyous, at times are deafening. Animals, as a rule, have some kind of
speech, however rude, however occasional may be its use.

But such marks as animals leave on sand or wood, in grass or bushes, can
hardly be called writing by the widest interpretation, for they lack
intention. To be sure, when the grizzly bear rears its ugly bulk against
a redwood-tree and gashes the loose bark in order to stretch its claws,
it leaves a sign behind which some animals, particularly those of its
own race and those on which it most preys, undoubtedly can read. But
the nearest approach, in an animal, to intentional acts designed to be
seen or enjoyed by others, is the decoration of its curious house by the
bower-bird of New Guinea. A pair of these birds will build an arbor of
twigs and leaves for no apparent purpose except their own amusement, and
then decorate it with bright feathers and stones, as if they experienced
pleasure in looking at it and wished other birds or creatures to see it.
But even this is far from the rudest beginnings of writing.

Man writes from forethought and for the instruction of himself and
others. Speech is a gift; writing an invention. Speech we share with the
animals. Those parts of speech which we call ejaculations can not be
separated from the cries of animals. You may have heard man called the
talking animal. Would it not be better to call him the writing animal?
His invention of writing separates him more than does articulate speech,
from the lower orders of animate beings. No matter now how far back
we go, or how far down we dig through the earth’s crust to the layers
of soil deposited nobody knows how long ago, wherever we find things
fashioned by men, we find pictures that show the groping toward some kind
of writing. Now, it is a portrait of a horse carved in outline on a piece
of bone; at another time, it is a mammoth attacked by a hunter under
cover of a wolf-skin. The difference between the brains of man and the
brains of the highest animals is so great that, however we may suspect
from other things that there was an age when men were little stronger in
wits than the apes, we have as yet no certainty where and when a race of
men lived who could not at least draw a picture in outline. The Bushmen,
an African nation thought to be the lowest of living men in intellect,
are now known to be marvelously expert in drawing. They cover the walls
of their caves with well-drawn portraits of wild beasts.

So you see that the alphabet, which you learn at an age so early that
you forget its difficulties, is perhaps the most curious and marvelous
contrivance that has been produced by the brain of man. It is so old,
that its origin is lost in the perspective of the past. To reconstruct
its history is extremely difficult. The further back we go, the more
confused are the records, and the scantier they become; but those which
we find seem to point originally to a great variety of writings. The
general history seems to be that of simpler from less simple—simpler
pictures from complex pictures, simpler alphabets from alphabets more
complex. Then a few chosen alphabets outlived all the rest; and finally
one form, in great variation to be sure, rules now throughout a great
portion of the whole world.

This, as you have seen, is the alphabet which we share with so many
nations of different speech, color, and ancestry. Still, only half
satisfied with the derivation of this alphabet, we ask, whence did
it come to the Phœnicians? Was it evolved on Egyptian soil? Or did
the Phœnicians perfect it from some old syllabary like those which I
have already described to you. A syllabary of the ancient Hittites of
Palestine has just been discovered and partly made out. Attempts have
been made to trace it to the cuneiform picture-writing at Babylon, which
also I have told you about; and some have thought it may have been
born in India, out of a vanished syllabary, and its origin completely
forgotten because of wars and the destruction of monuments. Or perhaps
some very early or forgotten emigration of people from Asia into Egypt
may have carried with it a crude alphabet, which, after further changes,
was carried by another and a seafaring people, the Phœnicians, to the
nations about the Mediterranean. One of David’s captains was Uriah the
Hittite. More and more is being learned nowadays about the Hittites,
or Khetas, a Semitic nation that conquered and held Egypt for many
centuries, long before David’s time. It is thought by some that Joseph
was sold by his brothers into slavery while the Hittites ruled over the
patient Egyptians, who abhorred them and their gods. There seems to have
been no difficulty on the part of Joseph and his brothers in making
themselves understood by Potiphar and the Pharaoh that sat on the throne.
If the ruling class was Semitic at the time, the court speech of the day
was doubtless a dialect something like Hebrew, and this explains also why
the starving sons of Jacob turned to Egypt for grain. The Hittites are
considered the same people as the Khetas, the same also as the Shepherd
Kings whom the Egyptians called the Hyksos. Perhaps it was during the
reign of the Hyksos, or Hittites, and while the Hebrews were increasing
mightily in numbers, and gradually falling under the displeasure of their
rulers in Egypt, that the Phœnicians, their seafaring relatives, adapted
those twenty-two letters from the great store of signs and symbols
accumulated by long lines of Egyptian priests.

You have seen that the origin of the letters of our alphabet has been
attributed to many different sources. One has been sought in the signal
or gesture language, common to savage man, still used by civilized man
under certain circumstances, and not unknown in its most general features
to the lower animals. You may remember that the forms of letters have
been traced back by some to the shapes of trees, and by others to the
shapes of animals. The best reasoned origin of the Phœnician alphabet
ascribes it to rude pictures of gods, men, animals, plants, and objects.

A young man came to one of the wisest Jewish Rabbis to be a disciple.

“My son,” asked the Rabbi, “what is your occupation?”

“I am a scribe,” he replied.

“Then,” exclaimed the Rabbi; “be thou conscientious, O my son, for thy
work is God-like!”

Many nations have held that their letters were the suddenly inspired
inventions of demi-gods; others have maintained that only a god could
have given so useful and admirable a thing to man. The divine origin of
letters has been asserted in twenty different tongues. You have seen
how many different earthly objects have been suggested as the source of
letters. A Frenchman named Moreau de Dammartin, a Member of the French
Institute, claimed that the letters of the alphabet were derived from the
constellations which lie on the path of the earth around the sun; and
certain old star-readers believed that they could read men’s characters
and destinies by the aid of the constellations from which Dammartin
derived the letters of the alphabets. And to-day there are people who
claim to read men’s characters from their handwriting alone. As the
writing of every nation is distinguished by certain strong national
peculiarities, it is easy for an expert to decide to what nation a
writer belongs. Having settled that, certain large characteristics which
are common to all men, but in different degrees, can be seen in every
handwriting. A certain number of men are calm, even-lived, sensible,
and practical. Men of that class are almost certain to write plain,
round hands in which every letter is distinctly legible; neither very
much slanted forward, nor tilted backward; no letter very much bigger
than its neighbor, nor with heads much above or tails much below the
letters not so distinguished; the letters all having about the same
general uprightness, and the lines true to the edges of the paper,
neither tending upward nor downward. Exact, business-like people will
have an exact handwriting. Fantastic minds revel in quirks and streamers,
particularly for the capital letters, and this quality is not infrequent
in certain business hands, as if the writers found a relief from the
prosaic nature of their work in giving flourishes to certain letters.
Firm, decided, downright men are apt to bear on the pen while writing,
and to make their strokes hard and thick. On the contrary, people who
are not sure of themselves, and are lacking in self-control, press
unevenly, and with anxious-looking, scratchy hands. Ambitious people
are apt to be overworked; they are always in haste and either forget to
cross their t’s, or dot their i’s. They are also apt to run the last few
letters of every word into an illegible scrawl. Besides those who do
this naturally, there are others, silly or young people, who imitate the
illegibleness in the handwriting of some one whom they admire. Flurried,
troubled, and conscience-twinged persons have a crabbed and uneven
handwriting. From all this it will appear that the claim of those who
try to read character from handwritings is not so absurd as some people
imagine.

I have now tried to tell you as plainly as possible the main facts about
our alphabet so far as its history has been puzzled out. Those who are
not afraid of large words, and wish to learn at greater length, should
read the articles on the alphabet in the “Encyclopædia Britannica” and
also in “Appleton’s Cyclopædia,” and especially the two large volumes
called “The Alphabet,” written by Mr. Isaac Taylor. The number of special
books and treatises in French, German, and English, bearing on different
languages and their alphabets is too great to mention here.

We are taught the alphabet so soon after infancy that we naturally
underrate its importance all our lives. Yet, who shall measure its
importance to civilization? Writing has enabled mankind to store up
knowledge. There are calculations and speculations which require so much
straining of the mind, that advance to them and beyond them would have
been impossible without the stepping-stones furnished by writing. For
calculations, numerals and algebraic letters are the stepping-stones;
for speculations, words and frequent sentences. The storing of ideas in
books is often badly done, and people are always ready to groan over the
vast accumulations of volumes and the very small proportion of ideas
worth preserving. Yet, until volumes became general and no longer the
mysterious conjuring books of the few, human knowledge was always more
or less in danger of being swept from the earth by accidents to the few
and scattered libraries. The more widely a book was spread in copies
over the world, the less was the chance of its total disappearance. The
printing-press aided in this kind of insurance of the knowledge of man
against accidents. And neither printing-press nor alphabet need yet be
considered as perfected. Our alphabet is not the best ever invented,
but it is short and handy. As a subject for study, it yields to nothing
that is connected intimately with the civilization of mankind. When we
understand the history of the alphabet in all its course, and in all its
minor points, we shall know the history of mankind ever since men first
began to diverge widely from the beasts of the wood.

THE END.




[Illustration: THE LITTLE BOYS WHO LOOKED ALIKE.

BY MALCOLM DOUGLAS.]


    Oh, never yet were little boys so much alike as they!
    Each looked more like the other than himself, folks used to say.
    And since no one between them any difference could tell
    Some incidents quite undeserved the two at times befell.

    Their mother was so puzzled about telling which was which
    That it made it very awkward when she had to use her switch;
    And it frequently would happen that the guilty one went free,
    While his righteous little brother would be placed across her knee.

    When either of the little boys was vexed with childish ills
    The good old doctor soon would bring his castor oil and squills,
    And, in spite of tears and protests, he would very often make
    The well one swallow all his horrid doses, by mistake.

    Though one at school was always head, the teacher had to put
    The other (who would never learn his lessons) at the foot;
    So the bright boy for his indolence was ofttimes sternly chid,
    And the dull one patted on the head for what his brother did.

    And sometimes, too, the cook would make a little pie for one,
    And give it to the other just as soon as it was done;
    And, to keep the first from crying, she would roll him out one more,
    But the second, when he came again, would get it, as before.

    Oh, never yet were little boys so much alike as they!
    Each looked more like the other than himself, folks used to say.
    And since no one between them any difference could tell,
    Surprising and unjust rewards the two at times befell!




THE KELP-GATHERERS.

[_A Story of the Maine Coast._]

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.


CHAPTER XVII.

PERCIVAL AND THE WATCH.

After assisting to bring Olly safe to shore, Perce Bucklin had time to
reflect upon his still unclaimed treasure-trove and to grow extremely
anxious in regard to it.

He had not felt responsible for its first immersion in the sea. But it
had received a second wetting while in his possession. That set him to
considering seriously the damage salt water might do, if it should get
into the delicate works, and he worried over this to such an extent that
he could no longer keep quietly at work, with the watch still in his damp
pocket.

“Boys,” said he, “I’m going to have some doughnuts.” He had planned in
his own mind that he would take that opportunity to conceal his prize in
some safe, dry place.

“I’m hungry too!” said Moke.

“So ’m I!” said Poke.

And all threw down their forks. Their early breakfast, their labor at the
kelp, and their exciting adventure on the water, had made the morning
seem very long, and prepared them for a substantial luncheon.

That wasn’t just what Perce expected. They were no sooner seated on the
sand, with pail and basket and a bottle of spruce beer between them, than
fresh restlessness seized him.

Whoever the owner of the watch was or was to be, he felt that it ought to
go at once to the jeweler, and be cleaned and oiled. He suddenly jumped
to his feet.

“Boys,” he said, taking a piece of cheese in one hand and a wedge of
apple-pie in the other, “go on with your lunch; I’ll be eating mine while
I run up and see how Olly is getting along.”

“Take some of Ma’s spruce beer, first,” said the twins.

Perce thanked them, but said he would have his share when he came back.

“Don’t wait for me,” he added, “if I should get to talking, and be a
little late.”

He had been gone but a few minutes, and the twins were still busy with
their bread and butter and doughnuts, when they heard footsteps coming
behind them, and looked around, expecting to see him on his return.

But they saw instead a strange man, with a resolute face under a shady
hat-brim. A little behind him lingered two of the boarding-house ladies
they had seen before.

“Where’s the other member of your party?” asked the man, after looking
beyond the twins and all about. “The one you call Perce.”

“Perce Bucklin? He just went up to the boarding-house,” they replied; “he
left us about five minutes ago.”

“I’ve just come from the boarding-house,” said the man. “He wasn’t there
when we left; and we met no such boy on the way.”

“That’s strange!” said Moke.

And he and his brother began to call. The woods echoed their voices, but
no other voice replied.

“I don’t know where he is!” said Poke, astonished.

“He seemed to have something on his mind,” said Moke; “and may be——”

“May be he went to the village!” exclaimed Poke.

They couldn’t conceive why he should have gone to the village, but they
remembered that he had spoken vaguely of having some errand there, which
he must do before he returned home.

“Thank you,” the gentleman replied, and went back to speak with the
ladies. “That fellow has gone off to dispose of the watch,” he said to
them; “and I don’t think these two know anything about it.”

He had at all events thought it better not to mention the subject to the
twins; in order that, if they should see Perce before he did, they might
not put him on his guard.

Perce had, in fact, immediately changed his mind, after leaving his
companions; if, indeed, he had any serious notion of going to inquire for
Olly.

Instead of going to the boarding-house, he crossed a corner of the
woods, in order to strike a road leading to the village, which was about
three-quarters of a mile away.

As soon as he was well out of sight, he began to run, pausing only a
minute or two in the woods, where he took out his prize, pressed the
spring that opened the hunter’s case, and looked at the still beautiful
bright, white face of the watch.

“I don’t believe it is hurt much!” he exclaimed joyfully. “I wonder how
long it has been in the water!”

The pointers indicated ten minutes past two. Thinking the watch must have
stopped soon after it dropped into the sea, he muttered:

“That might have been two o’clock last night, or yesterday, or some day
of last week; who knows? Hullo!”

A new mystery! The second-hand, as he watched it, moved! He held the
timepiece to his ear, and heard a faint tick.

The works were running still, though feebly. Then the watch could have
been in the sea but a few hours; and it was no doubt some water that had
got into it which had retarded without stopping the motion of the wheels.

“Eight hours slow!” said Perce, thinking it must be by that time past ten
o’clock.

Astonished as he was, his purpose to visit the village remained
unchanged. Indeed, it seemed to him all the more important that the
watch, since he was convinced that it was as yet uninjured, should go to
the jeweler’s without delay.

He had not meant, from the first, to withhold it from its rightful owner,
if he could find that person; but only to keep it from the twins, who
might set up what he considered an unjust claim to half its value. He
expected to advertise it, after putting it into the jeweler’s hands; he
had therefore no motive for disguising from the latter the manner in
which it had come into his possession.

He was prepared to tell a straightforward story; only leaving out his
want of confidence in the twins, of which he couldn’t help feeling
ashamed. But unfortunately the jeweler was not in his shop. After a
little search, Perce found him walking with a man on the street; and,
coming to his side, whispered in his ear that he had a little job for him.

As they entered the shop together, Perce did not notice a third man,
flushed with excitement and haste, who had followed him at a distance,
and was now watching with an air of affected carelessness, to see what he
would do.

As the jeweler went behind his counter, Perce stood before it, with his
back to the door, and said breathlessly, in a low tone, as he produced
the watch:

“Here’s something I want you to be rather confidential about until——”

Until it could be advertised in due form, he was going to say; for he
was anxious that no false claimant should get a description of the watch
beforehand. But he had hardly yet recovered his breath, and while he was
hesitating, the jeweler opened the watch.

“Where has this been? In the water?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Perce. “And I want you to do whatever is necessary to put it
into good order; and to say nothing about it until——”

Here he stopped again, and looked quickly around at somebody who just
then entered the shop.

It was Mr. Hatville, who, having stood a moment at the open door,
watching the jeweler and the boy, stepped in quickly but quietly, and
laying one hand, with a firm grasp, on Perce’s arm, extended the other
over the counter.

“Mr. Middleton,” said he, “I don’t think you mean to be a receiver of
stolen goods. But it happens that you have my watch!”

“Yours, Mr. Hatville!” said the astonished jeweler. “I thought I had seen
it before” (for Mr. Hatville had dealt with him at times, and had shown
him his chronometer with much pride), “but never in such a condition!”

“It has run down, I suppose,” said the owner, adding with grim sarcasm,
“I hoped the thief would know enough to wind it! Boy!” he cried,
tightening his grip on Perce’s arm, “you’ve no business to steal watches,
if you can’t keep ’em wound!”


CHAPTER XVIII.

PERCIVAL AND THE OWNER OF THE WATCH.

Perce stood aghast and trembling, trying to speak. The jeweler spoke for
him.

“This boy didn’t steal it, did he? I know his father. He’s one of the
selectmen of the town. You are Mr. Bucklin’s boy, aren’t you?”

“I am Percival Bucklin,” said Perce, endeavoring to assume the proverbial
boldness of innocence, but nevertheless appearing far more guilty than if
he had been a hardened rogue. “I didn’t steal it. I found it.”

“Yes, and I know just where you found it!” said Hatville. “I know, too,
just where _you’ll_ be found, in about ten minutes, if Mr. Middleton will
have the kindness to step out and call a policeman.”

“Give the boy a chance,” said the jeweler. “He belongs to one of the best
families in town. I believe he’s honest. Tell just how you came by the
watch, Percival.”

“That’s what I was going to do when this man rushed in and grabbed me,”
said Perce.

He was once more beginning his story, when Mr. Hatville broke out again
excitedly:

“Where’s the rest of the chain?”

“It’s just as I found it,” said Perce.

“And what’s the matter with the watch?” said Hatville. He had loosed his
hold of the boy’s arm, and taken the timepiece in both hands. “It hasn’t
run down!”

“Worse than that,” Mr. Middleton replied. “It has been in the water.”

“Boy!” cried the angry owner, “did you have it with you when you went out
to the Old Cow for Oily Burdeen this morning?”

“Yes,” said Perce, “but——”

“And did you get wet?”

Hatville reached down and felt the boy’s clothes, which were still damp.

“A wave dashed over me,” Perce admitted, “but——”

[Illustration: “MR. HATVILLE STOOD A MOMENT AT THE OPEN DOOR, WATCHING
THE JEWELER AND THE BOY.”]

“Now did you ever hear of anything so exasperating?” said Hatville,
turning to Mr. Middleton with a grim and very unpleasant expression. “It
wasn’t enough for this young rascal to take a man’s timepiece, that had
been regulated down to a second and a half a month; but he must also go
and jump into the sea with it!”

“I didn’t jump into the sea with it!” Perce spoke up impatiently. “Can’t
you hear what I have to say? I found that watch in the seaweed, on the
beach, early this morning, just as the tide had left it a little while
before. If it hadn’t been for getting Olly off the rocks, I should have
thought to bring it here earlier. I meant to have it cleaned and oiled,
and then to advertise for the owner, if he wasn’t heard from in the
meanwhile.”

“That seems a straightforward story,” said the jeweler.

“What made him so sly with you, then?” Mr. Hatville demanded. “Wasn’t he
asking you to say nothing about it, or something of the kind, when I came
in?”

The jeweler had to admit that Perce had made some such request; which the
boy hastened to explain.

“I said all that; and I was going to say more. I didn’t want anybody to
see it until it was advertised, and until the owner proved his claim by
giving a description of it.”

“Ah, very wise, indeed! and very plausible! But how did the watch get
into the seaweed, without help from somebody?” returned Hatville. “This
boy, as it happens, is the only person who had a chance to take it. Now,
young fellow, your best course is to own right up. Weren’t you in my
room, at Mrs. Murcher’s, last night, and again this morning?”

“I don’t know anything about your room,” Perce replied. “I went through
the upper entry to Olly’s room, last evening; but that was the only room
I looked into. This morning I went into some gentleman’s room—I don’t
know whose—to get a view from the window, while the ladies were hunting
for a spy-glass; but I saw no watch there, and I didn’t touch a thing.”

“Besides, if you notice,” Mr. Middleton remarked, “this watch—to be more
than eight hours slow, as you see it is, and still going—must have been
in the water considerably more than eight hours.”

The argument seemed to strike Mr. Hatville forcibly. But a moment’s
reflection enabled him to put it easily aside.

“It had probably run down,” he said; “and the boy has wound it since.”

“Why! I haven’t any key!” Perce exclaimed.

“And you didn’t know it was a stem-winder?” said the owner, with
incredulous irony.

Perce said, very truly, that he hadn’t examined it sufficiently to
discover that fact; he had heard of stem-winders, but had never before
seen one. Mr. Hatville smiled again.

“I can’t yet feel quite so sure of this boy’s honesty as you seem to, Mr.
Middleton,” he said. “There are some things that need to be explained:
how the watch got out of my room and into the sea, in the first place;
and how the chain was broken.”

“If I meant to steal it, why should I break the chain?” Perce demanded.

“I don’t know your motive; perhaps because you saw my monogram on the
seal. Come, my boy,” said Mr. Hatville; “come and show me just where and
how you found it.”

So saying, he left the watch in the jeweler’s hands, and started to
return with Perce to the scene of the kelp-gathering.


CHAPTER XIX.

THE MISSING LINKS.

On the way, Perce Bucklin’s spirits did not rise, as a perfectly truthful
boy’s spirits might have been expected to do, under the circumstances.

He had already felt, with some uneasiness of conscience, that his
disingenuous treatment of his partners in the kelp-gathering was unworthy
of the son of so upright a father. But he was now appalled by the thought
of what might be the consequences of his conduct.

As they walked down the road together, Mr. Hatville asked:

“Was anybody with you on the beach when you found the watch?”

Perce had known very well that some such question must come, and he had
been dreading it. He had tried to think what he should reply; but now he
could only stammer:

“Yes;—that is, no;—the Elder boys had just gone off with a load of
seaweed, and I was waiting for them to come back with the cart.”

“How far away were they? out of sight?” continued Mr. Hatville.

“No, not exactly. We were hauling the kelp into piles, just above high
water;” explained Perce.

“Oh, yes! They were near you, then,” said Mr. Hatville, who had observed
the heaps of seaweed on the shore. “So they’ll know all about it. Let me
hear your story first; then I will hear theirs. Just how it was found,
you understand.”

“It will be of no use for you to ask them,” said Perce.

“How so?” replied Mr. Hatville, with another of his sarcastic,
incredulous smiles.

“They didn’t know anything about it,” Perce acknowledged miserably.

“So you mean to say that you found a valuable gold watch on the beach,
and said nothing about it to your friends, who must have been within
sight and hearing at the time? That’s a likely story!”

“I don’t wonder you think so,” said Perce in deep distress. “But I’ll
tell you why I didn’t. We had gone into partnership for getting kelp and
driftwood, and had made an agreement that we were to divide, half and
half, everything we found—half for me and the team, which is my father’s,
and half for them. Then, you see, when I found the watch, I was afraid
they might claim a share in it, provided the owner didn’t turn up.”

“Very ingenious!” was Mr. Hatville’s skeptical comment.

“You may believe it or not; it’s true!” exclaimed Perce, in a broken and
agitated voice. “I did a mean thing; and for that reason I’d rather you
shouldn’t say anything to the Elder boys about it. But I suppose they
will have to know it. I suppose everybody will have to know it!” And here
his voice failed completely.

“I suppose the particulars will have to be known to several persons
before we get through with this little business,” Mr. Hatville replied.
“Have you anything more to say for yourself?”

The boy had nothing more to say, except to describe more particularly how
he took the watch out of the dripping seaweed, and to protest again his
innocence of any dishonest purpose; all of which, however, did not seem
to make much impression upon Mr. Hatville.

They walked on in silence down the sandy road, Perce as deeply wretched
as if he had been already on his way to the lock-up.

Even if he were spared that last humiliation, he felt that his good
name was gone forever. The taking of the watch might not be publicly
proved against him; but, unless the mystery of its disappearance from
the owner’s room, and its re-appearance in the wave-tossed kelp on the
shore—unless that could be explained, who would believe him guiltless?
The suspicion might cling to him through life.

What would his father say? And how it would grieve his dear mother!

“We’ll not go to the beach now,” said Mr. Hatville, “since your friends
can’t say anything to help you. I don’t see why I brought you away from
the village, anyway. But never mind; we can trudge back there. And we’ll
go to Mrs. Murcher’s first—now that we are so far on our way.”

Harsh as had been his treatment of a supposed culprit, under what seemed
to him very great provocation, Mr. Hatville couldn’t help pitying the boy
a little; and, now that his anger was cooled, he wished to reflect before
deciding to turn so youthful an offender over to the officers of the law.

[Illustration: “‘HERE THEY ARE!’ SAID OLLY, AS HE HELD OUT THE EVIDENCE
AGAINST HIMSELF.”]

He kept Perce by his side as he mounted the piazza steps.

“Yes, I’ve found him, and my watch, too,” he said to the boarders, who
came out to hear the news. “It was in his possession.”

Glad as they were to hear of his good fortune, nothing but painful
surprise and commiseration was expressed in the womanly and girlish faces
that looked upon the unhappy boy.

“Oh, then! what shall we do with the money?” sighed Mrs. Merriman.

Whereupon it came out that the friends of Olly Burdeen had subscribed a
small collection, to reward his rescuers. But, could they bestow it upon
such a boy as this one had shown himself to be?

“Give it to the others!” cried Perce passionately. “I don’t want any pay
for what I did. No, nor for saving this man’s watch, either,—though I
don’t think I ought to be treated this way, as if I had stolen it.”

“Does he deny it?” cried Amy Canfield, eagerly.

“Oh, of course!” replied Mr. Hatville.

“Of course I do!” Perce exclaimed, raising his voice in vehement
protestation. “I found it in the seaweed, on the beach. But he won’t
believe a word I say!”

And he stood defiant, desperate, his eyes flashing through tears.

The most tender-hearted of the lady boarders couldn’t blame Mr. Hatville
for declining to accept such a story as that. But just then another actor
in the drama rushed upon the scene.

It was Olly Burdeen, himself, in his old clothes, his hair tumbled, his
eyes excited, his voice choking as he tried to speak.

“The watch?” he gasped out. “He isn’t to blame! I—I took it!”

In his room, at the end of the corridor above, he had overheard enough to
know that the watch was found, and that Perce was in trouble. Equally
excited by the good news and the bad, he had obeyed an impulse of
generosity and gratitude, and hastened to the defense of the friend to
whom he owed his recent rescue.

But, strange to say, nobody believed him! He was delirious; he was
telling a noble untruth; he was sacrificing himself for one to whom he
fancied that he owed his life. Everybody believed implicitly in Olly;
nobody believed in Perce.

Only Mr. Hatville, whose mind had reverted more than once to Olly, while
considering the other’s strange story, listened carefully, thinking that
the clew to the mystery might at last be coming.

“How is that, Olly?” he asked.

“I just put on the watch, to wear it a little while with my new clothes,”
Master Burdeen confessed impetuously. “Then when the accident happened to
me in the boat, I suppose the oar snatched it from my pocket. You didn’t
find the whole of the chain, did you, Perce?”

“The hook and the seal are missing,” Mr. Hatville replied.

“Here they are!” said Olly, as he took from his pocket and held out the
evidence against himself, glad enough now that he had not thrown it into
the sea, when tempted to do so.

After that, nobody doubted his story.

“But why didn’t you tell me this before?” demanded Mr. Hatville, as he
took the missing links.

“I thought the watch was lost, and I was afraid,” poor Olly confessed.
“But I couldn’t bear to see _him_ accused!”

After this frank acknowledgment from Olly, Mr. Hatville forbore to utter
a single reproach, and only said:

“You needn’t have been afraid, if you had only come forward and told the
simple truth. The watch is found, and there’s no great harm done; though
I shall have some trouble in regulating it again down to a second and a
half a month. You’d better go back to bed, Olly.”

And Olly went; abjectly humbled, and blinded by tears of shame and
contrition, yet almost happy in the wonderful relief the confession of
his fault and the vindication of his friend had brought to his tortured
conscience.

“I was sure he never took it!” he heard Miss Amy Canfield exclaim with
glad vehemence; but he knew that she was speaking of Percival, not of
himself.


CHAPTER XX.

PERCE SETTLES WITH HIS PARTNERS.

There was no longer any question as to what should be done with the
contribution the boarders had made up to reward the humane efforts of
Olly’s rescuers.

They had collected ten dollars. To this Mr. Hatville begged the privilege
of adding ten more.

“For finding my watch—and for my treatment of the finder!” he said.

But Percival couldn’t bear that anything like that should cloud the great
joy with which the welcome light of truth filled his soul.

“I don’t want any reward for anything!” he exclaimed. “I can’t take your
money!” And he pushed back Mr. Hatville’s contribution across the hall
table. “But I’ve no right to refuse anything intended for my friends;
and, if the ladies insist, I will take their money and give it to Moke
and Poke.”

“Moke and Poke!” said Amy, with a laugh. “What names!”

“They are my partners, on the beach. The Elder boys—Moses and Porter,”
Perce explained.

The ladies did insist; and, with light feet and a lighter heart, he
hastened down the sandy path to the shore.

The twins, who had resumed their work, were inclined to show a little
resentment of their partner’s prolonged absence. They wished to know what
“that man” wanted of him, and where he had been all the while.

“I’ve been getting a reward for you!” said Perce gayly.

“A reward?” cried Moke.

“For what?” asked Poke.

“For rescuing Olly,” Perce replied, opening his hand and showing the
money. “Here it is,—with the compliments of the lady boarders at Mrs.
Murcher’s.

“Oh!” ejaculated Moke.

“Ho!” aspirated Poke.

“We didn’t want any pay for that!” said both together.

“But it took your time, and interrupted your work; and it really seemed
a pleasure for them to give you something. Olly’s a great favorite up
there,” added Percival.

“Five dollars!” shouted Moke, brandishing his share above his head.

“Five dollars!” shrieked Poke, capering wildly on the sand.

They had never in their lives been so rich. But where was Percival’s
share?

“They offered me ten dollars—or at least the man did. But I didn’t take
it. The truth is, boys,——” And, after a little hesitation, Perce told the
story of the watch that he had found and restored to the owner.

“And it was Olly that borrowed and lost it?” exclaimed Moke.

“And never told us!” ejaculated Poke.

“Why didn’t _you_ tell us you found it?” cried both together.

“As we were partners,—going halves in everything,—I didn’t know—” Perce
blushed and stammered—“I didn’t know but you’d want your share of that,
too!”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Poke.

“Of course we shouldn’t!” said Moke.

So that matter was settled,—far more easily and satisfactorily, Perce
thought, than might have been the case if no owner for the watch had been
found.

“Come!” said Moke, looking again at his money before pocketing it; “we’ve
done enough work for one day.”

“Never mind about hauling any more kelp,” said Poke.

“We’ll have the fun of coming again to-morrow,” said both together.

Perce himself was quite willing to go home to dinner. So, having dumped
their last load of seaweed (which would not be much more than a third of
a load when, after it was well rotted, they should haul it to the farms),
they filled up the cart-box with driftwood. Upon that they laid their
blankets; and presently climbed up to the top themselves, after bidding
good-bye to the beach and the bright sea, and turning the oxen into the
wild woodland road.

Then, mounted comfortably upon their loaded cart, they drove back through
beautiful sunshine and shade, making the woods ring once more with their
voices in glad chorus:

    “Now, run and tell Elijah to hurry up Pomp,
    And meet us at the gum-tree down in the swamp,
              To wake Nicodemus to-day!”

Although he had no money to show, Percival was not the least contented of
the three with the result of their work.

He had done something for his friend Olly, and for Mr. Hatville; and no
reward could have given him quite so pure a satisfaction as the feeling
that he had done it without reward.

Moreover, as he had liberated the watch and chain from their slimy
environment of rockweed and kelp, even so his conscience and his good
name had been freed from the entanglement that at one time threatened to
drag them into a hideous abyss. To have kept his honor unsullied was a
greater joy than the possession of many watches.

Yet I can not say that Perce Bucklin was made very unhappy when, not long
after, he received by express from Boston a small package, which, on
being opened, was found to contain a very pretty silver Swiss watch, and
a card bearing Mr. Hatville’s name. It was certainly a gratifying token
of that gentleman’s confidence and regard.

THE END.




[Illustration: FUN IN HIGH LIFE.]




OLD TIME ARMS AND ARMOR.

BY E. S. BROOKS.


Do you not think that the garments of iron, of steel, or of bronze in
which the soldiers of five hundred years ago rode to the wars must have
been very uncomfortable? Look at the “effigies,” as they are called,
on the opposite page, representing four royal knights. These colossal
statues, with those of twenty-four other noted warriors of history and
romance, stand, a silent guard, around the magnificent tomb of the German
Emperor Maximilian I., at Innspruck, in the Tyrol. These four mail-clad
figures represent four of the bravest and most redoubtable of the knights
of old—Arthur of Britain, Theodeobert of Burgundy, Ernest of Austria,
and Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths. The armor is rich in ornament
and decoration, but I have not a doubt that King Arthur felt much more
cool and comfortable when he was eating that famous “bag pudding,” which
Mother Goose assures us the queen “did make” for him, than when he rode
out from Camelot in the splendidly decorated iron war-clothes that are
shown in the picture; and I am very sure, too, that the brave Theodoric
was much happier and more at ease when as a boy he practiced Greek
gymnastics at the Court of Constantinople, where he was held as hostage
by the Emperor, than he did when, years after, he rode to the siege of
Ravenna with that ridiculous iron kettle on his head and weighed down
with the iron rosettes and jacket that we see in his picture before us.

But, while these metal clothes, uncomfortable, hot, and heavy though
they were, have been a necessary style of wearing apparel ever since the
forgotten ages when men began to quarrel and to strive, it was not until
a comparatively recent date that warriors rode to battle wholly incased
in armor. The Assyrians and Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans of the
earlier days were satisfied with such partial protection as would shield
the most vulnerable parts of their bodies—helmets, or head-coverings;
greaves, or shin-protectors; and the short oval breastplates that guarded
heart and ribs. The stout old Roman legionaries, bronzed and scarred
with exposure and fighting, laughed rather contemptuously at the fresh
levies which, when sent into the field, wished to shield their bodies
as much as possible. Indeed, the first use of the word armor, as we
understand it, is found in the works of a military writer of the latter
part of the fourth century A. D., one T. Vegetius Renatus, who refers
to armor as a defense worn only by the _young_ troops; so you see that,
after all, the boys were the first to incase themselves in armor and were
the earliest of the knights.

But gradually, as men grew more careful of their bodies, they increased
the safety-coverings; breastplate and greave and helmet grew into
coat-of-mail, and suit of plate, until in the days of the knights—the
thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries—the men who couched lance
or wielded sword and met in the terrific battle-shock _seemed_ to be men
of iron, whatever they really were beneath their clanging clothes.

Look at the picture (Fig. I, p. 938) of a knight in a splendid suit of
armor, richly engraved. He lived and fought somewhere about the time
of the heroic Edward of England, whom men, because of his sable armor,
called the Black Prince. This warrior may have even followed the banner
of Prince Edward; he may have fought with Bruce at Bannockburn, or
against the cause of the people and Rienzi at Rome.

Certainly here is an instance in which “dress makes the man,” as the old
proverb declares. Not one of us could recognize the gentleman by his
countenance on a second meeting, for even his face is concealed behind a
decorated visor, or beaver,—a sort of face-door that works up and down on
well-oiled hinges. The short cloth sack, emblazoned with his crest and
worn over his armor, is the _tabard_, and from his plumed helmet to his
pointed _sollerets_, or shoes of iron, he is one mass of metal. The two
knights, alongside, in Fig. 2, are incased in somewhat less elaborate
iron suits, though they also belong to the age of splendid armor.

[Illustration: BRONZE STATUES AT THE TOMB OF MAXIMILIAN I., REPRESENTING
ARTHUR OF BRITAIN, THEODEOBERT OF BURGUNDY, ERNEST OF AUSTRIA, AND
THEODORIC, KING OF THE OSTROGOTHS.]

In those days of hard hitting with ax and lance, alike in tournament and
in battle, the head and the breast generally received the stoutest blows
and needed to be the most securely protected. The head-pieces grouped
together on page 939 are what a merchant nowadays would call “an assorted
lot”; the _casquetel_, or helmet with an iron cape for protecting the
back of the neck; the _bascinet_, or helmet with a pointed visor, and
another just beneath it that looks like three joints of stove-pipe;
the _tilting-helm_, used in the tournament or in the “tilting-field,”
looking very much like a “high hat” of to-day, in iron; the German
_heaume_, or old Gallic helmet, with the basket-like cage to shield the
face; the plumed _burgonet_, or old Burgundian helmet, and the rounded
one, sometimes called a _morion_; and the last of the helmets, the helm
and _casquetel_ of the harquebusiers—those stout old fighters of the
seventeenth century, who gave and took plenty of hard knocks in the Dutch
wars, or in the ranks of Cromwell’s Ironsides.

[Illustration: FIG. I.—A KNIGHT OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY IN A SUIT OF
ENGRAVED ARMOR.]

The breastplate, first worn in front only, was gradually added to until
it became a _cuirass_, or iron jacket, laced at the sides. Around the
neck was worn the metal collar, or _gorget_; the hands were incased
in iron gloves, or _gauntlets_, sometimes armed with long, saw-like
projections; and spurs of varying size and length were attached to the
heels of the curious iron shoes that were known as _sollerets_.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.—KNIGHTS OF THE FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES.]

Dagger and poniard, mace and lance, bill and battle-ax were the terrible
weapons used by the gentlemen in the iron clothes to cut and carve, to
pound and pummel, to hack and pierce one another,—and yet those were
called the days of chivalry, of courtesy, and of courage!

War is always brutal, always terrible; but there seems something almost
cowardly in the custom of those “knights of old” in thus crawling for
safety into suits of steel and iron, while the poor people who followed
their banners to the wars—vassals and serfs, archers and bill-men—had
nothing but leather jerkins and iron head-pieces (often not even these)
to protect them from the charge and thrust of the mail-clad knights. And
the funny side of it all is that sometimes knights thus covered with
plate, like modern ironclads, would fight all day without either being
hurt. In one of the Italian battles of the sixteenth century, two armies
of knights sheathed in the best Milan armor fought from nine in the
morning until four in the afternoon without one valorous warrior being
killed or even being wounded. Do you wonder that Cervantes made such
sport of those men in kettles and stove-pipe, as he did in his marvelous
story of “Don Quixote”?

[Illustration]

But, as necessity is called the “mother of invention,” weapons, in
time, were made that iron-cased warriors feared even more than mace or
battle-ax. The archer’s “cloth-yard shaft” might not be able to pierce
the Milan armor, but a steel-headed “bolt” or “quarrel,” sped with
terrific force from the notch of a crossbow, has brought many a mail-clad
knight to grief, as William, the Red King of England, and Richard, called
the Lion-heart, found to their cost. For five centuries, the crossbow,
or arbalist, was a favorite weapon in war and in the chase, as Mr.
Maurice Thompson has already told you in his interesting “Story of the
Arbalist.”[1] And many a boy of those olden days was taught either by
the armorer of his father’s castle, or by that same knightly father, the
baron and lord of the manor, how to string the bow and how to lay the
bolt.

[Illustration: “MANY A BOY WAS TAUGHT HOW TO STRING THE BOW AND HOW TO
LAY THE BOLT.”]

The battle of Waterloo, in which the iron-sheathed cuirassiers of
Napoleon went down in defeat before the soldiers of Wellington, was the
death-blow to defensive armor.

[Illustration: LANCES, MACES, AND BATTLE-AXES.]

As gunpowder came into use in battle, and science improved the methods of
warfare, the iron coats were found to be of little avail as a protection
against shot and shell. Men grew braver as they dropped the heavy
plates behind which they had hidden for centuries. And now they march
unprotected by iron clothes, depending for victory upon their excellent
drill and discipline and upon the deadly fire-arms which science has
developed and perfected.

But, better yet, more helpful than casque or cuirass, lance or bill or
battle-ax, more effective even than the ponderous Krupp cannon, the
deadly Gatling gun, or the swift-loading Martini rifle, is the spirit
of justice, of kindly courtesy, and of real courage, which now settles
quarrels between men and nations. Argument, arbitration, and mutual
concession are doing more to civilize the world than all the cruel
war-weapons, and these kindlier methods render more and more useless the
arms and armor of the long ago, which sprang, not from the friendships,
but from the hatreds and passions of men.

[Illustration]

But breastplate, helm, and sword, and all the knightly accouterments have
served their purpose in the world’s advancement, and as they look down
at us from the walls of library or museum could tell us many a story of
daring and of valor in “the brave days of old.”

[1] See ST. NICHOLAS for September, 1882.




NED’S BUTTERCUP.

BY BESSIE CHANDLER.


    Ned picked in the garden, one morning bright,
      A buttercup, fresh and yellow;
    And his warm, chubby fingers held it tight,
      For it pleased the little fellow.

    But soon it drooped its satiny head,
      (Such a sorry trick to serve us!)
    “Oh, give it some water, Mamma!” cried Ned;
      “I think it is getting _nervous_!”




[Illustration: HER PICTURE.]

BY ANNA M. PRATT.


    Such an ill-behaved man she never had seen!
    When she wanted a picture, pray, what did he mean
    By hiding his head? And, under her breath,
    She whispered: “Mamma, is he frightened to death?”
    She wondered and wondered when would he begin—
    When, presto! that instant a round, dimpled chin,
    And a mouth where sweet kisses seemed coming and going,
    And two merry eyes with their fun overflowing
    Were caught by the sunlight.—Now see! There she stands
    With a flower on her breast and her doll in her hands,
    Her bonny face framed in her fair, waving curls—
    The sweetest and dearest of dear little girls!

[Illustration]




THE BROWNIES AT BASE-BALL.

BY PALMER COX.

[Illustration]


    One evening, from a shaded spot,
    The Brownies viewed a level lot
    Where clubs from different cities came
    To play the nation’s favorite game.

    Then spoke a member of the band:
    “This game extends throughout the land;
    No city, town, or village ’round,
    But has its club, and diamond ground,
    With bases marked, and paths between,
    And seats for crowds to view the scene.
    At other games we’ve not been slow
    Our mystic art and skill to show;
    Let’s take our turn at ball and bat,
    And prove ourselves expert at that.”

    Another answered: “I have planned
    A method to equip our band.
    There is a firm in yonder town,
    Whose goods have won them wide renown;
    Their special branch of business lies
    In sending forth these club supplies.
    The balls are wound as hard as stones,
    The bats are turned as smooth as bones,
    And masks are made to guard the nose
    Of him who fears the batter’s blows,
    Or stops the pitcher’s curves and throws.
    To know the place such goods to find,
    Is quite enough for Browny-kind!”

    When hungry bats came forth to wheel
    ’Round eaves and find their evening meal,
    The cunning Brownies sought the store,
    To work their way through sash and door.
    And soon their beaming faces told
    Success had crowned their efforts bold.
    A goodly number of the throng
    Took extra implements along,
    In case of mishap on the way,
    Or loss, or breakage during play.
    The night was clear, the road was good,
    And soon within the field they stood.

    Then games were played without a pause,
    According to the printed laws.
    There, turn about, each took his place
    At first or third or second base,
    At left or right or center-field,
    To pitch, to catch, or bat to wield,
    Or else as “short-stop” standing by
    To catch a “grounder” or a fly.

    Soon every corner of the ground
    Its separate set of players found.
    A dozen games upon the green,
    With ins and outs might there be seen;
    The umpires noting all with care
    To tell if hits were foul or fair,
    The “strikes” and “balls” to plainly shout,
    And say if men were “safe” or “out,”
    And give decision just and wise
    When knotty questions would arise.

    But many Brownies thought it best
    To leave the sport and watch the rest;
    And from the seats or fences high
    They viewed the scene with anxious eye,
    And never failed, the contest through,
    To render praise when praise was due.
    While others, freed from games on hand,
    In merry groups aside would stand,
    And pitch and catch with rarest skill
    To keep themselves in practice still.

    And had our champion players found
    A chance to view that pleasure-ground,
    They might have borne some points away,
    To put in use a future day;
    For “double plays” and balls well curved
    And “base hits” often were observed,
    While “errors” were but seldom seen
    Through all the games upon that green.

    Before the flush of morn arose
    To bring their contests to a close,
    The balls and bats in every case
    Were carried back and put in place;
    And when the Brownies left the store,
    All was in order as before.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




ABOUT BREATHING.

BY HELLEN CLARK SWAZEY.


It is a curious fact that, although breathing is a very simple and
necessary accomplishment, there are a great many people who have
forgotten how to do it in the best way. If you will watch a perfectly
healthy baby when it is asleep, you will see that its shoulders are quite
low and even, that its mouth is usually closed, and that it is breathing
comfortably from its lower chest. We know that the lungs are the chief
purifiers of the blood; but to perform their duty satisfactorily the
air-cells of the lungs must be filled with filtered air and they must
have plenty of room in which to work,—so we are, on the whole, well
satisfied with the baby’s method of breathing. In fact, we have reason to
believe that the system has been taught by Nature herself; and when we
can get Nature’s methods at first hand, it is seldom worth while to try
to improve upon them very much.

But when the baby grows up, if it chance to be a girl, her clothing is
usually such that it interferes with the free action of muscles that are
concerned in enlarging the cavity of the chest, so that the lower part
of the lungs, which should be busy taking in their share of oxygen to
make the blood fresh and bright, are seldom used, and the blood goes away
from the lungs only partly freed from its impurities, while the lungs
themselves do not get exercise enough for their own good.

But tight dressing, though the most serious hindrance to the habit of
good breathing, is not the only obstacle. There are careless ways of
sitting and standing that draw the shoulders forward and cramp the chest;
and it is as hard for the lungs to do good work when the chest is narrow
and constricted as it is for a closely bandaged hand to set a copy of
clear, graceful penmanship. Then there are lazy ways of breathing, and
one-sided ways of breathing, and the particularly bad habit of breathing
through the mouth. Now the nose was meant to breathe through, and it is
marvelously arranged for filtering the impurities out of the air, and
for changing it to a suitable temperature for entering the lungs. The
mouth has no such apparatus, and when air is swallowed through the mouth
instead of breathed through the nose, it has an injurious effect upon the
lungs. A story is told of an Indian who had a personal encounter with
a white man much his superior in size and strength, and who was asked
afterward if he was not afraid. “Me never afraid of man who keeps mouth
open,” was the immediate reply. Indeed, breathing through the mouth gives
a foolish and weak expression to the face, as you may see by watching any
one asleep with the mouth open.

It is well to establish the habit of deep breathing if it does not
already exist, but, in addition to this, the reserve air which is left in
the lungs after an ordinary expiration should be expelled and the lungs
thoroughly ventilated at least twice every day. First, then, see to it
that the air in the room is as pure and fresh as out-of-door air can make
it. Then, with all tight and superfluous clothing removed, lie flat on
the back and, with the mouth firmly closed, take a full, deep breath.
Hold it eight or ten seconds, and then let it out. Take another, and yet
another breath in the same way.

After that, take a breath into the lungs as slowly as possible, beginning
to fill them at their lowest extremities, and inhaling gradually until
they are filled to their full capacity, when the air should be exhaled
in the same slow and steady manner in which it was taken in. Repeat this
exercise three or four times. Now watch and see if the shoulders are kept
drawn down and immovable while the air is inhaled, as they should be, or
if they are drawn up, and are thus robbing the diaphragm and muscles of
forced breathing of half their exercise.

When you have taken this movement again to make sure that the shoulders
are in good position, throw your arms vertically over your head and take
another quick, full inspiration, swinging the arms rapidly to the sides
close to the body and back again over the head. Swing the arms up and
down four times on the same breath, and repeat the exercise three or four
times.

After this, it is a good plan to stand erect with the arms horizontal at
the sides, and vigorously clap the hands from that position over the head
a few times. When taking such movements in an erect position, always keep
the chin two or three inches back of the vertical.

A few such exercises as these, for five or ten minutes at night and
morning, will promote refreshing sleep and give increased vitality for
duties and occupations of the day; and it may be noted in conclusion that
an anæmic or low condition of the blood is seldom found where there is an
established habit of full, deep breathing with the mouth closed.




[Illustration: BESSIE: “WHAT DOES ‘INHERIT’ MEAN, I WONDER? NURSE SAYS
THAT MY GRANDPA’S PAPA PLANTED THIS TREE, AND THAT I’LL HAVE TO INHERIT
IT. I DON’T SEE WHY HE DIDN’T INHERIT IT HIMSELF!”]




[Illustration: JAPANESE BABIES.]

    A little bird sings from over the sea:
    “I’ve been to a land that pleases me.
    “’Tis a fabulous land where babies don’t cry
    From the time they are born till the time they die.

    You queer little baby, way over the sea,
    Tell us, oh, tell us, how can it be.
    Aren’t Japanese baby clothes ever too tight?
    Don’t Japanese babies wake up in the night?

    Do Japanese teeth come through without pain?
    Or Japanese children tease babies in vain?
    Don’t Japanese pins have points that prick?
    Wont Japanese colic make little folk sick?

    You queer little baby, if secret there be
    Send it, oh, send it way over the sea!
    There is no such secret. Far off in Japan
    Some babies can cry, and they’ll prove that they can!




[Illustration: JINGLE.

being words and pictures by アルフレド ブレンナン]

    This quaint little bit of a man
    Insisted on using a fan
    Until it was known
    By some he had flown,
    But others said _sailed_, for JAPAN.




RIDDLES FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK.


Ever so many days ago, away back in June before any of the hot days came,
ST. NICHOLAS gave the Very Little Folk some riddles to guess. And now
here are some more. These riddles, like the others, have little pictures,
and if you look well at the pictures, you can guess the riddles. But
nobody more than seven years old must try to guess them.

First of all is a riddle about Little Tommy Tinderpeg. You must have seen
him often. He makes a bright light when he burns his shoe.

[Illustration:

    Little Tommy Tinderpeg
    Burnt his shoe and blacked his leg.]

And now here is a riddle about another queer fellow, “Black-a-middle
Dick.” He is longer and stronger than Tommy Tinderpeg. And he leaves a
black track behind him when he travels. You can guess who he is. Many
little boys and girls know him very well, and have helped him to travel.

[Illustration:

    Black-a-middle Dick though he never can stand,
    He’ll travel all day if you give him a hand.]

Next comes a good riddle about a dozen bold riders. Have you never seen
the funny little fellows all riding one nag? When the wind blows, it is
not easy for them to keep their places, and if it blows very hard, some
of the little riders may fall off. But most of them ride well and hold on
tight.

[Illustration:

    A dozen bold riders,
    Astride of one nag;
    No clothes on their bodies,
    Not even a rag.
    They ride without bridles
    Or stirrups or spurs,
    And stick to their saddles
    Like so many burrs.]

Here, last of all, is another Tommy. He is not at all like Tommy
Tinderpeg. He has a round, pretty face, and he talks fast and keeps
saying the same thing over and over, all the time. You like to look at
him, and to hold him up to your ear to hear what he says. You can guess
who Tommy Locket is, just by his name. So this is the easiest riddle of
all.

[Illustration:

    About Tommy Locket I’ll give you a rhyme
    He rode in my pocket and always kept time.]




JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

[Illustration]


I’m told, my friends, that a beautiful red flower, known as
“painter’s-brush,” abounds in Colorado. As it lies on the grass or
leans against the stones and fences, it looks in shape and color
precisely as if some painter had dipped the soft part of his brush in
his brightest paint, and thrown it carelessly down. In midsummer these
painter’s-brushes are to be seen by the thousand. Now, as we look about
us here in my meadow to-day, it seems as if a million painter’s-brushes
had been at work, high and low. Not only brushes dipped in red, but
brushes rich with yellows, browns, grays, pinks, and deep dark crimsons.
Ah, but it’s a fine piece of color, and the painting has been gloriously
done! And though I’m only a Jack-in-the-Pulpit, great thoughts stir
within me at the sight.

But now let us take up the subject of


A PERFECTLY QUIET DAY.

One afternoon, not long ago, the Little School-ma’am lay in a hammock,
looking up at the leaves.

“How perfectly still they are!” she said to herself. “Not a leaf moves!”

She was lying under an oak tree, a sturdy, steady kind of a tree, as you
all know.

“Look at that tree yonder!” said one of the prettiest girl-scholars,
pointing to a Norway poplar, the leaves of which are hung on long slender
stems.

Lo, and behold, it was all in a quiver!

“Oh, that shakes just for the fun of it!” replied the Little
School-ma’am, “for there is hardly a breath of air stirring. It is
perfectly quiet.”

The Deacon happened by just then, and overheard her last words. He
stopped and asked her if she had any idea how difficult it was to get a
perfectly quiet day? Whereupon, she owned that she thought it would be
impossible.

“Well,” he replied, “there was once an Italian named Guiglielmini, who
wanted to try an experiment in which it was necessary that some balls
should fall through perfectly still air from a certain height. So in
August, 1791, he went up on a tower in Bologna, and tied the balls to the
top with long, silken threads. Then he waited for a perfectly still day.
Sometimes the air was quiet, but the tower would slightly tremble, and
at other times the tower was steady, but the air was in motion. At last,
in February, 1792, there came a day when the air and the tower were both
still, and he climbed up as softly as a cat, and gently set his threads
on fire, and down dropped the balls!”

“And what was the experiment?” asked the Little School-ma’am.

“Oh, it had something to do with the motion of the earth!” said the
Deacon, as he walked away, smiling.


HOW HE PROVED IT.

That reminds me, by the way, of a funny rhyme sent to the Little
School-ma’am by a friend of hers, Miss E. L. Sylvester. Here it is:

    A clever old man of Montrose
    Said: “I’ll balance my cane on my nose;
          For so shall I prove
          That the world doesn’t move
    As a great many people suppose.”


WALKING WITHOUT LEGS.

A little girl has sent you a question. She says she found three pretty
brownish shells in the woods, one day, and she took them home to her
little brother. They looked, she says, “very like similar shells that
often are found on the sea-shore.” Well, she put them on the sunny
piazza, and ran to find Bobby.—And now you shall have the rest of the
story in her own words:

    “Bobby was eating bread and molasses, and so he ran out of the
    kitchen all sticky. When we went together to look at the shells,
    lo, and behold! the shells were gone! They had walked around
    the corner of the piazza. And, oh Jack, what do you think? We
    watched them, and they kept on walking! And they hadn’t any
    legs!

    “Now this is a true story, dear Jack, and I want you to tell it
    to little boys and girls younger than Bobby and me (or Bobby and
    I, whichever is right), and see if they know how those shells
    walked, and what kind of shells they were, and if any other
    little boys and girls ever found any of the same sort in their
    woods or gardens.

                        “Your little friend,

                                                       “JAMESETTA C.

    “I take up my pen again to say that we all know, of course,
    that snakes move along the ground without legs. But they do
    that motion entirely with their own insides, don’t they? Those
    shells couldn’t possibly move as snakes do.

    “For fear you may think my name is strange, I will tell you
    that I am named after my grandfather, only James wouldn’t do
    for a girl.”


A QUEER SUNSHADE.

A wise bird of my acquaintance, who has traveled far and wide, told me,
not long ago, of a queer sunshade that was invented for the benefit of
the British soldiers in the Soudan. (I don’t know where that is, I’m
sure, and my bird was in too great a hurry to explain. But who cares? I
know I can trust you young geographers to clear up any mystery of that
sort.)

Well, as to the sunshade, my bird-friend said that the upright parts are
simply light bamboo sticks. They are fastened to the shoulders of the
wearer, and they support at the top a curved awning made of paper and
painted green inside.

[Illustration]

“But it would look so queer!” I said. “Would anybody have the courage
to wear it?”—when from the grass near my pulpit up popped an old raven,
whose specialties are ancient history, scarecrows, and eavesdropping.

“Don’t you know,” he croaked, “that the man who first carried an umbrella
was ridiculed and hooted at?”

That raven, my dears, narrowly escaped a withering reply. But luckily
I remembered something the Little School-ma’am read aloud, one sunny
day, to a group of boys and girls, as they stopped to rest in my
meadow. And what she read was the story of that very man—the original
umbrella-carrier. And she was reading from ST. NICHOLAS itself!

The old croaker was right! So I assumed my most dignified air, and gave
in.

But did that satisfy him? Bless you, no! Before he left, I had to admit
that this new sunshade was merely a parasol carried on the shoulders
instead of in the hand; that it was lighter than the common sunshade;
that it left both hands free for sketching, playing ball, or what not;
and that the old raven _might_ live to see every civilized boy or girl
walking along on sunny days with a cupola of this sort over his or her
unabashed head.—Between ourselves, my dears, you needn’t yet count upon
this last as an up-and-down future certainty. I may take it back when
I’ve had time to recover from the raven’s lecture.

By the way, there’s one good thing about that raven,—his memory.


A QUEER JUMBLE.

Talking of queer things, here comes a queer jumble from a young fellow
who says he lives in Maine by the broad blue main; and that there’s
nothing like using the rod and the “line-upon-line” method when you find
a school of fish that won’t go to school; and——

Well, no Jack-in-the-Pulpit can make anything out of such stuff as that!
But perhaps some of you clever youngsters can understand it. He sends
these rhymes, too, which he calls


A LIQUID PRO QUO.

    Oh, shun the ocean big with fate!
    Nor strive to make the free strait straight.

    Sauce, if thou wilt, the river’s source,
    And brook no babbling brook, of course;

    But keep the treacherous bay at bay.
    (It’s tide no man hath tied, they say.)

    And never see the midway sea,
    But waive the wave that waits for thee!


THAT DEAR LITTLE LORD.

                                                    PITTSFIELD, ILL.

    DEAR MR. JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I think it sounds rather saucy to
    say just Jack, to the preacher. My Papa is a pulpit man, too,
    and people call him Mr. Rose, but they leave off “in the
    pulpit,” because he does not stay there all the time. He
    can tell me nearly everything I want to know; but there is
    one thing he is not sure about, and that is how to pronounce
    Fauntleroy. Should it be Faunt-Le-Roy? Or should the middle
    syllable be like the last syllable of the word little? I love
    the little lord so much, I want to know his name exactly.

                        Your friend,

                                                        HORACE ROSE.

Faunt-le-roy is correct. The vowel is sounded in the middle syllable.

I’m always in my pulpit, dear Horace, but I’m not always preaching.
One eloquent sermon, however, I feel called upon to deliver at this
present moment, for it concerns little Lord Fauntleroy.—[Haven’t I
heard all about him from the Little School-ma’am and the scholars of
the red school-house, and, for that matter, from every boy and girl I
know?]—Well, the dear little lord is my text. In fact, he’s the sermon,
too. So I need say no more except to publicly announce from my pulpit,
with all due solemnity, that he is a boy after your Jack’s own heart. And
to every youngster among you, dearly beloved, I say, “Earl or no earl,—go
thou and be like him!”




THE LETTER-BOX.


                                                         BANGOR, ME.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am reading “Lord Fauntleroy,” and like it
    very much, and I hope that the next number will be that the Earl
    will want the mother to Lord Fauntleroy to come up and live with
    them. I remain, yours truly,

                                                            K. W. S.

                                                      BUFFALO, N. Y.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I like you so much that I wish you would come
    every week instead of every month. I like the story of “Little
    Lord Fauntleroy” best of all. But you must not let him lose his
    title.

                                                            M. C. W.

During the last few months, many of those who have been so deeply
interested in “Little Lord Fauntleroy” have formed their own eager
opinions of just how that beautiful story could, would, or should end.
But all such readers, including K. W. S. and M. C. W., will agree that in
the concluding chapters, printed this month, Mrs. Burnett has anticipated
or fully satisfied their utmost desires.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                    CLOVERLEIGH, PA.

    DEAR ST NICHOLAS: We are three little girls just the same age,
    for we are triplets. We look and dress just alike, and our big
    old brother calls us the “three little maids from school.” We
    have a pony, a big dog, and a little cat, but we have no little
    boy to play with, and we wish that little Lord Fauntleroy was a
    really, truly boy and could come and play with us. We send our
    love to you, dear ST. NICHOLAS, and we hope that this, our very
    first letter, will be printed to surprise our dear Mamma and
    Papa, and to spite our big brother, who says nobody would print
    such a silly thing. Your loving little maids,

                                         ROSY F., DAISY F., PANSY F.

Here it is in print, dear little maids,—with ST. NICHOLAS’S compliments
to you and the big brother.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                      DETROIT, MICH.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am nine years old; I have three sisters,
    two older and one younger than I. Susie, the eldest, is a great
    girl for reading; Helen, the next, is very fond of dolls,—she
    has six; but Edna, the younger, is a little rogue and likes to
    play ball with the boys best. We have taken you long before I
    can remember. I enjoy the story of “Little Lord Fauntleroy”
    very much. Is it a good long story? I hope it is. I went to
    see the game of base-ball on the 19th between the Chicagos and
    Detroits. I enjoy playing base-ball very much; although I am
    only nine years old, I think I can pitch a curve. I hope you
    will publish this. Your faithful reader,

                                                         JAMES C. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CORRECTION.

                                              COLORADO SPRINGS, COL.

    EDITOR OF ST. NICHOLAS: I should like to correct two errors
    that in some way have crept into my article on “Fishes and
    their Young,” in the June ST. NICHOLAS. The two fishes figured
    on page 601 are described under the cut as being from the
    Sea of Galilee, and the impression given that they belong to
    the genus _Ophiocephalus_. They really belong to the genus
    _Chromis_, and are found in Lake Tiberias. On page 602, the
    description of the sea-horse—“These have a perfect pouch, into
    which the infant fishes are taken as soon as hatched”—is wrong;
    it should read, The _eggs_ are taken into the pouch as soon as
    laid and kept until hatched.

                         Very truly yours,

                                                       C. F. HOLDER.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                               PT. CHAUTAUQUA, N. Y.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been reading “Little Lord
    Fauntleroy,” and it is one of the very few stories by which I
    am _perfectly fascinated_. I am going to write a story myself,
    sometime, although I have tried more than once, and they got so
    stale I couldn’t finish them. But I am writing one now, and I
    am going to finish it, however stale it may get, or die in the
    attempt.

    Whenever I read a real nice story, I just sit and wonder how
    any person _can_ ever think of so many things to happen in
    such a mysterious yet “every-day” kind of way, and come out
    in the end all cleared up, and just as plain as though it had
    really happened! Then my wonder grows into admiration, and my
    admiration into awe, my awe into actual reverence, and then I
    throw down my book and give it up as past understanding, and
    go outdoors and play. I am on pins and needles to know whether
    “Ceddie” _was_ the real Lord Fauntleroy or not; but he _must_
    be,—he’s too good not to be!

    Next Tuesday I shall be fourteen. I take the whole care of the
    horse, and, of course, of the barn, too, and as father and
    mother are in Brooklyn, I am Papa! It is very wearing to have
    such a multitude of responsibilities, but I think that I shall
    be able to keep my family (one member of which is an unruly
    little girl of twenty) straight until my father comes to take
    the burden off my shoulders.

                Your venerable and careworn friend,

                                                     ARTHUR MASON M.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                      ST. LOUIS, MO.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am one of your little readers, nine years
    old. My sister began taking ST. NICHOLAS in 1876, and, though
    she is now grown, papa still takes it for me. I have never
    written to you before, but I enjoy the “Letter-box” very much,
    and especially the letters about the pets the children have.
    I would like to tell you about three pets we had. They were a
    black-and-tan dog named Cricket, a Maltese kitten named Tiny,
    and a pet chicken named Dick. They played together, and ate and
    slept together. The dog had a rug on the side porch, and they
    would lie down and cuddle up beside him, and all sleep soundly.
    Morning, noon, and night we set a pan of milk out, and the
    three pets would gather around and all drink at once. At play
    they would roll over each other, and never, at any time, did
    they disagree or seem to be tired of each other. The kitten and
    chicken are both dead now, but we have the little dog yet; and
    he knows a great many tricks, and seems to understand whatever
    he hears us say about him, and always minds what we tell him.
    If my letter is not too long, I hope you will print it. I love
    your magazine very much, and am always impatient for it to come.

                        Your little friend,

                                                            M. C. S.

With the foregoing letter came also a letter from M. C. S.’s mother,
conveying such kind and hearty words that ST. NICHOLAS can not refrain
from printing it also:

                                                      ST. LOUIS, MO.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wish I could tell you what a blessing
    your magazine has been to our children, of whom the eldest,
    now almost nineteen years old, enjoys it as much as her little
    sister of nine. I have found it a great assistance in amusing
    and instructing my little ones, and I am sure they will never
    feel old enough to give it up.

    We wish you a long and prosperous life, and hope you may for
    many years to come send the same joy and delight to the hearts
    of children everywhere that you have in years past, and to ours.

                           Respectfully,

                                                       MRS. S. E. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                      MEMPHIS, TENN.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been taking you for nearly five
    years, but I never wrote you a letter before. I think little
    Lord Fauntleroy is the sweetest little fellow I ever read
    about. Every time I get a new number of ST. NICHOLAS, I sit
    down on the rug by mamma and read “Little Lord Fauntleroy”
    out loud for mamma and my little sister to hear. Mamma and
    papa both like it ever so much. I liked “Davy and the Goblin”
    very much, too, and was sorry when it ended. But if I were to
    go on telling you how many of your stories I liked, I would
    make you so tired you would never put my letter in print. I am
    eleven years old, and I live out in the suburbs of Memphis. I
    sometimes get to studying out every one of the Brownies’ faces,
    and whenever I do, it makes me laugh heartily.

                       Your faithful reader,

                                                            E. P. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                            GARDINER’S ISLAND, N. Y.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have taken you for four years, and are
    very glad when you come to us every month. We live on an
    island, and are not very far away from Montauk Point, L. I.
    The island is very beautiful, and of about three thousand five
    hundred acres.

    When we drive in the woods, we watch for the lovely deer, which
    are wild and leap away when they hear the slightest sound.

    We each have our riding-horse, and enjoy it very much here.

    We like the “Letter-box” very much, and enjoy the letters from
    Europe. My sister and I have crossed the Atlantic six times.
    Last winter we spent in Germany studying. I liked the stories
    of “Art and Artists” and “From Bach to Wagner” very much.
    Hoping my letter is not too long, and that you will find a
    corner for it in the “Letter-box,” as it is my first,

                         Very truly yours,

                                                       CORALIE L. G.

       *       *       *       *       *

                              MONTVALE SPRINGS, BLOUNT CO., E. TENN.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have heard people say that no one is
    perfect, but I guess they did not know you, for the only fault
    that any one could possibly find with you is that you don’t
    come often enough. You were so much company to me all last
    winter! For I live at a summer resort, and the children all go
    away in the fall, and there is no school near, and my sister
    and I have to be taught by a governess. I forgot to be lonesome
    while you were telling me such nice stories.

    I am ten years old.

    I hope you will live to be a thousand years old, and make every
    boy and girl that gets acquainted with you as happy as you make
    me. Good-bye, dear, good friend.

                           Yours forever,

                                                         FRANK J. E.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                    DUBLIN, IRELAND.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wonder if you ever had a letter from
    Ireland. I have an uncle in America who sends you to me; we all
    like you very much. The story of “Little Lord Fauntleroy” is
    so nice. I have one sister and one brother; also a cousin who
    lives with us. I do hope this will be printed, as this is my
    first letter to a magazine. I remain, your constant reader,

                                                         FLORENCE E.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                  SPRING HILL, TENN.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little Tennessee girl, and I live
    in Maury Co. Mother gave you to me last year for a Christmas
    present. Papa took you for me this year; and I think that
    “Little Lord Fauntleroy” is the best thing of all. My little
    brother is four years old; he likes the Brownies best. He calls
    one of our Jersey calves “Dhonabar,” after a horse told about
    in ST. NICHOLAS. I have a beautiful little brown pony. His name
    is Bun. I am eight years old.

                        Your little friend,

                                                         IRENE M. C.

       *       *       *       *       *

By an error in filing, several letters concerning curve-pitching were
overlooked two months ago, and so they failed to appear with the others
in the August “Letter-box.” But as the friendly correspondents who sent
them have taken great pains to explain their theories, it would be unjust
to withhold the letters and diagrams from the thousands of boy-readers
who are interested in the vexed questions of how and why a ball curves.
Some of these letters, therefore, are presented here; the remaining two
or three will appear in next month’s “Letter-box.”

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                       FRANKLIN, PA.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: May I have a word with your readers on
    that vexed subject, curve-pitching? Though I am not one of
    your subscribers, I have a younger brother who has been one
    for several years, and who also pitches for an amateur club
    here. Through him I have verified for myself the fact that a
    ball will curve in the direction in which it is rotating; _i.
    e._, it will curve to the right, or “in,” if it rotate in the
    direction of the hands of a watch, and _vice versa_. In this, I
    think, any careful observer of a curving ball will agree with
    me.

    Now, all will admit, I think, that if it were possible to throw
    a ball in a straight line _without any rotation_ whatever,
    there would be a cushion of air of greater density than the
    surrounding atmosphere _exactly_ in front of the ball, and a
    partial vacuum behind it. Nor would this cushion of air have
    definite limits, but it would thin out gradually as it streams
    over the sides of the ball, thus (Fig. 1):

    [Illustration: FIG. 1.]

    But now, suppose the ball be rotating rapidly to the right,
    in the direction of the hands of a watch. The sides of the
    ball, as they rotate, must carry by friction some of the
    surrounding air with them. That is, the point b (Fig. 2), as
    the ball rotates, will tend to carry air from its present
    location around to d, and so with any other point on the ball
    in proportion as it is on or near the equator of rotation.

    [Illustration: FIG. 2.]

    But when each point on the ball’s equator reaches the point
    c with its load of air, it meets with a resistance produced
    by this cushion of air in front of the ball, and, in order to
    pass on, must leave its load behind it. In other words the air
    carried around in the direction b c d becomes massed against
    the cushion in front, and the cushion is thickened at and
    around the point c. And, on the other hand, each point on the
    equator tends to carry the air from the right-hand side of the
    cushion, the point c, and consequently, to decrease the density
    or thickness of the cushion at that point. So that we soon
    have the cushion of air not exactly in front of the ball, but
    somewhat to the left of front; thus (Fig. 3):

    [Illustration: FIG. 3.]

    Now, since action is always equal to reaction, the cushion of
    air must push back against the ball just as hard as the ball
    pushes against it. And since the cushion is thickest where
    the combined forces of the ball are greatest, the cushion must
    push back hardest in the direction of a line drawn through the
    thickest part of the cushion and the center of the ball; _i.
    e._, in the line a, b, Fig. 3, a direction against that of the
    onward motion of the ball, and to the right of it.

    [Illustration: FIG. 4.]

    Finally, if at any instant we represent the force of the ball
    and its direction by the line A, B (Fig. 4), and the backward
    push of the cushion and its direction by the line A, C, then,
    according to the law of physics, that, “if two forces act on
    a point, and if lines be drawn from that point, representing
    the forces in magnitude and direction, and on these lines, as
    sides, a parallelogram be constructed, their _resultant_ will
    be represented in magnitude and direction by the diagonal which
    passes through that point,” the line A, D will represent the
    actual force and direction of the ball at the given instant.

    But both the forces, A, B and A, C, are constantly decreasing
    from the moment the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, and,
    moreover, the force A, B decreases more rapidly than the force
    A, C, inasmuch as A, B is acting against the resistance of
    the air plus the attraction of gravity, while A, C is acting
    against the resistance of the air alone. Consequently, the
    direction of A, D is being constantly changed and away from A,
    B, and becomes a curve, instead of a straight or broken line.
    This curve will obviously have the direction, A, D (Fig. 5), or
    to the right, which is the direction in which a ball rotating
    to the right will curve.

    [Illustration: FIG. 5.]

    This reasoning will hold for a ball rotating in any direction,
    so long as the axis of rotation is, or tends to be, at right
    angles to the line of progression. The problem of the “drift”
    of a projectile from a rifle or rifled cannon is entirely
    different, and one I should like to see discussed after this
    one of “curving” is settled to your readers’ satisfaction.

    I think the above explanation solves the problem as well as
    explains all the fallacies of your former correspondents.

                         Very respectfully,

                                                            S. P. E.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                          ANNAPOLIS.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In your February number are two letters
    about curved pitching: one written presumably by an army
    officer, from Fort Monroe,—the other from Philadelphia,
    presumably by a naval officer. The army man states facts, and
    gives no explanation; the navy man fails to solve a well-known
    problem.

    In the days of smooth bores and spherical cannon-balls (round
    like a base-ball, only larger), eccentricity, or difference
    between the position of the center of figure and center of
    gravity, or weight, had a very perceptible effect upon range
    and accuracy. Placing the projectile in the gun, with the
    center of gravity to the right, when the gun was fired, the
    projectile or cannon-ball took up a motion of rotation from
    left to right, and deviated to the right (Fig. 1); placing it
    toward the upper part of the bore, the ball rotated from down
    up, and deviated upward, or the range was increased (Fig. 2).

    [Illustration: FIG. 1—VERTICAL.

    FIG. 2—HORIZONTAL.

    C. Center of shot. G. Center of gravity. A. Half ball moving
    toward the resisting air. B. Half ball moving away from the
    resisting air.]

    All bodies free to move will follow the line of least
    resistance. The force acting upon the ball (the resultant of
    the forward movement, and the opposing resistance of the air)
    will be _away_ from that half of the ball moving _toward_ the
    resisting air, as the ball, in its effort to take up the line
    of least resistance, is pushed away; no part of it is retarded.
    This it what a “curve-pitcher” does.

    A billiard ball having received a strong “draw,” or backward
    rotation, striking another to one side of the center, makes a
    very perceptible curve after impact, until the original motion
    of translation has been overcome.

    All these things were known before curved pitching ever was
    spoken of. Curved pitching was discovered accidentally,
    although, strange to say, many base-ball players were known
    always “to throw crooked,” or with a curve.

                            Yours truly,

                                        E. B. BARRY, Lieut. U. S. N.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                   BRIDGEPORT, CONN.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Having seen so many articles in your
    “Letter-box,” on Mr. Harvey’s excellent story, “How Science Won
    the Game,” I thought I would write to you in regard to it.

    I have carefully tried the experiments of throwing the ball
    so that it would twist in the directions indicated by the
    different writers, and so far but one method has been correct
    in every particular; namely, the one given by F. C. J. in the
    May number.

    I wish I had been at the county fair when Arthur Dart’s father
    offered ten dollars to any one who would successfully perform
    the “three stake proof,” as I am certain that I should have
    made that amount by the operation, whether I had been asked to
    pitch the “in” or “out” curve, both of which I find equally
    easy to accomplish.

    The question of why the ball curves after it has left the hand,
    I account for as follows: If the “in” curve is to be pitched,
    the ball touches the index finger the last thing before
    leaving the hand, and, as it does so, the hand is quickly and
    forcibly clenched, so that the ball is given a twirling motion.
    Therefore it curves to the right (provided it is thrown with
    the right hand). In the case of the “out” curve, the ball
    touches the thumb the last thing before leaving the hand, and
    consequently twists to the left, producing the “out” curve.

    The “out” curve is so called because it is a ball thrown to a
    right-handed batsman when in position, so that it curves _out_
    toward the end of his bat, while the “in” curve is a ball
    thrown to a batsman which curves _in_ toward his body.

    The following may be safely taken as a rule as to
    curve-pitching. If the ball be thrown so it twists the way
    shown in Fig. 1, the ball will curve in; but, if it be thrown
    so it will twist as indicated by Fig. 2, the ball will curve
    out.

    [Illustration: FIG. 1.]

    [Illustration: FIG. 2.]

    Trusting that this explanation is clear and satisfactory, and
    hoping to see it in the “Letter-box,” I remain the stanch
    friend and admirer of our National Game,

                                                    WILL P. SNIKPOH.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                     FISHKILL, N. Y.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been reading with much interest the
    letters concerning the curving of a base-ball, and would now
    like to try my hand at offering an explanation. The theory that
    I present is not original, being taken from “Wood’s Analytical
    Mechanics,” p. 462, but it seems to be the one offering the
    best explanation of the actual facts of the case. I will omit
    what mathematics there is in it, in order to render it a little
    more easily understood.

    [Illustration]

    Suppose a ball is moving toward G, and rotating in the
    direction shown by the arrow. Then the two quadrants A and D
    will move with equal velocities. B and C will also move with
    equal velocities, but B and C will not move as fast as A and D,
    because in the case of A and D the velocity due to _rotation_
    is to be _added_ to that of _direct forward motion_, and in the
    case of B and C it is to be _subtracted_. Now the pressure of
    the air on a moving body varies, as some power of the velocity
    of the body; that is, the greater the velocity, the greater the
    pressure. The quadrant A moves against the air with a certain
    velocity, and the total pressure of the air on that quadrant
    will be a force, acting toward the center (if we neglect
    friction), which may be represented by the arrow at A. The
    quadrant B moves against the air with a less velocity than A;
    hence the pressure is less. Let it be represented by the arrow
    at B. The quadrant C moves _away from_ the air with a velocity
    equal to B; hence the pressure on C must be less than that on
    B. The quadrant D moves _away from_ the air with a velocity
    greater than that of C; hence the pressure on D will be less
    than that on C. Evidently now from this arrangement of forces
    the resultant force will lie somewhat in the position shown by
    the arrow R. This will tend to force the ball away from the
    direct line of flight and to curve it as shown by the dotted
    line.

    Thus we see that it is the _pressure_ of the atmosphere that
    curves the ball, and not the friction. The tendency of the
    latter is to curve the ball in the opposite direction, but
    this tendency is unappreciable. This is where the mistake
    of your correspondent in the February number lies; namely,
    in considering the friction instead of the pressure. The
    explanation of F. C. J. in the May number seems to me more
    correct. The theory of “A Curver” in the May number, that a
    ball could be curved more easily in a vacuum than in the air,
    is entirely wrong. It violates Newton’s first law of motion.
    “A body continues in a state of rest or of uniform motion in a
    straight line unless acted upon by some external force.” In a
    vacuum there would be no external force, and the ball would not
    curve at all. Prof. Wood, in the article referred to, proves
    that the more slowly a ball is thrown with a given velocity of
    rotation the more will it curve. Does any one know how this is
    practically? Hoping that I have not taken up too much of your
    space,

                    I am, very sincerely yours,

                                                            J. R. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                       BRADY CITY, MCCULLOCH, TEXAS.

    DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Seeing Mr. Stevens’s letter on the
    “curve” in your April number, I am tempted to reply to it.
    Unfortunately, the data on which his theory is founded are
    incorrect. A ball twisting to the left will curve, not to the
    right, but to the left.

    May I offer another explanation. The facts are that: 1, the
    axis of rotation is perpendicular to (or rather the plane of
    rotation or twist is parallel to) the plane in which the curve
    lies; and, 2, that the curve is in the _same_ direction as the
    twist.

    When a ball is thrown with sufficient velocity, the air is (as
    Mr. Stevens tells us) “compacted in front of the ball.” When
    there is little or no twist, the resistance of the air is equal
    on both sides of the ball, and there is no curve.

    Now, if the wind be blowing across the path of the ball, the
    resistance is unequal, and the ball curves away from the wind;
    so that in practice allowance is made for this curve when
    throwing a ball in a high wind.

    When there is no wind, but the ball is thrown with sufficient
    velocity to create considerable resistance from the air, and
    at the same time is twisted so as to rotate on its axis, then
    the resistance offered at a, c (Fig. 1) is greater than that
    offered at a, b; for a, c is advancing with the velocity of the
    throw _plus_ the velocity of the twist, while a, b is advancing
    with the velocity of the throw _minus_ the velocity of the
    twist. Consequently a greater resisting force being exerted at
    a, c than at a, b, the ball yields and is forced into the curve
    B, A′, just as a cross wind would deflect it. The result is
    a curve—because the forces are constant while the ball is in
    motion.

    [Illustration: FIG. 1.]

    Again, conceive of the ball B (Fig. 2) as at rest and the wind
    acting on a, b in the direction c, a. The angle of incidence
    being equal to the angle of deflection, the result will be to
    force the ball in the direction c′, a—the same result as is
    produced by the wind acting on a sail.

    [Illustration: FIG. 2.]

    On this theory, the relation of the velocity of the twist to
    the velocity of the throw will determine the nature and degree
    of the curve, and the point of departure from the straight line.

    If the ball be thrown too slowly, there is not sufficient
    resistance to affect its course materially. If it is thrown too
    swiftly, the velocity of the throw will overcome the tendency
    of the twist, and there will be no perceptible curve.

    For this reason the ball, when first thrown, will proceed in an
    apparently straight line until its initial velocity is so far
    diminished as to nearly equal the velocity of rotation, when it
    will begin to curve.

    Again, the ball would have a tendency to curve in the direction
    of rotation were there no resistance from the air. For, in the
    plane of rotation the circumference at c moves more rapidly
    toward A than at the point b (Fig. 3); hence it has a tendency
    to advance over a greater distance than b in a given time,
    but is held back by b. This gives centrifugal and centripetal
    forces acting from b to c, and a consequent tendency of c to
    revolve around b, which, in connection with the motion of both
    toward a, would give the curved line a-A′ as the path of the
    ball.

    [Illustration: FIG. 3.]

    As a familiar example, take a child’s wooden hoop and toss
    it from you with sufficient upward tendency to overcome
    gravity, at the same time causing it to revolve rapidly in a
    plane parallel to the horizon, and you will find that it will
    describe a curve in the direction of the rotation and fall at
    your feet. This is an extreme illustration of this factor of
    the base-ball curve; the diameter of the hoop being so much the
    greater, of course gives a far greater velocity of rotation in
    comparison to that of projection than the smaller diameter of
    the base-ball can give.

    This same principle is involved in the explanation of the
    motion of the boomerang of the Australians and the toy of the
    same name.

                          Yours sincerely,

                                                      ROBERT S. DOD.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our thanks are due to the young friends whose names here follow, for
pleasant letters which they have sent us, but which are crowded out of
the “Letter-box”:

Arthur E. Clark, Jr., A. G. C., M. M. Stevens, Urbanna Myrover, “Gladys,
Gipsy, Sibyl,” Blue Bell, “Hie” and “Tie,” T. A. T., May Elden, Herman
N. Steele, “Yum” and “Tum,” Daisy Smith, Phil Riley, Annie M. Porter,
Daisy A. C., Lucy E. D., Mable H. W., Amelia N. F., and Annie L. D.,
Francie Mackenzie, “Maiden Hair and Moonlight,” Mabel F. Rigby, W., I. S.
B., E. T. C., Carl W., Isabel Eldridge, Kittie Loper, Aimée and Goldina
Mendelson, Herbert A. Megraw, Gerald B. Wadsworth, F. W. L., Amy D.
Smith, Imogene Avis, May, David Blair, and May E. Masten.




[Illustration: The Agassiz Association

SIXTY-SIXTH REPORT.]


LOUIS AGASSIZ.

HIS LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE.[2]

No person capable of appreciating a beautiful record of a consistent and
noble life can begin to read Mrs. Agassiz’s book and leave it unfinished;
and no one can finish reading it without receiving a fresh baptism of
faith, hope, and love.

“The work is written in so captivating a style that the reader seems
almost to see Agassiz, the boy, catching the fishes and studying their
movements in the old stone tank near the Swiss parsonage where he was
born. Sympathy is felt for the youth threatened with blindness, but still
so intent upon his chosen pursuits that he studies fossils in a darkened
room, using his tongue to feel out the impressions when his fingers are
not sensitive enough. Enthusiasm is aroused when the young man exploits
his glacial theory, which, opposed by Buckland and other scientists,
afterward makes converts of them all.”

I have been deeply impressed by the manifestation of Agassiz’s
distinctive traits and peculiar powers, at a very early age. It is this
that makes the record of his life so inspiring to young men. When our
boys read what a boy of nineteen may be, and may do, they will not be
satisfied with lives devoted in large measure to trivial enjoyments; and
they will regard as of less consequence the height of their new collars,
and the tie of their cravats.

From the time he was born in the little cottage by the Lake of Morat,
until he was laid to rest at Mount Auburn, the story of Agassiz’s life
is a constant inspiration. Whether Louis Agassiz was right or wrong, we
respect the manliness that refused to accept the doctrine of evolution,
because his reason was not convinced of its truth.

I can scarcely conceive a greater blessing to this country, restless as
it is in its haste for riches, vexed as it is by the clashing of opposing
interests, than that the sweet and consecrated spirit of Louis Agassiz
should steal into the unquiet breasts of American young men, and fill
them with the like self-forgetting devotion to simple truth.

[2] Edited by his wife, Elizabeth Cary Agassiz. With portraits,
illustrations, and index. In two volumes, crown, 8vo. Houghton, Mifflin &
Co., Boston and New York.


IN MEMORIAM.

It is with deep sorrow that I have to announce the death of one of our
most prominent and promising members. William D. Shaw, son of Mr. Thomas
Shaw, died at Côte St. Antoine, June 29, aged 19 years. Mr. Shaw was
one of those young men who had caught the spirit of Louis Agassiz, and
already at his early age he had given promise of a useful life.

He was the leading spirit in founding our Montreal Chapter, which grew,
principally under his direction, into one of the largest and strongest on
our roll. A member of the B. A. A. S., he was about going to England to
take part in the proceedings there. He was a devoted student of natural
science, and his collection which he recently gave to the Montreal
Chapter was one of the largest private collections in the city.

Mr. Shaw was our Canadian Secretary, and his loss will be deeply felt by
many Chapters of our Association.


NOTES.

_Water-spider._ I found a large water-spider under a bridge. I placed it
in a bottle and fed it flies. Instead of building a web, it stays on a
stick, and jumps at the flies when they come near it.—Alex. E. Wight.

_Electric light and insects._ In four or five evenings, by examining
the ground closely near our electric lights, I found specimens of Telea
Polyphemus, Actias Luna, Platysamia Cecropia, Callosamia Promethea, and
other large moths, including several hawk-moths; also many varieties of
beetles.

Hardly any were found outside the shadow around base of pole.—Peter T.
Bourne, Sec., Poughkeepsie, N. Y.

_Birds of Fulton Co., Ky._ No bird is given that I have not seen here and
fully identified. Nomenclature according to Coue’s Key:

1.—_Turdus migratorius._ American robin. Transient visitant in spring and
fall. Abundant. Many killed and eaten here.

2.—_T. Mustelinus._ Wood-thrush. Rare.

3.—_T. fuscescens._ Wilson’s thrush. Transient. Common.

4.—_Mimus polyglottus._ Mocking-bird. Summer resident. Growing scarce.
Many young taken for the cage. A young one sells for from 25c. to $1.

5.—_Mimus Carolinensis._ Catbird. Common.

6.—_Sialia sialis._ Bluebird. Resident. More common in winter than in
summer.

7.—_Lophophanes bicolor._ Tufted titmouse. Resident.

8.—_Parus atricapillus._ Black-capped titmouse. Abundant in winter.

9.—_Sitta Carolinensis._ Sap-sucker. Abundant in winter.

10.—_Troglodytes domesticits._ House-wren. Abundant in winter.

11.—_Dendræca æstiva._ Summer yellow-bird. Common.

12.—_Pyranga rubra._ Scarlet tanager. Summer resident. Rare.

13.—_Pyranga æstiva._ Summer red-bird. Common.

14.—_Hirundo erythrogastra horreorum._ Barn-swallow. Common summer
resident.

15.—_Passerina cyanea._ Indigo bunting. Common summer resident.

16.—_Cardinalis Virginiana._ Cardinal grosbeak. Common.

17.—_Trochilus colubris._ Ruby-throated humming-bird. Common.

18.—_Cathartes aura._ Turkey buzzard. Common resident.

19.—_Zenaidura Carolinensis._ Turtle-dove. Common.

20.—_Anas boscas._ Mallard. Very common.

[_These are only selections from a long and nearly complete list sent by
L. O. Pindar. It shows what an observing boy can do._]

_Grasshoppers climbing trees._ Toward evening, I noticed on an apple-tree
a very large number of grasshoppers, apparently climbing the tree.
It seemed to me that they were going to “roost” for the night.—E. F.
Stevens, Chapter 465.

_Ruffed Grouse drumming._ Hearing some one say that the thunder-like
noise was made by the grouse’s wings striking upon the log upon which
he was sitting, I determined to find out for certain. Since then I have
noted four things:

1. The wings are always held half-closed at first; _i. e._, the outer
joint half-doubled against the one next it.

2. The wing is first raised and then pushed outward from the body.

3. The wings are not used alternately, but both at once.

4. The wings do not strike the log, but are drawn in by a quick motion
against the sides of the bird.—E. L. Stephan, Pine City, Minn.

_Hydrae hunting._ I send you a drawing of a _hydra_ which (natural size)
is about half an inch long. I have seen a _hydra fusca_ catch little
animals smaller than itself by means of its lasso, and, when they were
dead, drop them without eating them.—Alex. Wight, Framingham, Mass.

_A motherly rat._ I found in a nest a mouse, of the common sort, so
young that its eyes were not yet open. A friend having a white rat with
a litter of young, we put the little fellow among them. The mother rat
at once adopted it and took good care of it for two weeks, when it
escaped.—Frank H. Foster, Sec. 440.

_Flowers, birds, insects, and worms of Japan._ Before coming to Japan I
was told that the flowers here had no perfumes, and the birds no songs.

This certainly was misinformation, as there are both, though not so
intense or so various as at home.

The skylark is the most conspicuous of the birds, at least, so far as
voice goes, and pours forth as much music as any half dozen of our
songsters. No wonder the poets have gone mad over him.

Will some of our English friends tell us whether the skylark sings any in
the _fall_ in England?

Very many of the worms and caterpillars that live on the leaves of trees
and shrubs—and every tree and bush seems to have one or more of these
enemies—have a queer way of spinning themselves a sort of sack or cocoon
covered with bits of twigs and leaves. One end of the cocoon is left
open, and through this the worm sticks its head and feet, thus carrying
its jacket around with it while eating.

The earth-worms are very striking. They all possess much more springing
power than any I ever saw at home. Even the small, common kinds will
jump entirely off the ground when touched. Some grow to an enormous
size. The largest I saw this summer were fully ten inches long and from
three-eighths to one-half an inch through when contracted. Some are
beautifully striped—in rings—with a prevailing blue color, but changing
in the light like variegated silk.—C. M. Cady.

_A robin fights._ While on a tramp, one day, I saw a robin give a
cow-bird a sound thrashing.

_A “fish-fly” walks out._ I found, one day, in Wine creek, some
queer-shaped larvæ. They looked like large wrigglers. I picked some up
and, while looking at them, I saw the back of one split open, and out
walked a fish-fly. I thought it would have trouble in getting its tail
out, but it didn’t. It just gave a twist and out came the tail.—F. V.
Corregan, Oswego, N. Y.

_Strange food for tortoises and mice._ I am very much interested in the
attempt to teach habits of scientific observation to the young people
of our country, and therefore venture to send you two facts new to me
in regard to the feeding habits of animals. Last summer I was passing
through a grove, about twenty rods from the Housatonic river, when my
attention was attracted by a large turtle (for reasons mentioned below,
I think it was a land-tortoise, though I do not know one kind of turtle
from another), with its neck stretched out to its utmost extent, busily
engaged about something. As I drew near, it pulled in its head with a
sharp hiss, and I saw that it was standing near a fungus, or toad-stool,
about an inch thick and three inches across (when whole), nearly half
of which looked as if it had been nibbled away; and, on looking at
the tortoise’s mouth, I saw bits of the toad-stool sticking to it. On
mentioning this to my brother (who knows far more about animals than I),
he said, “That is queer, for I found a land-tortoise eagerly eating a
toad-stool in my woods, this summer.” My brother lives on Long Island.

For many months my sister and I have been puzzled by seeing a mouse
in our room, though he had no apparent hiding-place. One window of
ours always stands open at the top all summer, and below it is a thick
woodbine. One evening in September, I was busily writing by this window,
of which the blinds were closed, but the slats open, when I heard a
tapping noise, which I thought was insects. Looking up, however, I saw
a little mouse, which, on seeing me, disappeared through the slats of
the blind. I sat quite still, and in a minute he came back, and, to my
astonishment, began catching and eating the small insects which my light
had attracted to the window. He was not a field-mouse, but an ordinary
house-mouse, and could not have been driven to this diet by extreme
hunger, for he was very plump.

Perhaps these habits in mice and turtles may be well known, but, as I
never heard of them, I venture to send them to you.

                               Yours truly,

                                             V. Butler, Stockbridge, Mass.


THE SENSITIVE PLANT OF TEXAS.

This remarkable plant of Texas is one not frequently spoken of by
botanists, but nevertheless it is interesting and worthy of a high place
among the many beautiful flowers and plants which clothe the boundless
plains of Texas during eight months of the year. In its style of growth
it somewhat resembles the climbing rose, and is covered with densely
grown and flexible thorns about a quarter of an inch long, and turned
backward like hooks. Its top (that part above the earth’s surface)
dies out when the cold “northers” begin to blow; but early in spring
the tender shoots spring up from the old stock. It thrives best among
rocks mixed with the yellow alkaline clay common to these regions. Its
flower is of the most exquisite and delicate beauty, and its delicious
perfume is not to be classed with that of the rose or other sweet-scented
domestic flowers. The flower, when blooming, does not burst open after
the manner of the rose, but in one night a myriad of little silk-like
threads or petals of a deep pink color shoot out from a green ball, much
resembling those seen on the sycamore, though much smaller; and, as the
king of day peeps smilingly over the distant horizon, it greets him with
its delicate beauty and delicious odor. But now we come to the remarkable
part of its structure, the leaves. These grow from each side of a stem
much in the same manner as those on a walnut tree, but of course not so
large, the entire stem rarely exceeding an inch in length. Now draw your
finger along this stem, touching the bright green leaves on either side,
and what happens? The instant you remove your finger the little leaves
close with the uppermost sides tight together, and thus they remain for
several hours, as though insulted by such an act of impudence. Even the
touch of a stick or a strong wind will close these ill-tempered leaves.
If you touch one individual leaf it closes, while the others remain in
their natural position.

This plant is also known as the “Indian tracker,” it being said that
the Indians, who now roam about over the beautiful plains of the Indian
Territory, and even on those of Texas, used to track their enemies and
game by observing the condition of leaves on the sensitive plant.

It also grows in Missouri, and, perhaps, in Arkansas, but among the rocky
hills and cañons of Texas seems to be at home.—Alfred V. Kern, Wichita
Falls, Wichita Co., Texas.


YOUNG WALKING-STICKS.

I will tell you about a walking-stick I caught last summer. It was the
largest one I had ever seen, though they are quite numerous in the
woods about here. It measured four inches from its head to its tail.
While waiting to get a bottle to preserve it in, I kept it in a small
pasteboard box, and when I was ready to transfer it to the bottle of
alcohol, I found it had laid six eggs. The eggs were about the size of
a large pin’s-head, oval in shape, shiny black about four-fifths of
their length, the other fifth white. Well, I put the bug in the bottle,
and glued the eggs on a piece of stiff paper and put them away in a
pasteboard box. The other day I happened to open the box and found that
two of the eggs had hatched. The inmate of one was a perfectly formed
little walking-stick one-fourth of an inch long, its legs about the
thickness of a fine hair, and the same length as its body. The other
one was two-thirds outside of its shell, and was of a bright green
color.—John H. Kinzie, Riverside, Illinois.


EXCHANGES.

Mounted microscopic objects, mostly vegetal, for others, or for books on
the microscope, vegetable histology, etc.—A. E. Warren, Jefferson, O.

Determined botanical specimens, for same. Send lists.—Norman C. Wilson,
The Dalles, Oregon, Sec. Ch. 28.

Correspondence solicited.—Ch. 187, Newburyport, Mass. G. A. Noyes, Sec.,
Box 933.

I shall be glad to send specimens of anything I can get here, to those
who will pay the postage, or send pressed flowers in return.—Kittie C.
Roberts, 212 W. Peachtree street, Atlanta, Georgia.


A CORRECTION.

We were misinformed by an unscrupulous person regarding our badge-maker,
Mr. Hayward. He has not retired from business, but may be addressed as
heretofore at 202 Broadway, N. Y.


CHAPTERS, NEW AND REORGANIZED.

                                _No.
  _No._     _Name._              of       _Address._
                              Members._

   975  London, Eng. (G)          4     Francis Felix Francillon, 21
                                          Regent’s Park Terrace,
                                          Gloucester gate, London,
                                          N. W.
   230  Brazil, Ind. (A)         11     Geo. B. Bennett, Box 169.
    28  The Dalles, Oregon (A)   12     Norman C. Wilson, Wasco Co.

    DISBANDED.

   834  Westfield, Mass. (A)            Miss Mary D. Clark.
   511  Blackwater, Florida (A)         Miss Kittie C. Roberts.

Secretaries of Chapters 701-800 will kindly forward their reports as soon
as convenient. All are invited to join the Association.

Address all communications for this department, to

                                                    MR. HARLAN H. BALLARD,
                                                    Lenox, Mass.




THE RIDDLE-BOX.


ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE SEPTEMBER NUMBER.

CONNECTED PYRAMIDS. Centrals, Pastoral. Cross-words: 1. P. 2. bAa. 3.
guSto. 4. MonTero. 5. O. 6. eRa. 7. leAch. 8. galLeon.

CROSS-WORD ENIGMA. Engine.

BURIED QUADRUPEDS. 1. Alpaca. 2. Beaver. 3. Bison. 4. Ermine. 5. Chamois.
6. Genet. 7. Loris. 8. Llama. 9. Lemur. 10. Paco. 11. Paca. 12. Panda.
13. Tapir. 14. Jackal.

DIAMOND. 1. C. 2. Hap. 3. Humor. 4. Cambric. 5. Pored. 6. Rid. 7 C.

CONNECTED SQUARES. I. 1. Leap. 2. Earl. 3. Area. 4. Plan. II. 1. Plan. 2.
Line. 3. Ants. 4. Nest. III. 1. Plan. 2. Love. 3. Arts. 4. Nest. IV. 1.
Nest. 2. Echo. 3. Show. 4. Town.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC. Primals, Cold wave; finals, Manitoba. Cross-words: 1.
ClaM. 2. OlgA. 3. LoaN. 4. DemI. 5. WanT. 6. AltO. 7. VerB. 8. EllA.

TRIANGULAR PRISM. From 1 to 2, Celt; from 1 to 3, chip; from 2 to 5,
toupettit; 1 to 4, catechism; 3 to 6, proboscis; 4 to 5, mint; 4 to 6,
mass; 5 to 6, trellis.

DOUBLE ZIGZAG. From 1 to 10, Michaelmas; from 11 to 20, roast goose.
Cross-words: 1. Macaroni. 2. Bibulous. 3. Peculiar. 4. Cashiers. 5.
Gratuity. 6. Deterges. 7. Lampoons, 8. Imporous. 9. Chastise. 10.
Pristine.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

    Graceful, tossing plume of glowing gold,
      Waving lonely on the rocky ledge;
    Leaning seaward, lovely to behold,
      Clinging to the high cliff’s ragged edge.

                                                     _Seaside Goldenrod._

RHYMED WORD-SQUARE. 1. Bacon. 2. Aroma. 3. Coped. 4. Omega. 5. Nadab.

OCTAGON. 1. Hop. 2. Papal. 3. Harelip. 4. Operate. 5. Palaver. 6. Liter.
7. Per.

BEHEADINGS. Thomas Edison. Cross-words: 1. T-hank. 2. H-aunt. 3. O-pens.
4. M-isle. 5. A-skew. 6. S-urge. 7. E-bony. 8. D-rink. 9. I-deal. 10.
S-ewer. 11. O-read. 12. N-once.

CROSS-WORD ENIGMA. Husking frolic.

TO OUR PUZZLERS: In sending answers to puzzles, sign only your initials
or use a short assumed name; but if you send a complete list of answers,
you may sign your full name. Answers should be addressed to ST. NICHOLAS
“Riddle-box,” care of THE CENTURY CO., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York
City.

ANSWERS TO ALL THE PUZZLES IN THE JULY NUMBER were received, before July
20, from “B. L. Z. Bub, No. 1”—Topsy and Eva—“Betsy and Bob”—Jo and
I—Maggie T. Turrill—Shumway Hen and Chickens—Joseph Brobston, Jr.—Mary
Ludlow—The Spencers—Little Miss Muffet—Francis W. Islip—Two Cousins—C.
and H. Condit—H. and S.—Madge and the Dominie—“Dash”—“Original Puzzle
Club”—J. L. A. O. F.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE JULY NUMBER were received, before July 20,
from Pelham, 1—Reba Neal, 3—C. E. Thompson, 1—Paul Reese, 2—C. R. M.,
1—Capt. Bomb, 5—Maud E. Palmer, 8—Mamma and Katie, 1—Capt. Dag, 1—Tripod,
1—“A. D. Onis,” 1—Birdie Koehler, 7—Kittie, Belle, and Bird, 2—R. G.
Welson, 1—Yum-Yum, 1—Gum Tree, 3—Bee, 2—R. H. Wedin, 1—Moses, 1—W. L.
C., 3—Mush and Milk, 4—J. C. A., 5—Fin, Fur, and Feather, 3—“Me and Be,”
4—A. Maude Doty, 2—E. D. N., 4—“Pards,” 5—Lena B. R. Pierce, 4—“Sophia
and Traddles,” 5—C. Furstenberg, 1—W. K. C., 1—J. and M., 3—Aloha, 3—D.
B. Shumway, 7—Effie K. Talboys, 5—E. E. P. and A. S. C., 3—“Whiskers,”
1—Mamie R., 8—T. J. S., 4—Nellie and Reggie, 8—A. Hieronymous,
4—“Agricola,” 6—Spa, 1—Mab, 4—M. L. Everett, 8—L. C. B., 8—“Retlaw,”
1—Bat and Ball, 1—F. D., 5—“B. L. Z. Bub, No. 2,” 8—Addie C. Bowles,
1—Mary and Sallie Viles, 7—L. M. B., 8—Lee, 5—Jack Tar, 1.


DECAPITATIONS.

Behead the first word indicated by stars to make the second, the second
to make the third, and so on.

    The ship rode in an * * * * * * * bay;
    Asleep, * * * * * *, the master lay;
    A * * * * * and rugged man was he,
    And, like the * * * *, at home at sea;
    He, like the * * *, swooped on his prey,
    Whene’er the * * came his way.
    But now, while * the needle kept,
    Forgetting all, he lay and slept.

                                                                 H. L. E.


EASY HALF-SQUARE.

1. An isthmus through which a canal is being cut. 2. Out of a straight
line. 3. A girl’s name. 4. A girl’s name. 5. A personal pronoun. 6. In
half-square.


ST. ANDREW’S CROSS OF DIAMONDS.

        .           .
      . . .       . . .
    . . . . .   . . . . .
  . . . . . . * . . . . . .
    . . . . * * * . . . .
      . . * * * * * . .
        * * * * * * *
      . . * * * * * . .
    . . . . * * * . . . .
  . . . . . . * . . . . . .
    . . . . .   . . . . .
      . . .       . . .
        .           .

I. UPPER LEFT-HAND DIAMOND: 1. In fashions. 2. A cover. 3. Fastened with
cords. 4. Fabrication. 5. To condescend. 6. A title. 7. In fashions.

II. UPPER RIGHT-HAND DIAMOND: 1. In fashions. 2. Part of a flower. 3. An
artificial water-course. 4. Papal envoys. 5. A coloring substance. 6. A
portion. 7. In fashions.

III. CENTRAL DIAMOND: 1. In fashions. 2. To doze. 3. Dating from one’s
birth. 4. Constitutions. 5. A city in Italy. 6. A meadow. 7. In fashions.

IV. LOWER LEFT-HAND DIAMOND: 1. In fashions. 2. A dance. 3. A public
house. 4. Heeds. 5. A kind of nut. 6. Three-fifths of a musical term
meaning slowly. 7. In fashions.

V. LOWER RIGHT-HAND DIAMOND: 1. In fashions. 2. To endeavor. 3. Equipped.
4. Poetical comparisons. 5. An affray. 6. A river in Scotland. 7. In
fashions.

                                                                  M. A. S.


CONNECTED WORD-SQUARES.

  1 . . .
  . * . .
  . . * .
  . . . *
          * . . .
          . * . .
          . . * .
          . . . 2

UPPER SQUARE: 1. A denomination. 2. To resound. 3. The sovereign prince
of Tartary. 4. To inter.

LOWER SQUARE: 1. A kind of nail. 2. A lineage. 3. A piece of land. 4.
Achievement.

Diagonals, from 1 to 2, a case.

                                                           “MYRTLE GREEN.”


UNIFORM REMAINDERS.

All of the words described contain the same number of letters; and the
letters of each word, after it has been beheaded and curtailed, may be
transposed to spell the same word. In short, the middle letters of each
word described are the same, and may be transposed to form the same word.

1. Zealous. 2. Rancor. 3. Membranes that cover the brains. 4. To
exchange. 5. To impede. 6. Baskets of wicker-work. 7. Uttered foolishly.
8. Divided. 9. Rush. 10. Pertaining to a Mediterranean island, 11. Looked
earnestly. 12. Negotiates.

                                                                 SIDNEY J.


[Illustration: OCTOBER.]

Each of the small pictures may be described by a word which rhymes with
“celebration.” The initial letters of the words to be supplied spell a
busy season of the year. The following lines hint at the meaning of each
picture:

    My first is great ——;
    My next a common ——;
    My third a thorough ——;
    My fourth an under ——;
    My fifth an earnest ——;
    My sixth a painful ——;
    My seventh, rapid ——;
    My eighth, a terrible ——;
    My ninth, a perfect ——;
    My tenth, a foolish ——;
    My last, compulsory ——.

                                                               “ROB ROY.”


DOUBLE ACROSTICS.

I. My primals spell one who inherits; my finals, a weaver’s machine;
primals and finals combined, a personal chattel, which descends by
inheritance.

CROSS-WORDS: 1. Pertaining to herbs. 2. An inhabitant of a northern
country. 3. A coloring matter. 4. Redemption.

II. My primals and finals each spell a name for the sperm whale.

CROSS-WORDS: 1. A fastening. 2. Like a monkey. 3. Demented. 4. Songs of a
certain kind. 5. Singly. 6. Smallest. 7. The emblem of peace. 8. A South
American animal.

                                                         “EUREKA” AND MAX.


PI.

    Three si a tabufile tripis ringbathe wno
    Tis wellom chinsers no eth drescutle steer,
    Dan, morf a breake lufi fo cresthi syde,
    Gourpin wen rylog no eth mutnau dowos,
    Nad grippnid ni rawm ghlit eth lardpile uscold.

                                                             ANNIE AND A.


NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

I am composed of one hundred and forty letters, and form a stanza by
Bryant.

My 101-98-106-115 is a vast number. My 125-22-53 is astern. My
73-107-136-79 is animation. My 45-57-116-4 is to move. My 105-48-127-28
is unmixed. My 100-83-59 is used for illuminating purposes. My
17-63-90 is a nickname for Boston. My 69-34-111-119-13 is a fine
city. My 99-134-70-92-49 is to appropriate. My 129-2-122-25-40 is
the name of an eminent English naturalist and divine of Selborne.
My 35-6-132-65 is the name of a distinguished American poet and
artist, born in 1822. My 94-26-32-112-1-8 is a name well known to
literature, borne by a man and his wife. My 97-103-31-43-15-18-96-55
is another similar name. My 88-21-138-140 is a famous English humorist
and author. My 67-75-61-7-71 is the reputed author of the Iliad. My
113-50-11-102-37-12-91-38-114 is an eminent poet born at Pallas, in
Ireland, in 1728. My 47-76-109-86-42 is a celebrated Italian epic
poet. My 81-29-23-124-27-20-84 is the inventor of the Kindergarten.
My 110-14-126-51-16 is a celebrated Scottish poet. My 117-135-72-3
is “The Bard of Twickenham.” My 78-128-5-68-120-41 is a poet now
living. My 130-46-64-36-131-44 is a famous writer of witty verses
and essays. My 121-62-30-137-82-89-139-85-118-33 is the best-known
American poet. My 58-9-104-66-87 is “The Wizard of the North.” My
108-39-10-24-123-95-56-80-60 is the real name of “Michael Angelo
Titmarsh.” My 133-52-93-77-74-19-54 is the real name of “Boz.”

                                                       “CORNELIA BLIMBER.”


CUBE.

        1 . . . . . . 2
      . .           . .
    .   .         .   .
  5 . . . . . . 6     .
  .     .       .     .
  .     .       .     .
  .     .       .     .
  .     3 . . . . . . 4
  .   .         .   .
  . .           . .
  7 . . . . . . 8

On a pleasant day in August we took one of the many 1 _to_ 2 plying
between city and 2 _to_ 4, and with 3 _to_ 4 hearts started on a day’s
pleasure trip. Some 5 _to_ 7 pointed out many objects of interest. On
landing, we took a stroll and then seated ourselves on some old 1 _to_ 5
to eat a 6 _to_ 8 and to watch the beautiful white 3 _to_ 7 that were 1
_to_ 3 over the water. A few 5 _to_ 6, trying to gain health and 7 _to_
8 by a plunge in salt water, were thrown into a panic by a mischievous
boy who cried out that he saw 2 _to_ 6 close by. The bathers were glad to
take refuge on solid 4 _to_ 8.

                                                               “KATASHAW.”


PECULIAR ACROSTICS.

All of the words described contain the same number of letters. When
rightly guessed and written one below the other, the second and the sixth
row of letters will each spell a name given to the last day of October.

1. Military. 2. A small round mass. 3. Smoothly. 4. To treat with
tenderness. 5. A company of travelers. 6. Capable of being molded. 7.
Ardent. 8. Blooming. 9. Gross. 10. Regards with reverence. 11. To retain.
12. A little ring.

                                                                  F. S. F.





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. NICHOLAS, VOL. 13, NO. 12, OCTOBER 1886 ***


    

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