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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls,
Vol. 5, Nov 1877-Nov 1878, by Various
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, Nov 1877-Nov 1878
No 1, Nov 1877
Author: Various
Editor: Mary Mapes Dodge
Release Date: January 14, 2006 [EBook #17513]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. NICHOLAS MAGAZINE ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Lesley Halamek and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
</pre>
<br />
<h1>ST. NICHOLAS:</h1><br />
<h4>SCRIBNER'S ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE</h4><br /><br />
<h2>FOR GIRLS AND BOYS,</h2><br /><br />
<h5>CONDUCTED BY</h5><br /><br />
<h3>MARY MAPES DODGE.</h3><br /><br />
<h4>VOLUME V.</h4>
<h5>NOVEMBER, 1877, TO NOVEMBER, 1878.</h5>
<br /><br />
<h5>SCRIBNER & CO., NEW YORK.</h5>
<h6>Copyright by SCRIBNER & CO., 1878.<br />
PRESS OF FRANCIS HART & CO.<br />
NEW YORK</h6>
<br /><br /><hr /><br /><br />
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/0136-1.jpg"><img src="images/0136-1-340.jpg" width="340" height="466" alt="KING RICHARD II. AND HIS CHILD-QUEEN." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">KING RICHARD II. AND HIS CHILD-QUEEN.</p>
</div><br /><br />
<h1>ST. NICHOLAS.</h1>
<h4>VOL. V. NOVEMBER, 1877. No. 1.</h4>
<h6>[Copyright, 1877, by Scribner & Co.]</h6>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<h3>CONTENTS.</h3>
<table width="100%" align="center" border="0" summary="contents">
<tr>
<td colspan="2" valign="top"> </td>
<td class="right">PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page1"><span class="sc">Child-Queen</span>, A.</a> (Illustrated by Alfred Fredericks) </td>
<td><i>Cecilia Cleveland</i> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page1">1</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#wolves"><span class="sc">Chased by Wolves</span>.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>George Dudley Lawson</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page3">3</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#crewd"><span class="sc">Jingle: There was an Old Person of Crewd</span>.</a> (Illustrated by K. W. P.)</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page6">6</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page7"><span class="sc">Mollie's Boyhood</span>.</a> (Illustrated by George White)</td>
<td><i>Sarah E. Chester</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page7">7</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page13"><span class="sc">The Largest Volcano in the World</span>.</a> (Illustrated)
</td>
<td><i>Sarah Coan</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page13">13</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#skip"><span class="sc">Making it Skip</span>.</a> Verse. (Illustrated by Thomas Moran)</td>
<td><i>M. M. D.</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page15">15</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page16"><span class="sc">Willow Wand</span>, The.</a> Poem. (Illustrated)
</td>
<td><i>A. E. W.</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page16">16</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page18"><span class="sc">Story that Wouldn't be Told</span>, The.</a> (Illustrated)
</td>
<td><i>Louise Stockton</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page18">18</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#polly"><span class="sc">Polly</span>: A Before-Christmas Story.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Hope Ledyard</i> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page19">19</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#boggs"><span class="sc">Boggs's Photograph</span>.</a> Picture.</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page21">21</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page22"><span class="sc">Lord Mayor of London's Show</span>, The.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Jennie A. Owen</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page22">22</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#girl"><span class="sc">My Girl</span>.</a> Poem.</td>
<td><i>John S. Adams</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page25">25</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page26"><span class="sc">Mars, the Planet of War</span>.</a> (Illustrated by the Author)</td>
<td><i>Richard A. Proctor</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page26">26</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#tragedy"><span class="sc">Domestic Tragedy</span>, A.</a> In Two Parts (Illustration)</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page31">31</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#bell"><span class="sc">Bell-Ringers</span>, The Stickleback.</a> (Illustrated by James C. Beard)</td>
<td><i>C. F. Holder</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page31">31</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#cricket"><span class="sc">Cricket on the Hearth</span>, The.</a> Poem. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Clara Doty Bates</i> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page33">33</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page34"><span class="sc">How I Weighed the Thanksgiving Turkey</span>.</a></td>
<td><i>G. M. Shaw</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page34">34</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#melon"><span class="sc">Nimble Jim and the Magic Melon</span>.</a> (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell)</td>
<td><i>J. A. Judson</i> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page34">34</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#lady-girl"><span class="sc">"Oh, I'm My Mamma's Lady-Girl</span>."</a> Verse. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard)</td>
<td><i>M. M. D.</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page41">41</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page42"><span class="sc">Christmas-Gifts</span>, A Budget of Home-Made.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page42">42</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page64"><span class="sc">Little Tweet</span>.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page64">64</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page66"><span class="sc">Jack-in-the-Pulpit</span>.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page66">66</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page68"><span class="sc">Can a Little Child Like Me</span>?</a> (Thanksgiving Hymn)</td>
<td><i>Mary Mapes Dodge</i> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page68">68</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page69"><span class="sc">"Baby's Opera" and Walter Crane</span>, The.</a></td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page69">69</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#letters"><span class="sc">The Letter Box</span>.</a> </td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page69">69</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#moons"><span class="sc">The Moons of Mars</span>.</a> </td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page69">69</a></td>
</tr><tr><td>
<a class="contents" href="#page71"><span class="sc">The Riddle Box</span>.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page71">71</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class="center">The Full Alphabetic Index for Volume V. is <a href="#index">HERE</a>.<br />
(<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">The <span class="sc">Titles</span> above link directly to the Articles.)</span></p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page1" id="page1"></a><span class="left">[page 1]</span>
<h2>A CHILD QUEEN.</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By Cecilia Cleveland</span>.</h4>
<p>
I wonder how many of the little girl readers of
<span class="sc">St. Nicholas</span> are fond of history? If they answer
candidly, I do not doubt that a very large proportion
will declare that they prefer the charming
stories they find in <span class="sc">St. Nicholas</span> to the dull
pages of history, with its countless battles and murdered
sovereigns. But history is not every bit dull,
by any means, as you will find if your elder sisters
and friends will select portions for you to read
that are suitable to your age and interests. Perhaps
you are very imaginative, and prefer fairy
tales to all others. I am sure, then, that you will
like the story I am about to tell you, of a little
French princess, who was married and crowned
Queen of England when only eight years old, and
who became a widow at twelve.</p>
<p>
This child-sovereign was born many hundred
years ago—in 1387—at the palace of the Louvre in
Paris, of whose noble picture-gallery I am sure you
all have heard,—if, indeed, many of you have not
seen it yourselves. She was the daughter of the
poor King Charles VI., whose misfortunes made
him insane, and for whose amusement playing-cards
were invented, and of his queen, Isabeau of Bavaria,
a beautiful but very wicked woman. Little
Princess Isabella was the eldest of twelve children.
She inherited her mother's beauty, and was petted
by her parents and the entire court of France.</p>
<p>
King Richard II. of England, who was a widower
about thirty years old, was urged to marry again;
and, instead of selecting a wife near his own age,
his choice fell upon little Princess Isabella.</p>
<p>
"She is much too young," he was told. "Even
in five or six years she will not be old enough to be
married." The king, however, thought this objection
too trifling to stand in the way of his marriage,
and saying, "The lady's age is a fault that every
day will remedy," he sent a magnificent embassy
to the court of France, headed by the Archbishop
of Dublin, and consisting of earls, marshals, knights,
and squires of honor uncounted, with attendants to
the number of five hundred.</p>
<p>
When the embassy reached Paris, and the offer
of marriage had been formally accepted, the archbishop
and the earls asked to see the little princess
who was soon to become their queen. At first the
French Council refused, saying so young a child
was not prepared to appear on public occasions,
and they could not tell how she might behave.
The English noblemen were so solicitous, however,
that at last she was brought before them. The earl
marshal immediately knelt before her, and said, in
the old-fashioned language of the time: "Madam,
if it please God, you shall be our lady and queen."</p>
<p>
Queen Isabeau stood at a little distance, curious
and anxious, no doubt, to know how her little
daughter would answer this formal address. To
her great pleasure, and the great surprise of all
present, Princess Isabella replied:</p>
<p>
"Sir, if it please God and my father that I be
Queen of England, I shall be well pleased, for I am
told I shall then be a great lady."</p>
<p>
Then, giving the marshal her tiny hand to kiss,
she bade him rise from his knees, and leading him
to her mother, she presented him to her with the
grace and ease of a mature woman.</p>
<p>
According to the fashion of the time, Princess
Isabella was immediately married by proxy, and<a name="page2" id="page2"></a><span class="left">[page 2]</span>
received the title of Queen of England. Froissart,
a celebrated historian living at that epoch, says:
"It was very pretty to see her, young as she was,
practicing how to act the queen."</p>
<p>
In a few days, King Richard arrived from England
with a gay and numerous retinue of titled ladies to
attend his little bride. After many grand festivities
they were married and were taken in state to
England, where the Baby Queen was crowned in
the famous Westminster Abbey.</p>
<p>
I must not forget to describe the magnificent
<i>trousseau</i> that the King of France gave his little
daughter. Her dowry was 800,000 francs ($160,000);
her coronets, rings, necklaces, and jewelry
of all sorts, were worth 500,000 crowns; and her
dresses were of surpassing splendor. One was a
robe and mantle of crimson velvet, trimmed with
gold birds perched on branches of pearls and
emeralds, and another was trimmed with pearl
roses. Do you think any fairy princess could have
had a finer bridal outfit?</p>
<p>
When the ceremonies of the coronation were
over, little Isabella's life became a quiet routine of
study; for, although a reigning sovereign, she was
in the position of that young Duchess of Burgundy
of later years, who at the time of her marriage
could neither read nor write. This duchess, who
married a grandson of Louis XIV. of France, was
older than Queen Isabella—thirteen years old; and
as soon as the wedding festivities were over, she
was sent to school in a convent, to learn at least to
read, as she knew absolutely nothing save how to
dance. Queen Isabella, however, was not sent
away to school, but was placed under the care of a
very accomplished lady, a cousin of the king, who
acted as her governess. In her leisure hours, the
king, who was a fine musician, would play and sing
for her, and, history gravely informs us, he would
even play dolls with her by the hour!</p>
<p>
But King Richard's days of quiet pleasure with
his child-wife were at last disturbed, and he was
obliged to leave her and go to the war in Ireland.
The parting was very sad and affecting, and they
never met again.</p>
<p>
While King Richard was in Ireland, his cousin,
Henry of Lancaster, afterward Henry IV., took
possession of the royal treasury, and upon the
return of Richard from his unfortunate campaign,
marched at the head of an army and made a prisoner
of him, lodging him in that grim Tower of London
from which so few prisoners ever issued alive.</p>
<p>
Meantime, the poor little queen was hurried
from one town to another, her French attendants
were taken from her, and the members of her new
household were forbidden ever to speak to her of
the husband she loved so dearly. Finally, it was
rumored that Richard had escaped. Instantly, this
extraordinary little girl of eleven issued a proclamation
saying that she did not recognize Henry IV.
(for he was now crowned King of England) as sovereign;
and she set out with an army to meet her
husband. The poor child was bitterly disappointed
upon learning that the rumor was false, and her
husband was still a prisoner, and before long she
also was again a prisoner of Henry IV., this time
closely guarded.</p>
<p>
In a few months Richard was murdered in
prison by order of King Henry, and his queen's
childish figure was shrouded in the heavy crape
of her widow's dress. Her superb jewelry was
taken from her and divided among the children of
Henry IV., and she was placed in still closer
captivity. Her father, the King of France, sent to
demand that she should return to him, but for a
long time King Henry refused his consent. Meantime,
she received a second offer of marriage from—strange
to say—the son of the man who had
killed her husband and made her a prisoner, but a
handsome, dashing young prince, Harry of Monmouth,
often called "Madcap Hal." Perhaps you
have read, or your parents have read to you, extracts
from Shakspeare's "Henry IV.," so that you
know of the wild exploits of the Prince of Wales
with his friends, in turning highwayman and stealing
purses from travelers, often saying,</p>
<p class="note">
"Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack?"</p>
<p>
and finding himself in prison sometimes as a result
of such amusements? Isabella was a child of
decided character, and truly devoted to the memory
of her husband, and much as she had enjoyed her
rank she refused to continue it by marrying handsome
Madcap Hal, although he offered himself to
her several times, and even as she was embarking
for France.</p>
<p>
Poor little Isabella, who had left France so brilliantly,
returned a sad child-widow, and all that
remained to her of her former splendor was a
silver drink-cup and a few saucers. As Shakspeare
says:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"My queen to France, from whence set forth in pomp,</p>
<p>She came adorned hither like sweet May,</p>
<p>Sent back like Hallowmas or shortest day."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>
She was received throughout France with joy,
and tears of sympathy.</p>
<p>
When Isabella was eighteen. Madcap Hal again
offered his hand to her, supposing she had forgotten
her former prejudice, but although she married
again she was so far faithful to the memory of her
English husband that she would not accept the son
of his murderer. Some years later, when Prince Hal
was king, he married her beautiful sister Katherine.</p>
<p>
Isabella's second husband was her cousin, the
Duke of Orleans, whose beautiful poems are considered<a name="page3" id="page3"></a><span class="left">[page 3]</span>
classic in France. Again she was the joy
of her family and the pride of France, but all her
happiness was destined to be fleeting, for she survived
her marriage only one year. Her husband,
who loved her fondly, wrote after her death:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">"Alas!</p>
<p>Death, who made thee so bold,</p>
<p>To take from me my lovely princess,</p>
<p>Who was my comfort, my life,</p>
<p>My good, my pleasure, my riches?</p>
<p>Alas! I am lonely, bereft of my mate—</p>
<p>Adieu! my lady, my lily!</p>
<p>Our loves are forever severed."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>
And in another poem, full of expressions that
show how very devoted was his affection for her,
he says:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Above her lieth spread a tomb</p>
<p class="i2">Of gold and sapphires blue,</p>
<p>The gold doth show her blessedness,</p>
<p class="i2">The sapphires mark her true.</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>"And round about, in quaintest guise,</p>
<p class="i2">Was carved—'Within this tomb there lies</p>
<p>The fairest thing to mortal eyes.'"</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>
Farewell, sweet Isabella!—a wife at eight, a
widow at twelve, and dead at twenty-two,—your
life was indeed short, and, though not without
happy days, sorrow blended largely with its joy!</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="wolves" id="wolves"></a>
<h2>CHASED BY WOLVES</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By George Dudley Lawson.</span></h4>
<p>
Some forty years ago the northern part of the
State of New York was very sparsely settled. In
one of the remote counties, which for a name's sake
we will call Macy County, a stout-hearted settler,
named Devins, posted himself beyond the borders
of civilization, and hewed for his little family a
home in the heart of a forest that extended all the
way from Lake Champlain to Lake Ontario. His
nearest neighbor was six miles away, and the
nearest town nearly twenty; but the Devinses were
so happy and contented that the absence of company
gave them no concern.</p>
<p>
It was a splendid place to live in. In summer
the eye ranged from the slope where the sturdy
pioneer had built his house over miles and miles of
waving beech and maple woods, away to the dark
line of pines on the high ground that formed the
horizon. In the valley below, Otter Creek, a tributary
of the St. Lawrence, wound its sparkling way
northward. When Autumn painted the scene in
brilliant hues, and it lay glowing under the crimson
light of October sunsets, the dullest observer could
not restrain bursts of admiration.</p>
<p>
Mr. Devins's first attack on the stubborn forest
had been over the brow of the hill, some four miles
nearer Owenton, but his house was burned down
before he had taken his family there from Albany.
He had regretted that he had not "pitched his
tent" on the slope of Otter Creek; so now he
began with renewed energy his second home, in
which the closing in of the winter of 1839 found
him. He had sixty acres of rich soil under cultivation
at the time of which we are to speak, his right-hand
man being his son Allan,—a rugged, handsome,
intelligent boy of sixteen.</p>
<p>
The winter of '39 was a terrible one; snow set in
before the end of November, and, even in the open
country, lay upon the ground until the beginning
of April, while in the recesses of the forest it was
found as late as the middle of June. There was
great distress among the settlers outside of the
bounds of civilization, to whom the deep snow was
an impassable barrier. The Devinses neither saw
nor heard from their nearest neighbors from the
first of December till near the beginning of February,
when a crust was formed upon the snow sufficiently
firm to bear the weight of a man, and a
friendly Cayuga Indian brought them news of how
badly their neighbors fared.</p>
<p>
Mr. Devins was especially touched by the bad
case of his friend Will Inman, who lived on the
nearest farm. The poor man lay ill of a fever;
Mrs. Inman was dead and temporarily buried, until
her body could be removed to the cemetery in
Owenton, and all the care of the family devolved
upon Esther, his daughter, fourteen years old.
After a short consultation, the next morning breaking
bright and clear though very cold, it was determined
to allow Allan to go over the hill to Inman's,
bearing medicine, tea, and other little necessaries
for the family. He was impressively warned to
begin his return at so early an hour that he might
reach home before the short day's end, especially
because of the danger from wild animals. The
severity of the winter had made the wolves more
venturesome and dangerous than they had been for<a name="page4" id="page4"></a><span class="left">[page 4]</span>
many years. Mr. Devins had lost several sheep
and hogs, and deemed it unsafe for any of his
family to be caught far from the house at night.</p>
<p>
Allan armed himself with his light rifle, put some
biscuits and cold meat in a pouch strapped to his
waist, mounted one of the strong farm-horses, and
set out on his journey. The road through the
forest was better than he expected to find it, as the
snow had been drifted off, but at the turns, and in
the thickest part of the wood, his horse floundered
through drifts more than breast high; and more
than once Allan had to dismount and beat a path
ahead. Therefore, he did not reach Inman's till
two o'clock, and, by the time he had helped Esther
about her work, assisted her young brother to get
in a good supply of wood, and made things more
comfortable for the invalid, it was almost sundown.
He stoutly refused to wait for supper, declaring
that the luncheon still in his pouch would serve,
and started just as the short twilight came on.
He was a brave lad, and, with no thought of peril,
went off, kissing his hand gayly to Esther.</p>
<p>
It took him an hour to traverse the first three
miles, and then he came to a stretch of comparatively
bare ground leading through his father's old
clearing, and almost to the top of the hill back of
Mr. Devins's house. He was just urging old Bob
into a trot, when a long, clear howl broke upon his
ear; then another and another answered from east
and south. He knew what that meant. It was
the cry of the advance-guard of a pack of wolves.</p>
<p>
The howling sounded near, and came swiftly
nearer, as though the wolves had found his tracks
and scented their prey. Old Bob trembled in
every limb, and seemed powerless to move. Allan
realized that he could not, before dark, reach home
through the drifts ahead, and the increasing cold
of the advancing night would render a refuge in a
tree-top probably as deadly as an encounter with
the pack.</p>
<p>
Presently there came a cry, shriller and sharper
than before, and Allan, looking back, saw a great,
lean, hungry gray wolf burst from the underbrush
into the road, followed by dozens more; and in a
moment the road behind him was full of wolves,
open-mouthed and in keen chase. Their yells now
seemed notes of exultation, for the leader of the
pack—the strongest, fleetest, hungriest one among
them—was within a dozen yards of Allan, who was
now riding faster than ever old Bob had gone before
or ever would go again. Excitement made the
lad's blood boil in his veins, and he determined to
show fight. The moon had risen, and the scene
was almost as light as day. Now he could count
the crowding host of his enemies, and just as he
broke from the forest road into the old clearing, he
turned in his saddle and fired. The foremost of
the pack rolled over and over; the rest gathered
around and tore their leader in pieces.</p>
<p>
By the time they resumed the chase, Allan was
a hundred yards ahead with his rifle loaded. He
determined to make a running fight of it to the
hill, where he was sure of meeting his father, or
could take to a tree and shoot until help came.
This had hardly flashed through his brain when,
right ahead of him, a detachment of the pack
sprang into the road and answered with double
yells the cries of the rest coming up behind. The
horse wheeled suddenly, almost unseating Allan,
and dashed across the clearing toward the wood;
but he had not taken a dozen bounds when a wolf
sprang upon him. Old Bob reared and fell, pitching
Allan nearly twenty feet ahead, and was covered
with wolves before he could regain his footing.
That was the last of poor old Bob.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/0138-1.jpg"><img src="images/0138-1-600.jpg" width="600" height="441" alt="OLD BOB FELL, PITCHING ALLAN AHEAD." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">"OLD BOB FELL, PITCHING ALLAN AHEAD."</p>
</div>
<p>
But Allan! What of him? When he recovered
from the effects of the shock, he found himself over
head and ears in snow. He had no idea where he
was, but struggled and plunged in vain endeavors
to extricate himself, until at last he broke into a
space that was clear of snow, but dark as Erebus,
damp and close. Feeling about him he discovered
over his head logs resting slantingly against the
upper edge of a pit, and then he knew that he was
in the cellar of the old house his father had built,
and which had been burned down nine years before!
The cellar was full of snow, except at the corner
roofed over by the fallen logs, and Allan, bursting
through the snow into the empty corner, was as
secure from the wolves as though seated by his
father's fireside. It was not nearly as cold in there
as outside, and he found a dry spot upon which
he lay down to think.</p>
<p>
He was in no danger of freezing to death, his
food would keep him from starvation a week at least,
and Allan concluded that, with the first glimpse
of dawn, his father would be in search of him, and,
following the tracks, find old Bob's bones, and
quickly rescue him from his predicament. He
reasoned wisely enough, but the elements were
against him. Before sunrise a furious storm of
wind and snow had completely obliterated every
trace of horse, rider and wolves.</p>
<p>
At home, as the night wore on, the anxiety of
the family had increased. While they were watching
the gathering storm, they heard the long, dismal
howl of the wolves coming over the hill. The
chill of fear that they should never see the boy
again settled down upon all their hearts, until the
house was as dreary within as the winter waste and
gloomy forest were without.</p>
<p>
Meanwhile the brave youth was sound asleep,
dreaming as peacefully as though snugly resting
with his brother in his warm bed at home. He<a name="page5" id="page5"></a><span class="left">[page 5]</span>
slumbered on unconscious of the raging storm without,
and did not awake until late the next forenoon.
It took him several seconds to realize where he was
and how he came there, but gradually he remembered
his ride for life, the falling of his horse, his
struggle in the snow, and his breaking into the
protected space where he lay.</p>
<p>
The storm lasted all day and far into the succeeding
night. Allan ate slightly, quenched his
thirst with a few drops of water obtained by melting
snow in the palm of his hand, and began casting
about for means to get out. He soon found that
to dig his way up through the mass of snow that filled
the cellar was beyond his powers. If he could have
made a succession of footholds, the task would have
been easy; but all his efforts only tended to fill
his retreat, without bringing him nearer the air.
As soon as he saw this, he gave himself up to
calmly waiting for help from without.</p>
<p>
The second morning of his imprisonment broke
clear and cheerful, and Mr. Devins set out to search
for traces of his boy. He visited the Inmans' and
learned the particulars of Allan's stay and departure,
then mournfully turned his face homeward, his
heart filled with despair. When he emerged from
the forest into the clearing, he met the Indian who
had visited him a few days before, and he told
the red man of Allan's loss. The Indian stood a
moment in deep thought, and then asked:</p>
<p>
"No horse, no boy back there?" pointing to the
road just traversed by Mr. Devins.</p>
<p>
"No. I have looked carefully, and if there had
been a trace left by the recent storm I should have
detected it."</p>
<p>
"Ugh! well, me come over the hill; nothing
that way either; then they here."</p>
<p>
"Why do you think so?"</p>
<p>
"Ah! me know wolves. When Allan come to
this place they ahead; horse turn; wolves caught
'em this side woods; we look there," and Tayenathonto
pointed to the very course taken by the
horse and rider.</p>
<p>
It so happened when Allan was thrown from the
horse's back that his rifle flew from his hand and
struck, muzzle down, in a hollow stump, where, imbedded
in the snow, it stood like a sign to mark the
scene of the last struggle of the lost boy. The snow
had whitened all its hither side. When the Indian
came abreast of it, he cried:</p>
<p>
"Told you so! See! Allan's gun! And here<a name="page6" id="page6"></a><span class="left">[page 6]</span>
rest of 'em," pointing to the little heap over the
ruins of the old cabin.</p>
<p>
Kicking the snow hastily aside, the Indian examined
the ground carefully a moment and then
said: "No, only horse; Allan further on."</p>
<p>
The Indian, with head bent down, walked quickly
forward, threw up his arms, and disappeared. He
had stepped over the clean edge of the cellar
and sunk exactly as Allan had. A few desperate
plunges sufficed to take the strong Indian through
the intervening snow and into the protected corner
where Allan, just rousing from his second sleep,
sat bolt upright. The Indian's coming disturbed
the snow so that a glimmer of light penetrated into
the dark space. Allan supposed a wolf had found
its way down there, and hastily drew his large
knife, bracing himself for an encounter.</p>
<p>
The Indian sputtered, thrashed about to clear
himself from the snow, and in so doing rapped his
head smartly against the low ceiling of logs.</p>
<p>
"Waugh! waugh!" exclaimed he. "Too
much low; Indian break 'em head; look out."</p>
<p>
Allan instantly recognized the voice of the Indian,
his comrade on many a fishing and hunting tour.</p>
<p>
"Tayenathonto!" he cried, "dear old fellow,
who would have thought of you finding me!"</p>
<p>
The Indian quietly replied:</p>
<p>
"Tayenathonto no find; come like water-fall;
couldn't help his self."</p>
<p>
A very few minutes sufficed to put both on the
surface again, where Allan was received "like one
come from the dead," and closely folded in his
father's arms. Oh, the joy of that embrace! The
past grief and suffering were forgotten in the bliss
of that moment.</p>
<p>
The Indian had to return with the happy father
and son to their home, where he was hailed as
Allan's rescuer, and enjoyed to the full a share of
the festivities.</p>
<p>
In after years Allan married Esther Inman, and
now, by the fireside in winter, he tells his grandchildren
of his escape from the wolves, and the
little ones never tire of petting their faithful old
Tayenathonto.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="crewd"></a>
<div class="figcenter1" style="width:40%">
<img src="images/006-350.jpg" width="350" height="467" alt="THERE WAS AN OLD PERSON OF CREWD,..." border="0" />
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>There was an old person of Crewd,</p>
<p>Who said, "We use saw-dust for food;</p>
<p class="i2">It's cheap by the ton,</p>
<p class="i2">And it nourishes one,</p>
<p>And that's the main object of food."</p>
</div>
</div></div>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page7" id="page7"></a><span class="left">[page 7]</span>
<h2>MOLLIE'S BOYHOOD.</h2>
<h4>By Sarah E. Chester.</h4>
<p>
A little girl sat squeezed in between an old fat
man and his old bony wife in a crowded hall on a
sultry evening in October. On one side it was as
if feather pillows loomed above her with intent to
smother; on the other, sharp elbows came into
distressing contact with her ribs. The windows
were open; but the hall had not been built with
reference to transmitting draughts on suffocating
nights for the benefit of packed audiences; and
everybody gasped for breath, though everybody
fanned—that is, everybody who had a fan, a newspaper,
a hat, or a starched handkerchief. Mollie
had neither fan, newspaper, hat, nor handkerchief,
and yet she of all the audience gasped unawares.
She was stifled, but happy. Elbows and bad air
might do their worst; her body suffered, but her
spirit soared. She was lifted above her neighbors,
into an atmosphere where she was conscious of
nothing but the eloquence that fell in such soft tones
from the lips of the beautiful woman on the stage.</p>
<p>
Mollie was fatherless and brotherless. She had
no male cousins within a thousand miles. Her
only uncle, two blocks off, was a man whose dinners
rebelled against digestion, and who might
have been beyond the seas for all the good he did
her. They were a feminine family,—Mollie, her
mother, the old cat and her kittens three,—bereft
of masculine rule and care, and in need of money
earned by masculine hands.</p>
<p>
The mother bore losses and lacks with the philosophy
of her age; but Mollie's age was only twelve,
and knew not philosophy. She realized that she
was a mistake. She was miserably aware that she
was a mistake which could never be corrected.
Friends repeatedly assured her that it was a great
pity she had not been born a boy, and tantalized
her with boyhood's possibilities. Frequent mention
was made of ways in which she might minister
to her mother's comfort if she were a son; and all
Mollie's day-dreams were visions of that gallant
son's achievements. She used to close her eyes
and see wings and bay-windows growing around
their little cottage and making it a mansion; their
old clothes gliding away, and fine new robes stepping
into their places; strong servants working in
the kitchen; pictures stealing up the walls, and
luxuries scattering themselves hither and thither,
till she felt the spirit of the boy within her, and
seemed equal to the deeds he would have done.
Then she used to open her eyes wide to the fact
of her girlhood and have little seasons of despair.</p>
<p>
This had been going on a long time, the visions,
their destruction by facts, and the consequent
despair; for, of course, she had always believed
there was nothing to be done. And now here was
one telling her that something could be done—that
she, even she, the little girl Mollie, had equal rights
with boys, and that it was not only her privilege
but her duty to claim them. Here was one exhorting
her to throw off the yoke of her girlhood, talking
of a glorious career that might be hers, of
emancipation and liberty, of a womanhood grand
as manhood itself. And how the tremendous
sentiments, so beautifully uttered, thrilled through
Mollie from the crown of her hat to the toes of
her boots! She would have given worlds for one
glance from that bravest of her sex who had thrown
off the yoke, and for a chance to ask her just how
she did it. For while Mollie had fully made up
her mind to wear her yoke no longer, she did not
know exactly by what means to become an emancipated
creature. As she walked home with her
hand in that of the fat gentleman who had treated
her to the lecture, she reached the conclusion that
no special instructions had been given because it
was taken for granted that each woman's nobler
instincts would guide her. She entered the gate a
champion of freedom, a believer in the equality of
the sexes—a girl bound to be a boy, and trusting
to her nobler instincts to teach her how.</p>
<p>
No trembling and glancing back over her shoulder
for goblins and burglars to-night as she put
the key into the door! No scared chattering of
teeth in the dark hall! No skipping three steps at
a time up the stairs pursued by imaginary hands
that would grip at her ankles! She faced the
darkness with wide-open eyes, instead of feeling
her way with lids squeezed down as had been her
custom; and when eyes seemed to look back at
her from the darkness, her boyhood laughed at
her girlhood, and she did not quicken her pace.
But—Mollie was glad to step into the room where
the light burned. Her mother had gone to bed
early with one of her tired-out headaches, and she
only half woke to see that her little girl was safely
in. Mollie kissed her softly (for boys may kiss
their mothers softly) and took the lamp into the
little room beyond, where she always slept.</p>
<p>
The first thing that she did was to look in the
glass. What a girlish little face it was! How
foolishly its dimples came and went with its smiles!
In what an effeminate manner the hair crinkled
above it, and then went rambling off into half a
yard of stylish disorder! Mollie lifted the hair in<a name="page8" id="page8"></a><span class="left">[page 8]</span>
her hand and surveyed it thoughtfully. Then she
took a thoughtful survey of the scissors in her
work-basket. Then she reached them. She allowed
herself a moment of conscientious reflection;
then the boy's naughty spirit crept down through
her fingers and set the scissors flying, and the deed
was done.</p>
<p>
It was not easy to satisfy her mother's amazement
and vexation in the morning; but Mollie
stumbled through it and went to school. There
opportunities were few. She coaxed her teacher
to let her study book-keeping, and took one disagreeable
lesson in its first principles; but she
accomplished nothing else that day except the putting
of a general check upon weak-minded inclinations
to be frolicsome.</p>
<p>
But that evening there was a fair sky, one of the
soft, deep skies that make imaginative little girls'
brains dizzy; and Mollie tramped down the gravel
path to the gate and leaned over; then she soon
nestled her head in her arms and looked up and
lost herself. Boyhood was far from her dreamy
fancies, when they were scattered by a tweak at
one of her cropped locks.</p>
<p>
"What does this mean?" asked the voice of the
neighbor over the fence. "How came it to be
done without my leave?"</p>
<p>
"Don't I look manly, Mr. John?" said Mollie.</p>
<p>
"What does it mean?" said he, severely.</p>
<p>
"That would be telling," said Mollie.</p>
<p>
"I intend that you shall tell me," said he.</p>
<p>
"Oh, it's a secret!" said Mollie.</p>
<p>
"All the better; we'll keep it together. Tell it."</p>
<p>
He was a grown-up man, nearer thirty than
twenty years old, who stooped to take an interest
in his neighbor's little girl, and flattered himself
that he was bringing her up in the way she should
go. It amused him in his leisure moments to try
the experiment of rearing a girl to be as unlike as
possible the girl of the period.</p>
<p>
From mere force of habit, Mollie opened her
mouth and poured out her heart to him. He
seemed quite impressed by the solemn confession.
Mollie studied his face closely while she was speaking,
and saw nothing but a grave and earnest interest
in her project. She could not see deep
enough to discover the indignation that was fuming
over the loss of her pretty locks, and the purpose
that was brewing to cure her of her folly.</p>
<p>
"Don't have any half-way work about it, Mollie,"
said Mr. John. "Do the thing thoroughly, if you
undertake it." "Oh yes, indeed!" said Mollie.</p>
<p>
"If you should need an occasional reminder, I
will try and help you," said he; "for of course
it wont do to be off guard at all. But now get
your hat, and we'll go for some ice-cream. I
know you need cooling off this warm evening."</p>
<p>
Mollie skipped about to run toward the house.</p>
<p>
"Be careful of your steps," he called; and she
tramped as boyishly as she could.</p>
<p>
"No, don't take hold of my hand," as she came
back and slipped her fingers in his. "Put your
hands in your pockets."</p>
<p>
"I've only one pocket," she answered meekly,
putting her right hand in it.</p>
<p>
"Difficulties at once, aren't there?" said Mr.
John. "Your clothes want reforming, you see.
You'll have to put on Bloomers."</p>
<p>
"Oh!" said Mollie.</p>
<p>
"I'm afraid you're not very much in earnest,"
he said. "You surely are not frightened by a
trifle like that?" Mollie looked up imploringly.</p>
<p>
"Must I?" she asked.</p>
<p>
"Well," he answered, her earnestness making
him fear that she would actually appear publicly in
masculine array, "I don't know that it is necessary
at present. A few days wont matter; and, after a
while, it will seem to you the natural way to dress."</p>
<p>
He was so faithful that evening in reminding her
of her short-comings that their <i>tête-à-tête</i> over the
little table in the ice-cream saloon, which usually
was so cosey and delightful, was quite spoiled. She
went to sleep regretting that she had taken Mr.
John into her confidence and made it necessary for
him to treat her as a boy.</p>
<p>
She did not see him again for several days: and
meanwhile she had taken her lessons in book-keeping,
practiced the writing hours on heavy masculine
strokes, learned to walk without dancing
little whirligigs on her tiptoes every other minute,
and made some progress in the art of whistling.
She felt that she had done much to earn his commendation,
and was anxious for a meeting.</p>
<p>
On the way home from school, one afternoon,
she saw his sister's baby at the window—the roundest,
fattest, whitest and sweetest of all the babies
that had taken up an abode in Mollie's heart, where
babies innumerable were enshrined. There it was,
being danced in somebody's hands before the window,
and reaching out its ten dear little fingers to
beckon her in.</p>
<p>
She was quickly in, regardless of her gait. In a
moment from the time the tempting vision appeared
she was cuddling it in her arms, glibly talking
the nonsense that it loved to hear, and kissing
and petting it to her heart's content. She was so
absorbed that she did not hear Mr. John come in;
and he was close by her when she looked up and
saw his face—not the genial, welcoming look she
had been in the habit of meeting since he became
her friend, but one of grave disapproval.</p>
<p>
"I am ashamed of you, Mollie," he said. "Boys
of your age don't pet babies in that way."</p>
<p>
Mollie dropped it—she hardly knew whether on<a name="page9" id="page9"></a><span class="left">[page 9]</span>
the floor or the stove—and flew. When she got
home, she ran into the little back room that used
to be her play-room. She was all ready for a good
cry, and she closed the door. Then she thought,
what if Mr. John were to see her crying like a girl-baby!—and
she marched to the window, and
through the dimness in her eyes tried to see something
cheering. Her nature was very social, and
her need of companionship great at that moment;
so she turned to the friend who had been brother,
sister and child to her through most of her little
girlhood—her big doll Helena, who sat in a chair
in the corner beholding her agitation with fixed,
compassionless gaze.</p>
<p>
"Come here, you dear," said Mollie, folding her
tenderly in her arms and finding comfort in the
contact of her cold china cheek. She had loved
her so long that she had given her a soul; and to
Mollie's heart the doll was as fit for loving as if she
had had breath and speech. She did not play with
her any longer, but Helena was still her dear old
friend—an almost human confidant and crony.</p>
<p>
As she held her closely, suddenly she thought of
Mr. John. If he had objected to the petting of
babies, what would he say to dolls? She gave her
a frantic kiss, put her away, and turned her back
on her to reflect; for she did not mean to shirk the
most disagreeable reflections in the new line of duty
she had chosen to follow.</p>
<p>
If it had really been a human friend whose destinies
Mollie considered, she could not have been
more serious; and if it had been a human friend
whom she at last decided must be put far from her,
she could hardly have suffered severer heart-pangs.
But she would have no compromising with inclination
in this matter. She would be brave and strong,
as it became her mother's son to be. So to the
lowest depths of the deepest trunk in the garret
she mentally consigned Helena. There, beyond
the reach of her loving eyes and arms, she should
lie in banishment until her heart became callous.</p>
<p>
But there was something so repulsive in the idea
of smothering human Helena under layers of old
garments, that Mollie finally thought of a better
way. Helena should no longer be Helena, dear to
her heart in all her little feminine adornings and
her sympathetic, tender traits of character. She
should undergo a change; a radical reform. She,
too, should become a boy, and her name should
be Thomas. Thenceforth Mollie spent her leisure
moments in manufacturing garments suitable for
the change; and at last she saw a boy-doll, in
roundabout and pantaloons, occupying the chair
where Helena had so long sat in dainty dresses.
The sight was a perpetual offense to her eyes; but
she bore it bravely, keeping in store for herself a
reward of merit in Mr. John's approval. She did
not fail to mention to him Helena's reform the
next time they met, which was one morning before
breakfast. She was sweeping the front steps when
he came and leaned over the fence and called her.</p>
<p>
She shouldered the broom, as she had seen men
shoulder implements of labor,—hoes, rakes, etc.,—and
tramped toward him. Mr. John watched her,
with an expression of disgust under his mustache.</p>
<p>
"Well, Bob," he said, "I'm glad to see you out
so early. Form good habits before you're grown,
and when you come to manhood you'll make money
by it. Where are your Bloomers to-day? It isn't
possible your mind's not made up to them yet?"</p>
<p>
There was something in Mr. John's tone and
manner which did not seem quite courteous to
Mollie; but she had hardly hung her head when
he began to talk in his old half-fatherly, half-brotherly
fashion; and then, in the lively conversation,
she found a chance to introduce Thomas.
Mr. John gave her a long, solemn, searching look.</p>
<p>
"Mollie," he said, "I am very much afraid you
will never succeed as a boy. It seems to me that
even an ordinarily masculine girl of your age would
have been clear-headed enough to see the absurdity
of your little farce. It is nothing but a farce, mere
babyishness. You have been playing with yourself
and with your doll. No boy could have done it."</p>
<p>
There was a short pause; then Mollie's voice
piped out into a humble question as to what course
a boy would have pursued in the matter.</p>
<p>
"Why, that is clear enough," said Mr. John.
"If you want to do what a boy would do, dispose
of the doll on the shortest notice. Get it out of
your sight and mind as soon as possible, and then
never give it any more thought than you'd give
the rattle you used to shake when you were a baby,
or the rubber ring you cut your teeth on."</p>
<p>
Could he be made to understand the immense
difference between Helena and other toys? Could
any words explain to him about the soul that had
grown out of Mollie's love into the cloth and sawdust
body? Mollie looked up to catch a sympathetic
expression that should help her to tell him;
but she did not find it.</p>
<p>
"You don't understand," she said desperately.</p>
<p>
"No?" said he.</p>
<p>
"Mr. John," said Mollie, not looking him in the
eye, "when you have a doll as long as I have had
Helena, it is only natural that she should seem to
you like a live person. If I didn't play with her at
all, she'd seem real to me, and I shouldn't like to
have her go away any more than I would mother."</p>
<p>
"Which tells the secret that you have some sort
of human fondness for the lifeless bundle of rags,"
said Mr. John, "and proves what I feared, that you
are a very weak-minded little girl, Mollie."</p>
<p>
"You wont believe in me at all," said Mollie.
<a name="page10" id="page10"></a><span class="left">[page 10]</span>
"You wont think I am doing my best, and that I
ever succeed. You are not like you used to be."</p>
<p>
"That naturally follows <i>your</i> being different,"
said Mr. John. "Of course, we can't have the
same feelings toward each other now as when
you were contented to be a little girl and to let me
treat you as one. I'm sorry you don't find me as
agreeable as before, Mollie; but you must acknowledge
that I am acting as a friend in doing all that I
can to help you in your dear project."</p>
<p>
"It isn't dear!" burst forth Mollie, indignantly.
"I hate it!—but I'll never give it up!"</p>
<p>
"Of course not," Mr. John said. "Then I presume
you are all ready to part with Helena."</p>
<p>
"I'll go and get her," said Mollie.</p>
<p>
No one saw the parting in the play-room. It
was quickly over, and she was back by the fence.</p>
<p>
"Give her to Bessie," said Mollie, putting Helena
and her wardrobe into Mr. John's arms. Bessie
was one of his many nieces.</p>
<p>
"To Bessie!" said he. "Where you can feel
that she is away on a visit; where you know that
she will be petted and cared for; where you can
see her occasionally. If you are sincere in this
matter, Mollie, send her off where you can no longer
care to think of her. Our ash-man would be very
glad to carry her home to his little girls."</p>
<p>
Mollie's hands made a wild dive toward Helena
as a vision of the little grimy man who crept into
their areas for ashes rose before her.</p>
<p>
"Decide now," said Mr. John. "Take your
doll and be Mollie Kelly again, or be a boy and
give her to the ash-man's children without a pang."</p>
<p>
Mollie hung her head. There was color coming
and going in her cheeks, her fingers trembled,—how
they longed to snatch Helena!—and her mind
was full of indecision. Mr. John watched her
closely, and he thought he saw the tide turning in
favor of her girlhood. He held the doll nearer that
it might tempt her fingers; but, on the instant, she
turned and ran away. He tucked Helena under
his coat and carried her upstairs and locked her in
a drawer, there to abide until Mollie should want
her again.</p>
<p>
That was a gloomy day to Mollie. She was out
of humor with her boyhood. She was ashamed of
herself one moment for bewailing Helena, and
furious the next with Mr. John and the ash-man.
She felt cross and discouraged, and was glad when
the darkness came, and she could go to bed and
sleep. But the next morning she was in no
cheerier, braver frame of mind; and she walked
home at noon, considering plain sewing <i>versus</i>
book-keeping as a means of subsistence. Mr. John
would have rejoiced if he could have seen his "little
leaven" working.</p>
<p>
"The gutters on the roof are full of leaves,
Mollie," said her mother as she came in. "Stop
on your way back to school and send Michael to
clean them out. I think we are going to have rain,
and we don't want them washed into the pipes."</p>
<p>
"How much will he charge, mother?"</p>
<p>
"About fifty cents."</p>
<p>
"That fifty cents shall buy something for you,"
said Mollie to herself. "The boy of the family
shall clean the roof."</p>
<p>
There was just enough recklessness in her mood
to make her rather enjoy than fear the prospect.
She left her mother getting dinner, and took a
broom and escaped up the garret stairs and through
the scuttle. The roof did not slope steeply, and
she let herself down with an easy slide to the rear
eaves. She rested her feet on the edge of the
house and swept as far as her arms would reach
east and west. Then she shifted her position and
swept again until the whole length was clean.</p>
<p>
She heard her mother calling her to dinner, but
she had the front gutter yet to sweep, and, climbing
up, went down on the other side. There was
a thought which gave zest to her work on that
side,—Mr. John would be coming home that way
to dinner and would see her. Besides, other people
would see her, and no passer-by should say that
she did not do her work as thoroughly and fearlessly
as any boy. She had taken for granted that Mr.
John's eyes would be drawn upward; but when he
had walked almost by, looking straight ahead, she
sent him a shrill call. He looked at the windows,
around the yard, and even as far up as the trees.</p>
<p>
"On the roof," screamed Mollie, and in her
excitement she forgot her situation and lost her
balance and slipped,—not far, but one foot went
out beyond the eaves into the air. The other one
rallied to the rescue, supported her whole weight,
and helped her to regain her position. Danger was
over in a moment, but it had been danger of death,
and Mollie's heart beat wildly, and a faintness came
over her. Still through it all she was able to see
Mr. John's approving smile as he lifted his hat and
waved it gayly in applause.</p>
<p>
"He wouldn't care if I had fallen and been killed,"
thought Mollie, as she recovered herself. "All he
wants is to have me succeed in being a horrid boy.
I've a mind to give it up just to spite him."</p>
<p>
She could not know—so successfully had he concealed
his agitation under that bland smile—how
faint he, too, had been in the moment of her
danger, nor how fast his heart was still beating as
he walked on, nor what resolves he was forming to
put a speedy end to her boyhood.</p>
<p>
He stopped on his way back from dinner to tell
her that he had engaged to take a party of his
nephews and nieces nutting that afternoon, and
that he wanted her to come.</p>
<p>
<a name="page11" id="page11"></a><span class="left">[page 11]</span>
"It will be so nice to have a big boy on hand,
Mollie," said Mr. John, "especially one that isn't
afraid of heights. We may have some to climb."</p>
<p>
Not a word about her danger and his gladness
for her safety, and she knew he had seen her narrow
escape. But she felt so gay over memories of Mr.
John's nutting parties, and the prospect of another,
that she forgave him all, and prepared to be thoroughly
happy that afternoon.</p>
<p>
School closed at three o'clock, and Mollie flew
to Mr. John's yard, where they were all waiting.
She came dancing by the gate, her cheeks rosy,
her eyes shining,—just her old self, as she had
been in the days when no boyhood loomed like an
ugly shadow between her and Mr. John. He saw
it all, and charged himself to be stony. So he
gave no better response to her impulsive greeting
than he would have given an ordinary boy. Her
spirits fell a degree; but with those happy children
bobbing around her, expecting her to be the happiest
of all, they could do nothing but rise again.</p>
<p>
Mr. John did not offer to lift her over fences as
he lifted the other girls; he even called on her to
help the little ones over. He held back branches
that came across other girls' paths; he let her clear
her own way. He carried Kittie and Bessie, and
Esther and Dora, over the brook; he let her splash
across on the stones with the boys. He gallantly
made cups and gave the other girls to drink; he
suggested to Mollie that she should scoop the water
up in her hand, as he was doing for his own use.</p>
<p>
She wished many a time before they came to the
walnut-trees that she had staid at home. She
wished her boyhood's days were over, or had never
been. She couldn't bear Mr. John, and all the children
noticed that she moped, and asked her why.</p>
<p>
Well, there were no nuts when they got there,
Mr. John had known there wouldn't be. They
should have come much earlier in the day to find
these trees full, and the next trees were too far
away. So they concluded to turn their nutting party
into a picnic. They had a basket of provisions,
and Mr. John sent the big boys into the
next lot to get wood for a fire. Then came his
grand opportunity for crushing Mollie. He
called her, and she ran to him gladly, ready to
take him back to her favor on his own terms.</p>
<p>
"Please, go and help the boys bring wood for
our fire," he said. "They have all gone but you."</p>
<p>
She went, but not without giving him a look
that actually made him blush for his rudeness.
She went with the aspect of a tragedy queen, and
by the time she overtook the boys she had calmly
made up her mind to two
things: never, never again to be friends with Mr.
John, and to give up her boyhood just to spite him.
But one more temptation still held her. There
was a little cliff over in that next lot, stony and
steep, and high enough to make a leap which it
was some credit to a boy to achieve. The boys
stood on the edge, measuring the distance with
experienced eyes and preparing to go over.</p>
<p>
Now Mollie as a girl had always been a very
good jumper, so she resolved at once to try the
leap, and have the report of her valiant deed carried
back to Mr. John. She joined the boys, and
seeing that one after another went down safely,
she soon asked for a turn. She was gravely remonstrated<a name="page12" id="page12"></a><span class="left">[page 12]</span>
with. She was overwhelmed with sage
masculine advice, but she swept her way clear and
jumped—with all the recklessness of her reckless
mood. She knew well enough the backward inclination
proper for her head, what the relative
positions of her knees and chin should be, and if
she had taken the least forethought might have
redeemed the declining reputation of her boyhood.
The knowledge flashed across her in her swift
descent that her spine had not preserved the
proper perpendicular, and that she was coming
down wrong. Chin and knees knocked together
as she fell in a heap on the grass below.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/0140-1-475.jpg" width="475" height="469" alt="MOLLIE IS CARED FOR BY THE BOYS." border="0" />
<p class="center">MOLLIE IS CARED FOR BY THE BOYS.</p>
</div>
<p>
It was a caving in of skull, she thought, that
made that horrible crashing pain and that sent
lightning dancing on a black background before
her eyes, then blinded her quite. Nothing but a
general chaos of skull and brain could make such
terrible pain. She wondered if her friends would
be able to recognize one dear lineament in the
jumble of her features. She thought what a sad
fate it was to die young. She wondered how Mr.
John would feel now! and then she found that
light dawned upon her and that she had an eye
open. In a moment she discovered that the sense
of hearing, too, had not abandoned her; for the
boys had reached her by this time, and she heard
Mr. John's nephew, John, saying:</p>
<p>
"She's knocked her teeth through her lip, that's
all. I did it once when I jumped wrong and hit
my chin on my knee. She'll soon be all right."</p>
<p>
Two eyes open now, and she saw a bloody frock,
and what seemed an army of boys; for there was
something still the matter with her vision which
caused it to multiply.</p>
<p>
"Boys, boys, nothing but boys!" thought Mollie,
dropping her lids. "Where did they all come
from, I wonder? There must be a thousand. I
never want to see another. I wouldn't be one for
the world. I wish they'd go away."</p>
<p>
Then she felt some one bathing her face gently,
and when the water had refreshed her, she ventured
another peep at the world. Boys around
her still; but she could see now that their number
was only four, and the faces those of friends.</p>
<p>
"Cheer up, Mollie," said John, jr. "You got a
hard knock, but you're coming on. Bob's gone for
the phaeton, and we'll have you home in no time."</p>
<p>
They propped her up against a tree, and continued
to bathe her head with water from Jerry's
felt hat, filled at the little brook close by.</p>
<p>
All this while Mr. John had been accounting for
their absence by supposing that Mollie was taking
some sort of revenge on him, and he would permit
none of the girls to go in search of the wanderers.
Not until Bob and the phaeton appeared did news
of Mollie's valiant deed reach him. Then he went
to her at once, and saw her pale and bloody.</p>
<p>
But to display weakness now might be to lose all,
reflected Mr. John; so he kept back the words of
sympathy that were on his lips as he leaned down
and offered to carry her to the phaeton.</p>
<p>
"I prefer to walk, thank you," said Mollie, her
pride giving her strength to rise and take the arm
which John, jr., stood ready to offer. However,
Mr. John forcibly made an exchange, and, in spite
of Mollie, half led and half carried her to the road.</p>
<p>
"Don't be discouraged, Mollie," he said as he
put her in, while Bob was busy at the halter.
"The next time you'll jump like a man."</p>
<p>
"That nonsense is all over, thank you," said
Mollie, very loftily, though not very clearly, because
of her swollen lips. "Think what you please of
me," she mumbled. "It is all ended; and it might
have ended sooner, too, if I'd taken better advice."</p>
<p>
"With better advice it never would have ended,
you contrary little minx," said Mr. John to himself
as she drove away.</p>
<p>
The doctor came and Mollie was ordered to bed;
but even his opiate did not make her sleep. It was
soothing, indeed, to lie there in the twilight with
her hand in her mother's, and feel that she was her
little girl entirely, no more to be her boy while life
should last. And pleasant visions of a Gothic
school-house, where she should some day be mistress
of sweet, rosy-cheeked children, rose gracefully
on the ruins of her manly aspirations.</p>
<p>
By and by the bell rang, and her mother brought
a lamp, and a package which Mollie sat up and
opened. There, with a note pinned on the left leg
of her trousers and a box of Mollie's best-beloved
candies clasped on her jacket, lay Helena.</p>
<p>
"I have never been to the ash-man's house,
Mother Mollie," said the note. "I have been
visiting Mr. John's cuffs and collars in the bureau-drawer.
I want my girls' clothes on to-morrow. I
claim it as my right. We all have our rights.
Put me in dresses and take me home to the play-room.
You have your rights too, and I wouldn't
let any one tell me that I hadn't a right to be a
girl. It is my opinion that if you had been meant
for a boy you would have been made one. Come,
mother, cuddle me up, and let's go to sleep and
have sweet dreams, and a blithe waking to girlhood
in the morning, when we will make up with Mr.
John; for he sends these chocolate-creams to let
you know that he is sorry."</p>
<p>
"So we will, dear," said Mollie, tucking Helena's
head under her chin. "You were always wiser
than your mother, child."</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page13" id="page13"></a><span class="left">[page 13]</span>
<h2>THE LARGEST VOLCANO IN THE WORLD</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By Sarah Coan</span>.</h4>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/0142-1.jpg"><img src="images/0142-1-520.jpg" width="520" height="470" alt="THE LAKE OF FIRE." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">THE LAKE OF FIRE.</p>
</div>
<blockquote class="comment"><p>
"Why, it isn't on the top of a mountain at all!
What a humbug my geography must have been!"</p></blockquote>
<p>
So wrote a little fellow to a young friend in
America.</p>
<p>
He was right. It isn't on the top of a mountain,
though the geographies do say, "A volcano is a
mountain sending forth fire, smoke and lava," and
give the picture of a mountain smoking at the top.</p>
<p>
This volcano is nothing of the kind; but is a
hideous, yawning black pit at the bottom of a
mountain, and big enough to stow away a large city.</p>
<p>
Of course you want to know, first, where this
wonder is. Get out the map of the Western
Hemisphere, put your finger on any of the lines
running north and south, through North America,
and called meridians; follow it south until you
come to the Tropic of Cancer, running east and
west; then "left-about-face!" and, following the
tropic, sail out into the calm Pacific. After a
voyage of about two thousand miles, you'll run
ashore on one of a group of islands marked Sandwich.
We will call them Hawaiian, for that is
their true name. Not one of the brown, native
inhabitants would call them "Sandwich." An
English sailor gave them that name, out of compliment
to a certain Lord Sandwich.</p>
<p>
On the largest of these islands, Hawaii—pronounced
"Ha-y-e"—is the volcano, Kilauea, the
largest volcano in the world.</p>
<p>
We have seen it a great many times, and that
you may see it as clearly as possible, you shall
have a letter from the very spot. The letter reads:</p>
<a name="page14" id="page14"></a><span class="left">[page 14]</span>
<blockquote class="comment"><p>
"Here we are, a large party of us, looking into
Kilauea, which is nine miles in circumference, and
a thousand feet below us—a pit about seven times
as deep as Niagara Falls are high. We came to-day,
on horseback, from Hilo, a ride of thirty miles.
Hilo is a beautiful sea-shore village, the largest
on the island of Hawaii, and from it all visitors to
Kilauea make their start.</p>
<p>
"The road over which we came is nothing but a
bridle-path, and a very rough one at that, traversing
miles and miles of old lava flows. We had
almost ridden to the crater's brink before we discovered,
in the dim twilight, the awful abyss.</p>
<p>
"Before us is the immense pit which, in the
day-time, shows only a floor of black lava, looking
as smooth as satin; and, miles away, rising out of
this floor, are a few slender columns of smoke.</p>
<p>
"At night, everything is changed; and you
can't conceive of the lurid, demoniacal effect.
Each slender column of smoke becomes a pillar of
fire that rolls upward, throbbing as it moves, and
spreads itself out above the crater like an immense
canopy, all ablaze.</p>
<p>
"Ships a hundred miles from land see the
glow, and we here, on the precipice above, can
read ordinary print by its lurid light.</p>
<p>
"No wonder the natives worshiped the volcano.
They thought it the home of a goddess,
whom they named Pélé, and in times of unusual
activity believed her to be very angry with them.
Then they came in long processions, from the seashore
villages, bringing pigs, dogs, fowls, and sometimes
human beings, for sacrifice. These they threw
into the crater, to appease her wrath.</p>
<p>
"A small berry, called the ohélo, grows on the
banks of the pit, and of these the natives never
dared to eat until Pélé had first had her share.
Very polite, were they not? And if ever they forgot
their manners, I dare say she gave them a
shaking up by an earthquake, as a reminder.</p>
<p>
"Sandal-wood and strawberries grow all about
here—and fleas, too! wicked fleas, that bite voraciously,
to keep themselves warm, I think, for here,
so far from Pélé's hearth, it is cold, and we sit by
a log fire of our own.</p>
<p>
"The day after our arrival we went into the
crater, starting immediately after an early breakfast.
There is but one entrance, a narrow ledge,
formed by the gradual crumbling and falling in of
the precipice. Along this ledge we slipped and
scrambled, making the descent on foot—for no ridden
animal has ever been able to descend the trail.
Holding on to bushes and snags when the path
was dangerously steep, we finally landed below on
the black satin floor of lava.</p>
<p>
"Satin! What had looked so smooth and tempting
from a thousand feet above, turned out to be a
surface more troubled and uneven than the ocean
in the most violent storm. And that tiny thread
of smoke, toward which our faces were set, lay
three miles distant—three miles that were worse
than nine on an ordinary road.</p>
<p>
"How we worked that passage! up hill and down
hill, over hard pointed lava that cut through our
shoes like knife blades; over light, crumbled lava
into which we sank up to our knees; over hills of
lava that were, themselves, covered with smaller
hills; into ravines and over steam-cracks, some of
which we could jump with the aid of our long
poles, and some of which we had to find our way
around; steam-cracks whose depths we could not
see, and into which we thrust our walking-sticks,
drawing them out charred black or aflame; over
lava so hot that we ran as rapidly and lightly as
possible, to prevent our shoes being scorched.
Three hours of this kind of work for the three
miles, and <i>Hale-mau-mau</i>, or 'House of Everlasting
Fire,' lay spitting and moaning at our feet!</p>
<p>
"A lake of boiling lava is what the column of
smoke marked out to us,—a pit within a pit,—a
lake of raging lava fifty feet below us, of which you
have here the picture taken 'from life.'</p>
<p>
"It was so hot and suffocating on the brink of this
lake that we cut eye-holes in our pocket-handkerchiefs
and wore them as masks. Even then we had
to run back every few moments for a breath of
fresher air, though we were on the windward side
of the lake. The gases on the leeward side would
suffocate one instantly. Oh, the glory! This
Hale-mau-mau, whose fire never goes out, is a
huge lake of liquid lava, heaving with groans and
thunderings that cannot be described. Around its
edge, as you see in the picture, the red lava was
spouting furiously. Now and then the center of
the lake cooled over, forming a thin crust of black
lava, which, suddenly cracking in a hundred directions,
let the blood-red fluid ooze up through the
seams, looking like fiery snakes.</p>
<p>
"Look at the picture, and imagine these enormous
slabs of cooled lava slowly rising themselves on
end, as if alive, and with a stately motion plunging
beneath the sea of fire, with an indescribable roar.</p>
<p>
"For three hours we gazed, spell-bound, though
it seemed but a few moments: we were chained to
the spot, as is every one else who visits Kilauea.</p>
<p>
"The wind, as the jets rose in air, spun the
molten drops of lava into fine threads, which the
natives call Pélé's hair, and very like hair it is.</p>
<p>
"All this time, under our feet were rumblings
and explosions that made us start and run now
and then, for fear of being blown up; coming back
again after each fright, unwilling to leave the spot.</p>
<p>
"Occasionally, the embankment of the lake
cracked off and fell in, being immediately devoured<a name="page15" id="page15"></a><span class="left">[page 15]</span>
by the hungry flood. These ledges around Hale-mau-mau
are very dangerous to stand upon. A
whole family came near losing their lives on one.
A loud report beneath their feet and a sudden
trembling of the crust made them run for life; and
hardly had they jumped the fissure that separated
the ledge on which they were standing from more
solid footing—separated life from death—than crash
went the ledge into the boiling lake!</p>
<p>
"Sometimes the lake boils over, like a pot of
molasses, and then you can dip up the liquid lava
with a long pole. You get quite a lump of it, and
by quickly rolling it on the ground mold a cylinder
the size of the end of the pole, and about six
inches long. Or you can drop a coin into the lava
to be imprisoned as it cools.</p>
<p>
"A foreigner once imbedded a silver dollar in
the hot lava, and gave the specimen to a native;
but he immediately threw it on the ground, breaking
the lava, of course, and liberating the dollar,
which he pocketed, exclaiming: 'Volcano plenty
enough, but me not get dollar every day.'</p>
<p>
"One of our party collected lava specimens from
around Hale-mau-mau, and tied them up in her
pocket-handkerchief. Imagine her astonishment
on finding, later, they had burned through the
linen, and one by one dropped out.</p>
<p>
"Terrible as old Pélé is, she makes herself useful,
and is an excellent cook. She keeps a great
many ovens heated for the use of her guests, and
no two at the same temperature, so that you may
select one of any heat you wish. In these ovens
(steam-cracks) she boils tea, coffee and eggs; or
cooks omelets and meats. You wrap the beef or
chicken, or whatever meat you may wish to cook,
in leaves, and lay it in the steam-crack. Soon it is
thoroughly cooked, and deliciously, too.</p>
<p>
"She also keeps a tub of warm water always
ready for bathers.</p>
<p>
"She doesn't mean to be laughed at, though,
for doing this kind of work, and doing it in an
original kind of way. After she has given you one
or two sound shakings, which she generally does,
you'll have great respect for the old lady, and feel
quite like taking off your hat to her. With the
shakings and the thunderings under-foot, and
now and then the opening of a long steam-crack,
she keeps her visitors quite in awe of her powers,
though she is probably several hundred years old.</p>
<p>
"Not far from the little hut where we sleep, close
to the precipice, is Pélé's great laboratory, where
she makes sulphur. We wear our straw hats to the
sulphur banks, and she bleaches them for us.</p>
<p>
"Well, this is a strange, strange land, old Pélé
being only one of its many curiosities.</p>
<p>
"I only hope you may all see the active old goddess
before she dies. She hasn't finished her
work yet. Once in a while she runs down to the
shore, to bathe and look at the Pacific Ocean, and
when there she generally gives a new cape to
Hawaii by running out into the sea."</p></blockquote>
<p>
Majestic old Pélé! Long may she live!</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="skip" id="skip"></a>
<h2>MAKING IT SKIP.</h2>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/0144-1-600.jpg" width="600" height="177" alt="MAKING IT SKIP." border="0" />
</div>
<div class="poem1">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i6">"I'll make it skip!"</p>
<p>Cried Charley, seizing a bit of stone.</p>
<p class="i2">And, in a trice, from our Charley's hand,</p>
<p class="i8">With scarce a dip,</p>
<p>Over the water it danced alone,</p>
<p class="i2">While we were watching it from the land—</p>
<p class="i8">Skip! skip! skip!</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i6">"I'll make it skip!"</p>
<p>Now, somehow, that is our Charley's way:</p>
<p class="i2">He takes little troubles that vex one so,</p>
<p class="i8">Not worth a flip,</p>
<p>And makes them seem to frolic and play</p>
<p class="i2">Just by his way of making them go</p>
<p class="i8">Skip! skip! skip!</p>
</div>
</div>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page16" id="page16"></a><span class="left">[page 16]</span>
<h2>THE WILLOW WAND.</h2>
<h4>BY A. E. W.</h4>
<table width="100%" align="center" border="0" summary="poem">
<tr>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>I have a little brother,</p>
<p class="i2">And his name is Little Lewy;</p>
<p>His starry eyes are bright as flowers</p>
<p class="i2">And they are twice as dewy.</p>
<p>Sometimes the dew o'erflows them,</p>
<p class="i2">And trickles down his cheeks;</p>
<p>And then he cries so hard, you'd think</p>
<p class="i2">He wouldn't stop for weeks.</p>
<p>Then my other little brother,</p>
<p class="i2">A bough of willow bringing,</p>
<p>Drives all the dew-drops far away,</p>
<p class="i2">By waving it and singing:</p></div></div>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"One, two, free, fo', five, six, <i>seven</i> tears!</p>
<p>You'll be as old as farver in forty sousand years.</p>
<p>Drate big men don't have tears, so let me wipe 'em dry;</p>
<p>In forty sousand years from now you'll never, never cry."</p></div></div>
</td>
<td>
<a href="images/024a.jpg"><img src="images/024a-200.jpg" width="200" height="303" alt="LITTLE LEWY" border="0" style="float: right;" /></a><br />
</td>
<td width="10%"> </td>
</tr>
</table>
<table width="100%" align="center" border="0" summary="poem">
<tr>
<td width="10%"> </td>
<td>
<a href="images/024b.jpg"><img src="images/024b-200.jpg" width="200" height="347" alt="LITTLE BERT" border="0" style="float: left;" /></a>
</td>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>This other little brother,</p>
<p class="i2">Whose name is Little Bert,</p>
<p>Frowns in a dreadful manner</p>
<p class="i2">Whenever he is hurt;</p>
<p>The wrinkles right above his nose</p>
<p class="i2">Look like the letter M,</p>
<p>He keeps them there so long, he must</p>
<p class="i2">Be very fond of them.</p>
<p>Then my little brother Lewy,</p>
<p class="i2">The branch of willow bringing,</p>
<p>Sends all the naughty frowns away,</p>
<p class="i2">By waving it and singing:</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"A, B, C, D, E, F, G;</p>
<p>How many wrinkles are there? One, two, three!</p>
<p>We'll send them all off quickly, or they'll climb up to your hair,</p>
<p>And then to-morrow morning you'll have lots of tangles there."</p></div></div>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<a name="page17" id="page17"></a><span class="left">[page 17]</span>
<table width="100%" align="center" border="0" summary="poem">
<tr>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Sometimes our little Lewy</p>
<p class="i2">Loses all his pretty smiles;</p>
<p>He says they're very far away;</p>
<p class="i2">At least a hundred miles.</p>
<p>He looks as sober as a judge,</p>
<p class="i2">As stately as a king,</p>
<p>As solemn as a parson and</p>
<p class="i2">As still as anything.</p>
<p>And then our little Bertie,</p>
<p class="i2">The witching willow bringing,</p>
<p>Sends all the smiles safe home again,</p>
<p class="i2">By waving it and singing:</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"I want to buy a smile, sir, if you have some about;</p>
<p>I'll draw this leaf across your lips, and that will bring them out.</p>
<p>And if you cannot spare me one, just let me take a half.</p>
<p>Oh, here they come and there they come, and now we'll have a laugh."</p></div></div>
</td>
<td>
<a href="images/024c.jpg"><img src="images/024c-200.jpg" width="200" height="317" alt="LEWY" border="0" /></a><br /><br />
</td>
<td width="10%"> </td>
</tr>
</table>
<table width="100%" align="center" border="0" summary="poem">
<tr>
<td width="10%"> </td>
<td>
<a href="images/025a.jpg"><img src="images/025a-200.jpg" width="200" height="307" alt="BERTIE" border="0" /></a><br /><br />
</td>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>On every "morrow morning,"</p>
<p class="i2">This funny little Bertie</p>
<p>Doesn't want to have his face washed</p>
<p class="i2">Because it don't feel dirty;</p>
<p>He runs half-dressed 'way out-of-doors,</p>
<p class="i2">Safe hidden from our view;</p>
<p>We search and call, hunt up and down,</p>
<p class="i2">And don't know what to do,</p>
<p>Until we see our little Lu</p>
<p class="i2">The wand of willow bringing,</p>
<p>And leading Bertie back to us,</p>
<p class="i2">While all the time he's singing:</p></div></div>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si.</p>
<p>You look like a very small heathen Chinee.</p>
<p>Get the sleep all washed off and hang it up to dry,</p>
<p>And then you'll look as fresh as if you'd just come from the sky."</p></div></div>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<table width="100%" align="center" border="0" summary="poem">
<tr>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>When all the stars are shining,</p>
<p class="i2">Each little sleepy-head</p>
<p>Is lying in a funny bunch</p>
<p class="i2">Within the little bed.</p>
<p>Their eyes are so wide open,</p>
<p class="i2">They stay awake so long,</p>
<p>They're calling me to tell to them</p>
<p class="i2">A story or a song.</p>
<p>So up the stairs again I come,</p>
<p class="i2">The magic willow bringing,</p>
<p>And wave it here and wave it there,</p>
<p class="i2">While o'er and o'er I'm singing:</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i4">"Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep;</p>
<p>Sailing away on the dreamy deep;</p>
<p>Sister to watch you and angels to keep;</p>
<p>Sailing away and away and away,</p>
<p class="i4">Away on the d-r-e-a-m-y deep;</p>
<p class="i4">Sleep, sleep, s-l-e-e-p, sleep."</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
<td>
<a href="images/025b.jpg"><img src="images/025b-250.jpg" width="250" height="314" alt="SISTER TO WATCH YOU AND ANGELS TO KEEP" border="0" /></a><br /><br />
</td>
<td width="10%"> </td>
</tr>
</table>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page18" id="page18"></a><span class="left">[page 18]</span>
<h2>THE STORY THAT WOULDN'T BE TOLD.</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By Louise Stockton</span>.</h4>
<p>
"Do tell me one more story; just <i>one</i> more!"
said the little boy.</p>
<p>
It certainly was getting late. The fire lighted
the room, the shadows danced in the corners.
Down in the kitchen they were hurrying with the
dinner, and in a moment nurse would come in to
take the boy to bed. But all this made him want
to stay. He was very comfortable in his mamma's
lap, and he was in no haste to go upstairs to Maggie
and the nursery.</p>
<p>
Then his mamma kissed him right on the tip of
his little nose, and she said:</p>
<p>
"But you must go to bed sometime."</p>
<p>
"Please, mamma dear," he said, pushing his
curly head almost under her arm, "just one little
story."</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/026-500.jpg" width="500" height="430" alt="A SCENE IN THE STORY THAT WOULDN'T BE TOLD." border="0" />
<p class="center">A SCENE IN THE STORY THAT WOULDN'T BE TOLD.</p>
</div>
<p>
"Just one! You can choose it, but mind, a little
one!"</p>
<p>
"You know what one I want. Of course about
the giant Tancankeroareous, and how he stole the
slipper of the princess for a snuff-box, and how the
Prince Limberlocks climbed up a cherry-tree into
the giant's room. That is the story <i>I</i> like!"</p>
<p>
"And it must be the 'amen story' to-night.
Well: Once upon a time the Princess Thistleblossom
stood on one foot, while—"</p>
<p>
"No, no," interrupted The Story, "you need
not tell <i>me</i>! Tell some other story. I am tired
of being said over and over. Every night, as soon
as your bed-time comes, and you are so sleepy that
you don't want to go to bed, you ask for me, and I
have to be told. I am sick of it, and I want to
rest."</p>
<p>
"But I want you," said the boy. "I like you
best of all my stories. I like that part where the
giant comes in and calls out 'PORTER!' in such a
loud voice that the gate shakes all the bolts loose."</p>
<p>
"I suppose you do like it," said The Story;
"anybody would. I am a very good story, and very
fit to be told last, although I cannot see why that
is any reason for calling me the 'amen story.' That
is foolish, <i>I</i> think! But at any rate, that is no<a name="page19" id="page19"></a><span class="left">[page 19]</span>
reason for telling me <i>every</i> night. Let your
mamma tell you Cock Robin, or Jack the Giant-Killer.
They are plenty good enough."</p>
<p>
"I don't want them," said the little boy, beginning
to cry; "I want <i>you!</i> I wont go to sleep all
night if mamma don't tell you."</p>
<p>
"<i>I</i> don't care!" replied The Story; "you
needn't cry for me. I've made up my mind. You
wont hear me to-night. That as as sure as your
name is Paul."</p>
<p>
And it was just as The Story said. There was
no use in the boy's crying, for off went The Story,
and it was <i>not</i> told that night; but it is my private
opinion that the boy did go to sleep after all.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="polly" id="polly"></a>
<h2>POLLY: A BEFORE-CHRISTMAS STORY.</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By Hope Ledyard</span>.</h4>
<div class="figleft2">
<a href="images/027.jpg">
<img src="images/027-195-01.jpg" class="bell" border="0" alt="SANTA CLAUS" />
<img src="images/027-195-02.jpg" class="bell" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/027-195-03.jpg" class="bell" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/027-195-04.jpg" class="bell" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/027-195-05.jpg" class="bell" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/027-195-06.jpg" class="bell" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/027-195-07.jpg" class="bell" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/027-195-08.jpg" class="bell" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/027-195-09.jpg" class="bell" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/027-195-10.jpg" class="bell" border="0" alt="" />
</a>
<br />
<p>
ANTA CLAUS!" exclaimed Ned, half mockingly.</p>
<p>
"Yes," insisted Mamie, "what's he going to bring you, Ned?"</p>
<p>
"I don't know, and I don't care much," he answered,
"for there isn't any Santa Claus."</p>
<p>
"Why, Ned!" cried Mamie, in astonishment.
"Even my big brother Harry believes in
Santa Claus. He's coming home from
school to-night, and we're going to hang
up our stockings."</p>
<p>
"Pshaw!" said Ned, "I must go home. Good-bye."</p>
<p>
Merry little Mamie stood in amazement,
and then ran in-doors to her mother with her perplexity.</p>
<p>
"Why, mother!" she cried, "Ned Huntley said
there wasn't any Santa Claus—and he was real
cross about it, too."</p>
<p>
"Well, Mamie," said her mother, "I wouldn't
take any notice of Ned's being cross about Christmas-time.
The Huntleys don't keep Christmas."</p>
<p>
"Don't keep Christmas!" exclaimed Mamie,
astonished beyond measure.</p>
<p>
Seeing that her mother was busy, she took her
doll, Helena Margaret Constance Victorine, in her
arms, and talked the matter over with her.</p>
<p>
"What do you think, my dear," said she,
"they don't keep Christmas at Ned Huntley's
house! I don't know just what mother means by
not keeping it, for you know Santa Claus comes
down the chimney, and so he can get in during the
night and leave Christmas there. Oh, yes, but
they don't keep it. They turn it out, I suppose,
just like mother told me they acted about the dear
little baby Savior; they hadn't any room for him,
and I guess Mrs. Huntley hasn't any room to keep
Christmas in. I wonder what she does with the
Christmas things Santa Claus brings? I wonder if
she throws 'em away? I mean to go and ask
her;" and putting her child carefully in its cradle,
Mamie started.</p>
<p>
There was some truth in what Mrs. Gaston had
told her little daughter; the Huntleys did not
keep Christmas in a loving, hearty way. They
kept it in so far that on this very afternoon
Mrs. Huntley was busy making the mince pies,
dressing the turkey, and doing all she could to be
beforehand with the extra Christmas dinner. Mr.
Huntley had just stepped into the kitchen for a
moment to say to his wife, "What have you settled
on for Ned's Christmas?"</p>
<p>
"I've bought him a pair of arctics—he needed
'em; and if you want to spend more than common,
you might get him half a dozen handkerchiefs."</p>
<p>
"Well, wife, I was thinking that perhaps" —the
farmer tried to be particular about his words, for
Mrs. Huntley did not seem in a very good humor—"I
was remembering how you used to enjoy giving
the young ones candies and toys; so, perhaps—"</p>
<p>
"Now, Noah Huntley, I'm surprised at you!
Buy candies and toys for a great lumbering boy
like Ned? Why, you must be crazy, man! The
next thing will be that you'll want a Christmas-tree
yourself!"</p>
<a name="page20" id="page20"></a><span class="left">[page 20]</span>
<p>
"Well, and it wouldn't be a bad idea," thought
the father. "There's my man, Fritz, he has been
to the woods and cut a little tree for his children,
and he seems to get a heap of pleasure out of it. Ah!
if only little Polly had lived!" Strangely enough,
the wife was thinking the same thing, as she sliced
and sifted and weighed. "If little Polly had lived
it would have been different, but we can't throw away
money on nonsense for Ned."</p>
<p>
A little red cloak flashed by the window, a little
bright face, just about the age of "our little Polly's,"
peeped in at the door, and Mamie asked, "May I
come in, Mrs. Huntley?"</p>
<p>
"Certainly, child. Here's a fresh cookie. I suppose
you're full of Christmas over at your house?"</p>
<p>
"Oh, yes, ma'am! And I'm so sorry you don't
keep it. What's the reason?"</p>
<p>
"Don't keep it! Why, we have a regular
Christmas dinner as sure as the 25th of December
comes round, and Pa gives me a new dress, or
something that I need, and we give Ned a suit of
clothes, or shoes, or something that he needs."</p>
<p>
"Well," said Mamie, "but I like our way best.
May I tell you how we keep Christmas?"</p>
<p>
"Talk away. I can listen."</p>
<p>
"Well, you see, a good while before Christmas
my mother begins to get ready, and I often see her
hide up something quick when I come in, and then
she laughs, and I think, 'Oh, yes, something's
coming,' and then mother takes me in her lap and
tells me how Jesus is coming, and how He did
come. Do you know, Mrs. Huntley?"</p>
<p>
"You can tell me, child?"</p>
<p>
"You see, He came a long, long time ago as a
little baby. Mamma says that he began at the
beginning, so that no little child could say, 'I can't
be like Jesus, for Jesus never was so little as me.'
That first birthday of His, there wasn't any room
for Him at the tavern, and when the dear little
baby Jesus was sleepy, they laid Him right in a
stable manger, and the shepherds found Him lying
there. Christmas is His Birthday, and I suppose
they give all the children presents because
Jesus loved little children, and then Santa Claus—Oh,
Mrs. Huntley, that's what I came about, and
I 'most forgot! If you don't keep Christmas—I
mean as we do," she added, as Mrs. Huntley
frowned, "and if you don't use the things that Santa
Claus leaves here, can't I come over and get 'em?
Only I'd rather Ned should have 'em."</p>
<p>
"Child alive! How your tongue runs! Here,
now, take these cookies home with you, I guess
Ned's too busy to play with you."</p>
<p>
"Thank you, ma'am. And you'll remember
about Santa Claus?" said little Mamie, as she
walked away with her cookies.</p>
<p>
Mrs. Huntley worked on for a few minutes longer,
and then, leaving her dishes, she went to her own
room and opened a bureau drawer. There lay a
bright little dress and pretty white apron,—Polly's
best things,—the little clothes in which she used to
look so lovely. There were the last Christmas toys
the mother had ever bought,—only a little tin bank,
a paper cornucopia, and a doll; but she remembered
that Christmas so well! Could it be that it
was only three years ago? How Polly had laughed
and chattered over her stocking! And Ned,—now
that she thought about it,—she remembered that
they bought him a pair of skates that year. He
had made a great time over those skates, and had
taken his little sister out to see him try to use them.
Ned was so loving and gentle in those days. And
then the mother's heart reproached her. Could
she blame her boy because he seemed to care so
little for his parents and his home, when she had
nursed her grief for the loss of her baby-girl, and
taken no pains to be bright or cheerful with him?
She thought how clearly Mamie had told the story
of the Savior's birthday. Could her boy, who was
six years older, do as well? He went to Sunday-school
sometimes, but she had never talked with
him about Jesus—never since God took her Polly.
And her eyes filled as she shut the drawer.</p>
<p>
Mrs. Huntley went back to the kitchen, but the
room seemed different to her. Ned brought in
the milk, and looked at his mother curiously at
hearing her say, "Thank you, Ned." Wonders
would never end, Ned thought, when, after tea, she
said, "Father, it's a moonlight night; couldn't
you and I drive to the village? Ned will excuse
our leaving him alone."</p>
<p>
"Excuse!" When had his mother ever asked
him to excuse her? And then, as mother waited
for the wagon to be got ready, she asked him to
read about the Savior's birth, and surely there were
tears in her eyes as father came in, just as Ned
read, "And they came with haste and found Mary
and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger."</p>
<p>
Mr. Huntley was bewildered, too. To start off
for the village at seven o'clock in the evening!
When had such a thing happened?</p>
<p>
On the road Mrs. Huntley told her husband
what Mamie had said to her, and she added,
"Perhaps, as I tell it, it don't seem much, but it
made me think of our Polly, and"—the woman's
voice broke, and the father, saddened too, said,
comfortingly, "She's safe, my dear, in heaven."</p>
<p>
"Yes, father, but I'm thinking of the one that's
left, for all I cried a little. I guess you were near
right about getting him something nice. He's
but a boy yet, and he'd think more of Christmas,
and perhaps of the child that was born on
Christmas, if we show him that Jesus has made our
hearts a little more tender."</p>
<a name="page21" id="page21"></a><span class="left">[page 21]</span>
<p>
What it cost that hard, reserved woman to say
that, none knew, but I think her husband felt dimly
how she must have fought with herself, and he was
silent for some time. At last he said, with a tone
of gladness in his voice, "My dear, I'm glad to
get him something. He's a good boy, Ned is."</p>
<p>
What a pleasant time they had, and how they
caught the spirit of Christmas! They bought a
sled and skates, a book or two, and candies, and
Mrs. Huntley found a jack-knife that was just the
thing Ned wanted. Then she said to her husband:</p>
<p>
"I'd like to buy something for Mamie. It will
be nice to buy a girl's present."</p>
<p>
Their hearts ached a little, as they chose a wonderful
little wash-tub and board, with a clothes-horse
to match. How Polly's eyes would have
shone at these!</p>
<p>
Meantime, Ned mused over his mother's tears
and her strangely kind tones, and thought:
"I wonder if she's going to be as good to me as
she was to Polly! I hated to hear Mamie talk
about Santa Claus. Polly used to talk just that
way, and we did have such good times. I used to
get skates and things at Christmas, but now I get
some handkerchiefs or a lot of shirts! It makes
me mad." Then Ned fell asleep, and so the mother
found him. She woke him gently and he went
off to bed, bewildered by more kind words.</p>
<p>
Morning dawned and Ned hurried down to light
the fire in the kitchen, but he went no further than
the sitting-room. There was a sled,—a splendid
one,—a pair of skates, and books! He put his
hands in his pockets to take a long stare, and felt
something strange in one of them. Why! There
was a beautiful knife!</p>
<p>
Mother came in and watched his face, but at
sight of her the boy fairly broke down. Laying
his head on her shoulder, "It's like Polly coming
back," he said.</p>
<p>
And so it was, and so it continued to be.</p></div>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="boggs" id="boggs"></a>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/029-470.jpg" width="470" height="465" alt="BOGGS" border="0" />
<p class="center">BOGGS SHOULD NOT HAVE HAD HIS PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN ON THANKSGIVING DAY,
AND EATEN A HEARTY DINNER AFTERWARD.</p>
</div>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page22" id="page22"></a><span class="left">[page 22]</span>
<h2>THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON'S SHOW.</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By Jennie A. Owen</span>.</h4>
<p>
"Aunt Jennie," said my little godson Willie,
a few days ago, "wont you go with us to see the
Lord Mayor's show? There'll be thirteen elephants
and eight clowns, and an elephant picks a
man up with his trunk and holds him there. And
then mamma's going to take me to Sampson's.
Do you know Sampson, Aunt Jennie?"</p>
<p>
"I know about Samson in the Bible, Willie."</p>
<p>
"Oh, not that one; our Sampson is a man in a
shop in Oxford street, and he makes such nice
boys' clothes, and he's the master."</p>
<p>
I have just come home from the Sandwich
Islands, where I have been living; I spent a few
years, too, in New Zealand and Tahiti, and so have
seen many wonderful things on the land and sea;
but a Lord Mayor going to be sworn in to his
duties, attended by thirteen elephants and a London
crowd, would be a novelty to me. I thought, too,
that certain little boys and girls in the Sandwich
Islands and the United States, who also call me
Aunt Jennie, would like to hear all about it.</p>
<p>
This has been an exciting week for the London
children. The fifth of November fell on Sunday,
and Guy Fawkes had to wait till Monday to make
his appearance. All that day he was carried about
the streets in various shapes and forms, and the
naughty, ignorant little boys, in spite of enlightened
school-board teaching, sang at our doors:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"A ha'penny loaf to feed the Pope,</p>
<p>A penn'orth of cheese to choke him,</p>
<p>A pint of beer to wash it all down,</p>
<p>And a jolly good fire to burn him."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>
"Oh, papa," said Willie, as he ran into the
breakfast-room for pennies, "aren't you glad
you're a real man and not a pope?"</p>
<p>
At last the ninth, the Lord Mayor's day, came.
It is also the Prince of Wales' birthday, so the city
would be very gay-looking with all the flags flying.</p>
<p>
Alas! it was a dark, dull morning, and a heavy
fog hung all over the city. Alas for the gilt
coaches, the steel armor and other braveries! and
then the elephants, how could they possibly feel
their way all round the city in a thick, yellow fog?
But, happily, by eleven the weather cleared, and
the sun shone out brightly. Such a crowd as
there was at our railway dépôt! So many bonny,
happy little children never went on the same
morning to the busy old town before. It was
something new for great elephants to be seen
walking through the prosy business streets. Once
before, twenty-seven years ago, when Sir John
Musgrave was Lord Mayor, not only elephants,
but camels, deer, negroes, beehives, a ship in full
sail, and Britannia seated on a car drawn by six
horses, had made part of the show; since then,
however, no Lord Mayor had been thoughtful
enough of little and big children's pleasure to order
out such delightful things, and so this year everybody
must go. To quote from the <i>Daily News:</i></p>
<blockquote class="comment"><p>
"Since the reign of Henry III., when, by that
monarch's gracious act the Lord Mayor of London
was permitted to present himself before the Barons
of Exchequer at Westminster instead of submitting
the citizens' choice for the king's personal approval,
there has been no Lord Mayor's show at which
so great a concourse of spectators assembled."</p></blockquote>
<p>
We crowd into the cars and are soon in Cannon
street. At the gates a boy meets us with little
books for sale, shouting, "Thirteen elephants for a
penny! the other boys'll only give you twelve, but
I'll give you thirteen. Sold again! Thirteen
elephants for a penny!" This wonderful book
consists of a series of common gaudily colored pictures,
supposed to represent the procession, which
has done service at the show from time immemorial,
but it is each year as welcome as ever to
the children who each have a penny to buy one.
Through the streets we have passing visions of pink
silk stockings, canary-colored breeches, and dark
green coats and gold lace, also tri-colored rosettes
as large as saucers; and pass by shop-windows full
of sweet, eager little faces, in the place of hose,
shirts, sewing-machines, etc.</p>
<p>
At last we arrive at our destination in Cheapside,
where, through the kindness of a friend, a window
on the first floor of a large building is waiting for
us. How impatient we are until we hear the band
of the Grenadier Guards, which heads the procession.
After this band and that of the Royal London
Militia, come the Worshipful Company of
Loriners, preceded by jolly watermen in blue and
white striped jerseys and white trousers, bearing
banners; more watermen follow to relieve them;
the beadle of the company with his staff of office;
the clerk in his chariot; the wardens, wearing silk
cloaks trimmed with sables, in their carriages, and
amongst them Sir John Bennett, the great watch-maker
in Cheapside, a charming-looking old gentleman
with rosy cheeks and profuse gray curls; his<a name="page23" id="page23"></a><span class="left">[page 23]</span>
face lights up with smiles as the shouts of "Bravo,
Bennett," show how popular he is.</p>
<p>
Then comes a grand yellow coach, in which
rides the Master of the Company, attended by his
chaplain. After the Loriners come the Farriers,
the band of the First Life Guards, banners, beadle
and mace clerk, wardens and master. After them
the Broderers. As these pass slowly along, an
excitement is caused by the behavior of the horse
of a hussar, who is mounting guard. It does not
like the proceedings at all, and still less the greasy
asphalt on which it stands, dances round, backs
into the Worshipful Master of Broderers' carriage,
and finally rears and falls, unseating its rider. The
hussar is quite cool and quiet, soon reseats himself,
and rejects the offer of a fussy little man in red to
hold his horse.</p>
<p>
And now comes the Worshipful Company of
Bakers, preceded by their banner, with its good
old motto, "Praise God for all." These are really
very jolly and well-favored looking companions,
most of the members bearing large bouquets of
flowers. After them the Vintners' Company, with
the band of the Royal Artillery; ten Commissioners,
each bearing a shield; eight master porters in
vintner's dress; the Bargemaster in full uniform,
and the Swan Uppers. These are men who look
after the swans belonging to the corporation of
London, which build their nests along the banks
of the Thames, and they mark the young swans
each spring.</p>
<p>
The "Uppers" look very well in their dress, consisting
of dark cloth jackets slashed with white,
blue and white striped jerseys and white trousers.</p>
<p>
After this company had passed, a grand shout
announced the coming of the elephants. These,
as some small boy has observed, are "curious
animals, with two tails—one before and one behind."
First came a number of large ones, with
Mr. Sanger, their owner, who was mounted on a
curiously spotted horse. They were gorgeous with
oriental trappings and howdahs. On the foremost
one rode a man representing a grand Indian
prince. He had a reddish mustache, wore spectacles,
a magnificent purple and white turban, and
showy oriental costume. He produced a great
impression on the crowd. In other howdahs sat
one, two or three splendid Hindoos, whose dress
was past description. Then came several young
elephants ridden by boys; one of these was seized
with a desire to lie down, and had to be vigorously
roused; but, on the whole, they behaved in a
wonderfully correct and dignified manner—now
and then gracefully swinging round their trunks
amongst the sympathizing crowd, in search of
refreshment.</p>
<p>
The elephants were escorted by equestrians in
state costumes, and followed by six knights in
steel armor, with lances and pennons, mounted on
chargers. One of these "wouldn't go," and had
to be dragged on ignominiously by a policeman.
Then the Epping Forest rangers came. They
were picturesquely dressed in green velvet coats,
broad-brimmed hats and long feathers. After
these, trumpeters, under-sheriffs in their state carriages,
aldermen, the Recorder, more trumpeters,
and then a most gorgeous coach—with hammer-cloth
of red and gold, men in liveries too splendid
to describe, and four fine horses—brings the late
lord mayor. The mounted band of household
cavalry follows. These really look splendid in
crimson coats covered with gold embroidery and
velvet caps, riding handsome white horses.</p>
<p>
There is a stoppage just as they come up.
They are rapturously greeted by the crowd, and
requested to "play up." The mayor's servants,
in state liveries, follow on foot. After them rides
a very important person, the city marshal, on
horseback. The city trumpeters come now, preceding
the right honorable the lord mayor's most
gorgeous gilt coach, drawn by six horses. In it
sits Sir Thomas White, supported by his chaplain,
and attended by his sword-bearer and the common
crier. An escort of the 21st Hussars brings up
the rear. Policemen follow, and after them a stray
mail-cart, a butcher's boy with his tray; after that,
not just the deluge, but the crowd.</p>
<p>
"Oh, mamma!" says Willie, "the beefeaters
didn't come! Nine of them there are in my
book, and a grand one going in front, blowing a
trumpet. And the man holding his thumb to his
nose at the sheriffs; and the policeman knocking
a thief down with a staff! And the lord mayor
had no spectacles on. That's not fair! Do beefeaters
eat lots of beef, mamma?"</p>
<p>
"Oh, no," says Charlie, with a superior air,
"they are only sideboard chaps."</p>
<p>
Willie is still more puzzled, until he is told that
in the olden time servants so costumed used to
stand by the sideboard, or buffet, as it was called,
at feasts, and so got the name of buffetiers, and
by degrees the name became changed into beefeaters,
which was more easily remembered by the
people.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/032-1000.jpg"><img src="images/032-400.jpg" width="400" height="552" alt="THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON'S SHOW." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON'S SHOW.</p>
</div>
<p>
From our window we could not, of course, follow
the procession on its winding way, nor had we
seen it start. On looking at the paper next morning,
we read that at first it was feared that the
elephants had failed to keep their appointment.
It was almost time to set out, and no elephants
were to be seen. What must be done? The
people ought not to be cheated out of the best part
of the show; and yet, on the other hand, how
undignified for a lord mayor to be kept waiting for<a name="page25" id="page25"></a><span class="left">[page 25]</span>
thirteen elephants! I am sorry to say the police
were rather glad. They had been very much
afraid that the animals might prove troublesome
during so long and unusual a walk; or else,
coming from a circus, might, at any sudden pause,
imagine themselves in the arena, and take it into
their grave heads to perform on two legs and
terrify the horses, or possibly annoy the lord
mayor and his chaplain by putting their long
trunks into his coach. But, happily for us, the
police were disappointed. Such dignified creatures
could not be expected to come early and be kept
waiting.</p>
<p>
Just at the right time they came leisurely up,
and gravely taking their proper place, marched
on with their proverbial sagacity—waiting outside
Westminster Hall, whilst the lord mayor swore to
do his duty, as quietly as though they were at
home—and afterward left the procession at Blackfriars
Bridge, to go to their own quarters and eat
their well-earned dinner. It is to be hoped that
the lord mayor ordered something specially good
for them.</p>
<p>
<span class="rightnote">[*sic]</span>The elephants having left, the *embassadors, her
majesty's ministers of state, the nobility, judges,
and other persons of distinction, joined the procession,
and proceeded to feast with his lordship and
the lady mayoress at Guildhall.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="girl" id="girl"></a>
<h2>MY GIRL</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By John S. Adams</span>.</h4>
<table width="100%" align="center" border="0" summary="poem">
<tr>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i8"><span style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold;">I.</span></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>A little corner with its crib,</p>
<p>A little mug, a spoon, a bib,</p>
<p>A little tooth so pearly white,</p>
<p>A little rubber ring to bite.</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i8"><span style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold;">V.</span></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>A little muff for winter weather,</p>
<p>A little jockey-hat and feather,</p>
<p>A little sack with funny pockets,</p>
<p>A little chain, a ring, and lockets.</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i8"><span style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold;">II.</span></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>A little plate all lettered round,</p>
<p>A little rattle to resound,</p>
<p>A little creeping—see! she stands!</p>
<p>A little step 'twixt outstretched hands.</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i8"><span style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold;">VI.</span></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>A little while to dance and bow,</p>
<p>A little escort homeward now,</p>
<p>A little party, somewhat late,</p>
<p>A little lingering at the gate.</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i8"><span style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold;">III.</span></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>A little doll with flaxen hair,</p>
<p>A little willow rocking-chair,</p>
<p>A little dress of richest hue,</p>
<p>A little pair of gaiters blue.</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i8"><span style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold;">VII.</span></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>A little walk in leafy June,</p>
<p>A little talk while shines the moon,</p>
<p>A little reference to papa,</p>
<p>A little planning with mamma.</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i8"><span style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold;">IV.</span></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>A little school day after day,</p>
<p>A "little schoolma'am" to obey,</p>
<p>A little study—soon 'tis past,</p>
<p>A little graduate at last.</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i8"><span style="font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold;">VIII.</span></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>A little ceremony grave,</p>
<p>A little struggle to be brave,</p>
<p>A little cottage on a lawn,</p>
<p>A little kiss—my girl was gone!</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page26" id="page26"></a><span class="left">[page 26]</span>
<h2>MARS, THE PLANET OF WAR.</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By Richard A. Proctor</span>.</h4>
<p>
Not long ago, the planet Jupiter came among
the stars of our southern evening skies. Those
who noted down his track found that he first advanced
from west to east, then receded along a
track near his advancing one, then advanced again,
still running on a track side by side with his former
advancing track, and so passed away from the
scene, toward the part of the sky where the sun's
light prevents our tracking him.</p>
<p>
That was a useful and rather easy first lesson
about the motions of the bodies called planets.</p>
<p>
We have now to consider a rather less simple
case, but one a great deal more interesting. Two
planets intrude among our evening stars, each
following a looped track, but the tracks are unlike;
the two planets are unlike in appearance, and they
are also very unlike in reality.</p>
<p>
I hope many of my young readers have already
found out for themselves that these intrusive bodies
have been wandering among our fixed stars. I
purposely said nothing about the visitors last
August, so that those who try to learn the star-groups
from my maps may have had a chance of
discovering the two planets for themselves. If they
have done so, they have in fact repeated a discovery
which was made many, many years ago. Ages
before astronomy began to be a science, men found
out that some of the stars move about among the
rest, and they also noticed the kind of path traveled
in the sky by each of those moving bodies.
It was long, indeed, before they found out the kind
of path traveled <i>really</i> by the planets. In fact,
they supposed our earth to be fixed; and if our
earth were fixed, the paths of the planets about
her as a center would be twisted and tangled in
the most perplexing way. So that folks in those
old times, seeing the planets making all manner
of loops and twistings round the sky, and supposing
they made corresponding loops and twistings
in traveling round the earth, thought the planets
were living creatures, going round the earth to
watch it and rule over it, each according to his own
fashion. So they worshiped the planets as gods,
counting seven of them, including the sun and
moon. Some they thought good to men, others
evil. The two planets now twisting their way
along the southern skies were two of the evil sort,
viz.: Mars, called the Lesser Infortune, and Saturn,
called the Greater Infortune. In the old
system of star-worship, Mars ruled over Tuesday,
and Saturn over Saturday,—the Sabbath of olden
times,—a day which the Chaldean and Egyptian
astrologers regarded as the most unlucky in the
whole week.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/0146-1.jpg"><img src="images/0146-1-500.jpg" width="500" height="470" alt="FIG. 1. THE PATHS OF MARS AND SATURN." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">FIG. 1. THE PATHS OF MARS AND SATURN.</p>
</div>
<p>
The actual paths traveled among the stars by
these two planets, this fall, are shown in Fig. 1.
You will see how wildly the fiery Mars, the planet
of war, careers round his great loop, while old
Saturn, "heavy, dull, and slow" (as Armado says
that lead is—the metal dedicated to Saturn),
plods slowly and wearily along. Between August
6 and October 1, Mars traversed his entire backward
track,—Saturn, you notice, only a small portion
of his much smaller loop. On the sky, too,
you will see that while Mars shines with a fierce
ruddy glow, well suited to his warlike character,
Saturn shines with a dull yellow light, suggestive of
the evil qualities which the astrologers of old assigned
to him. "My loking," says Saturn, in Chaucer's
"Canterbury Tales," "is the fader of pestilence:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Min ben also the maladies colde,</p>
<p>The derke treasons, and the costes olde;</p>
<p>Min is the drenching in the see so wan,</p>
<p>Min is the prison in the derke cote,<a href="#I1"><sup>1</sup></a><a name="I1r" id="I1r"></a></p>
<p>Min is the strangel and hanging by the throte,</p>
<p>The murmure, and the cherles<a href="#I2"><sup>2</sup></a><a name="I2r" id="I2r"></a> rebelling,</p>
<p>The groyning and the prine empoysoning."</p>
</div>
</div>
<a name="page27" id="page27"></a><span class="left">[page 27]</span>
<p>
For the present, however, let us consider the
planet Mars, leaving slow Saturn to wait for us
another month.</p>
<p>
It has always seemed to me one of the most useful
lessons in astronomy to follow the line by which,
long ago, great discoveries were made. Thus, if
the young reader went out on
every fine night and noted the
changing position of Mars, he
traced out the track shown in
Fig. 1. He noted, also, that the
planet, which shone at its brightest
about September 5, gradually
grew less and less bright as it traveled
off, after rounding the station
near October 5 (really on Oct. 7),
toward the east. He observed, then,
that the seeming loop followed by
the planet was a real looped track (so far, at least,
as our observer on the earth was concerned). Fig.
2 shows the apparent shape of Mars's loop, the
dates corresponding to those shown in Fig. 1. Only
it does not lie flat, as shown on the paper, but
must be supposed to lie somewhat under the surface
of the paper, as shown by the little upright <i>a, b,</i>
which, indeed, gives the distance under the paper
at which the part of the loop is supposed to lie
where lowest at <i>m</i>. The other similar uprights at
M_1, M_2, and M_3 show the depression at these places.
You perceive that the part M_1, M_2, lies higher than
the part M_2, M_3. If the loop were flat, and, like
E, the earth, were in the level of the paper, it
would be seen edgewise, and the advancing, receding,
and advancing parts of the planet's
course would all lie on the same line upon the sky.
But being thus out of the level, we see through
the loop, so to speak, and it has the seeming shape
shown in Fig. 1.<a href="#I3"><sup>3</sup></a><a name="I3r" id="I3r"></a></p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/0147-1.jpg"><img src="images/0147-1-600.jpg" width="600" height="220" alt="FIG. 2. ONE OF MARS'S LOOPS." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">FIG. 2. ONE OF MARS'S LOOPS.</p>
</div>
<p>
This is one loop, you will understand, out of an
immense number which Mars makes in journeying
round the earth, regarded as fixed. He retreats
to a great distance, swoops inward again toward
the earth, making a loop as in Fig. 2, and retreating
again. Then he comes again, makes another
swoop, and a loop on another side, and so on. He
behaves, in fact, like that "little quiver fellow," a
right martialist, no doubt, who, as Justice Shallow
tells us, "would about and about, and come you in,
and come you in,—and away again would a go,
and again would a come." The loops are not
all of the same size. The one shown in Fig. 2 is
one of the smallest. I have before me a picture
which I have made of all this planet's loops from
1875 to 1892, and it forms the most curiously intertwined
set of curves you can imagine,—rather
pretty, though not regular, the loops on one side
being much larger than those on the other. I
would show the picture here, but it is too large.
One of these days, it will be given in a book I am
going to write about Mars, who is quite important
enough to have a book all to himself. I want you,
now, to understand me that Mars really does travel
in a most complicated path, when you consider
the earth as at rest. If a perfect picture of all
his loopings and twistings since astronomy began
could be drawn,—even on a sheet of paper as large
as the floor of a room,—the curves would so interlace
that you would not be able to track them out,
but be always leaving the true track and getting
upon one crossing it slightly aslant,—just like the
lines by which trains are made to run easily off one
track on to another.</p>
<p>
The unfortunate astronomers of old times, who
had to explain, <i>if they could</i>, this complicated
behavior of Mars (and of other planets, too), were
quite beaten. The more carefully they made their
observations, the more peculiar the motions seemed.
One astronomer gave up the work in despair, just
like that unfortunate Greek philosopher who, because
he could not understand the tides of the
Eubœan Sea, drowned himself in it. So this astronomer,
who was a king,—Alphonsus of Portugal,—unable
to unravel the loops of the planets, said, in
his wrath, that if he had been called on by the
Creator to assign the planets their paths, he would
have managed the matter a great deal better. The
plates of the old astronomical books became more
and more confusing, and cost more and more
labor, as astronomers continued to</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p> ... "Build, unbuild, contrive</p>
<p>To save appearances, to gird the sphere</p>
<p>With centric and eccentric scribbled o'er,</p>
<p>Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>
It was to the study of Mars, the wildest wanderer
of all, that we owe the removal of all these perplexities.
The idea had occurred to the great astronomer,
Copernicus, that the complexities of the<a name="page28" id="page28"></a><span class="left">[page 28]</span>
planets' paths are not real, but are caused by the
constant moving about of the place from whence
we watch the planets. If a fly at rest at the middle
of a clock face watched the ends of the two hands,
they would seem to go round him in circles; but
if, instead, he was on the end of one of the hands
(and was not knocked off as the other passed), the
end of this other hand would not move round the fly
in the same simple way. When the two hands were
together it would be near, when they were opposite
it would be far away, and, without entering into any
particular description of the way in which it would
seem to move, you can easily see that the motion
would seem much more complicated than if the fly
watched it from the middle of the clock face.
Now, Copernicus <i>did</i> enter into particulars, and
showed by mathematical reasoning that nearly all
the peculiarities of the planets' motions could be
explained by supposing that the sun, not the earth,
was the body round which the planets move, and
that they go round him nearly in circles.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/0148-1.jpg"><img src="images/0148-1-460.jpg" width="460" height="471" alt="FIG. 3. THE PATHS OF MARS, THE EARTH, VENUS, AND MERCURY." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">FIG. 3. THE PATHS OF MARS, THE EARTH, VENUS, AND MERCURY.</p>
</div>
<p>
But Copernicus could not explain <i>all</i> the motions.
And Tycho Brahe, another great astronomer,
who did not believe at all in the new ideas of
Copernicus, made a number of observations on our
near neighbor Mars, to show that Copernicus was
wrong. He gave these to Kepler, another great
astronomer, enjoining him to explain them in such
a way as to overthrow the Copernican ideas. But
Kepler behaved like Balaam the son of Beor; for,
called on to curse (or at least to denounce) the views
of Copernicus, he altogether blessed them three
times. First, he found from the motions of Mars
that the planets do not travel in circles, but in ovals,
very nearly circular in shape, but not having the
sun exactly at the center. Secondly, he discovered
the law according to which they move, now faster
now slower, in their oval paths; and thirdly, he
found a law according to which the nearer planets
travel more quickly and the farther planets more
slowly, every distance having its own proper rate.
These three laws of Kepler constitute
the Magna Charta of the solar system.</p>
<p>
Afterward, Newton showed <i>how</i> it
happens that the planets obey these
laws, but as his part of the work had
no particular reference to Mars, I say
no more about it in this place.</p>
<p>
Here, in Fig. 3, are the real paths of
Mars and the Earth, and also of Venus
and Mercury. No loops, you see, in
any of them, simply because we have
set the sun in the middle. Set the
earth in the middle, and each planet
would have its own set of loops, each
set enormously complicated, and all
three sets mixed together in the most
confusing way. It is well to remember
this when you see, as in many books
of astronomy, the old theory illustrated
with a set of circles looking almost as
neat and compact as the set truly representing
the modern theory. For the
idea is suggested by this simple picture
of the old theory that the theory itself
was simple, whereas it had become so
confusing that not merely young learners,
but the most profound mathematicians,
were baffled when they tried to unravel the
motions of the planets.</p>
<p>
I think the figure pretty well explains itself. All
I need mention is, that while the shape and position
of each path is correctly shown, the size of the
sun at center is immensely exaggerated. A mere
pin point, but shining with star-like splendor,
would properly represent him. As for the figures
of the earth and Mars, they are still more tremendously
out of proportion. The cross-breadth of
the lines representing these planets' tracks is <i>many
times</i> greater than the breadth of either planet on
the scale of the chart.</p>
<p>
On September 5 the earth and Mars came to the
position shown at E and M. You observe that
they could not be much nearer. It is indeed very
seldom that Mars is so well placed for observation.
His illuminated face was turned toward the dark or
night half of the earth, so that he shone brightly<a name="page29" id="page29"></a><span class="left">[page 29]</span>
in the sky at midnight, and can be well studied
with the telescope.</p>
<p>
When Galileo turned toward Mars the telescope
with which he had discovered the moons of Jupiter,
the crescent form of Venus, and many other wonders
in the heavens, he was altogether disappointed.
His telescope was indeed too small to show any
features of interest in Mars, though the planet of
war is much nearer to us than Jupiter. Mars is
but a small world. The diameter of the planet is
about 4,400 miles, that of our earth being nearly
8,000. Jupiter, though much farther away, has
an immense diameter of more than 80,000 miles to
make up, and much more than make up, for the
effect of distance. With his noble system of moons
he appears a remarkable object even with a small
telescope, while Mars shows no feature of interest
even with telescopes of considerable size.</p>
<p>
It was not, then, till very powerful telescopes had
been constructed that astronomers learned what we
now know about Mars.<a href="#I4"><sup>4</sup></a><a name="I4r" id="I4r"></a></p>
<p>
It is found that his surface is divided into land
and water, like the surface of our own earth. But
his seas and oceans are not nearly so large compared
with his continents and lands. You know
that on our own earth the water covers so much
larger a surface than the land that the great continents
are in reality islands. Europe, Asia and Africa
together form one great island; North and South
America another, not quite so large; then come
Australia, Greenland, Madagascar, and so forth;
all the lands being islands, larger or smaller. On
the other hand, except the Caspian Sea and the
Sea of Aral, there are no large seas entirely land-bound.
In the case of Mars a very different state
of things prevails, as you will see from the three
accompanying pictures (hitherto unpublished),
drawn by the famous English observer, Dawes
(called the Eagle-eyed). The third and best was
drawn with a telescope constructed by your famous
optician, Alvan Clark, of Cambridge, Massachusetts.
The dark parts are the seas, the light parts being
land, or in some cases cloud or snow. But in these
pictures most of the lighter portions represent land;
for they have been seen often so shaped, whereas
clouds, of course, would change in shape.</p>
<p>
The planet Mars, like our earth, turns on its
axis, so that it has day and night as we have. The
length of its day is not very different from that of
our own day. Our earth turns once on its axis in —— but
before reading on, try to complete this
sentence for yourself. Every one knows that the
earth's turning on its axis produces day and night,
and nine persons out of ten, if asked how long the
earth takes in turning round her axis, will answer,
24 hours; and if asked how many times she turns
on her axis in a year, will say 365 times, or if disposed
to be very exact, "about 365-1/4 times." But
neither answer is correct. The earth turns on her
axis about 366-1/4 times in each year, and each turning
occupies 23 hours 56 minutes and 4 seconds
and 1 tenth of a second. We, taking the ordinary
day as the time of a turning or rotation, lose count
of one rotation each year. It is necessary to mention
this, in order that when I tell you how long<a name="page30" id="page30"></a><span class="left">[page 30]</span>
the day of Mars is, you may be able correctly to
compare it with our own day. Mars, then, turns
on his axis in 24 hours 37 minutes 22 seconds and
7 tenth-parts of a second. So that Mars requires
41 minutes 18 seconds and 6-tenths of a second
longer to turn his small body once round than our
earth requires to turn round her much larger body.
The common day of Mars is, however, only about
39 minutes longer than our common day.</p>
<p>
Mars has a long year, taking no less than 687
of our days to complete his circuit round the sun,
so that his year lasts only about one month and a
half less than two of ours.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/0150-1.jpg"><img src="images/0150-1-600.jpg" width="600" height="403" alt="APPEARANCE OF MARS, 1852, MARCH 23" border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">APPEARANCE OF MARS, 1852, MARCH 23, 5 H. 45 M.,
Greenwich Mean Time. Power of Telescope, 358; 6⅓ inch object-glass.</p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/0150-2.jpg"><img src="images/0150-2-600.jpg" width="600" height="398" alt="APPEARANCE OF MARS, 1852, FEBRUARY 3" border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">APPEARANCE OF MARS, 1852, FEBRUARY 3, 6 H. 50 M.,
Greenwich Mean Time. Power of Telescope, 242 and 358 on 6⅓ inch
object-glass.</p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/0150-3.jpg"><img src="images/0150-3-600.jpg" width="600" height="400" alt="APPEARANCE OF MARS, 1860, JULY 6" border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">APPEARANCE OF MARS, 1860, JULY 6, 11 H. 33 M.,
Greenwich Mean Time. Power of Telescope, 201; 8¼ inch object-glass.
Planet very low, yet pretty distinct.</p>
</div>
<p>
Like the earth, Mars has seasons, for his polar
axis, like that of the earth, is aslant, and at one
part of his year brings his northern regions more
fully into sunlight, at which time summer prevails
there and winter in his southern regions; while at
the opposite part of his year his southern regions
are turned more fully sunward and have their
summer, while winter prevails over his northern
regions.</p>
<p>
Around his poles, as around the earth's, there
are great masses of ice, insomuch that it is very
doubtful whether any inhabitants of Mars have
been able to penetrate to his poles, any more than
Kane or Hayes or Nares or Parry, despite their
courage and endurance, have been able to reach
our northern pole, or Cook or Wilkes or James
Ross our antarctic pole.</p>
<p>
In the summer of either hemisphere of Mars,
the north polar snows become greatly reduced in
extent, as is natural, while in winter they reach to
low latitudes, showing that in parts of the planet
corresponding to the United States, or mid-Europe,
as to latitude, bitter cold must prevail for several
weeks in succession.</p>
<p>
The land regions of Mars can be distinguished
from the seas by their ruddy color, the seas being
greenish. But here, perhaps, you will be disposed
to ask how astronomers can be sure that the greenish
regions are seas, the ruddy regions land, the
white spots either snow or cloud. Might not
materials altogether unlike any we are acquainted
with exist upon that remote planet?</p>
<p>
The spectroscope answers this question in the
clearest way. You may remember what I told you
in October, 1876, about Venus, how astronomers
have learned that the vapor of water exists in her
atmosphere. The same method has been applied,
even more satisfactorily, to the planet of war, and it
has been found that he also has his atmosphere at
times laden with moisture. This being so, it is
clear we have not to do with a planet made of
materials utterly unlike those forming our earth.
To suppose so, when we find that the air of Mars,
formed like our own (for if it contained other gases
the spectroscope would tell us), contains often large
quantities of the vapor of water, would be as
absurd as to believe in the green cheese theory of
the moon, or in another equally preposterous,
advanced lately by an English artist—Mr. J.T. Brett—to
the effect that the atmosphere of Venus is
formed of glass.</p>
<p>
There is another theory about Mars, certainly
not so absurd as either of those just named, but
scarcely supported by evidence at present—the
idea, namely, advanced by a French astronomer,
that the ruddy color of the lands and seas of Mars is
due to red trees and a generally scarlet vegetation.
Your poet Holmes refers to this in those lines of
his, "Star-clouds and Wind-clouds" (to my mind
among the most charming of his many charming
poems):</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"The snows that glittered on the disc of Mars</p>
<p>Have melted, and the planet's fiery orb</p>
<p>Rolls in the crimson summer of its year."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>
It is quite possible, of course, that such colors as
are often seen in American woods in the autumn-time
may prevail in the forests and vegetation of
Mars during the fullness of the Martian summer.
The fact that during this season the planet looks
ruddier than usual, in some degree corresponds
with this theory. But it is much better explained,
to my mind, by the greater clearness of the Martian
air in the summer-time. That would enable us to
see the color of the soil better. If our earth were
looked at from Venus during the winter-time, the
snows covering large parts of her surface, and the
clouds and mists common in the winter months,
would hide the tints of the surface, whereas these
would be very distinct in clear summer weather.</p>
<p>
I fear my own conclusion about Mars is that his
present condition is very desolate. I look on the
ruddiness of tint to which I have referred as one
of the signs that the planet of war has long since
passed its prime. There are lands and seas in
Mars, the vapor of water is present in his air,
clouds form, rains and snows fall upon his surface,
and doubtless brooks and rivers irrigate his soil,
and carry down the moisture collected on his wide
continents to the seas whence the clouds had originally
been formed. But I do not think there is
much vegetation on Mars, or that many living
creatures of the higher types of Martian life as it
once existed still remain. All that is known about
the planet tends to show that the time when it
attained that stage of planetary existence through
which our earth is now passing must be set millions
of years, perhaps hundreds of millions of years, ago.
He has not yet, indeed, reached that airless and
waterless condition, that extremity of internal cold,
or in fact that utter unfitness to support any kind<a name="page31" id="page31"></a><span class="left">[page 31]</span>
of life, which would seem to prevail in the moon.
The planet of war in some respects resembles a
desolate battle-field, and I fancy that there is not a
single region of the earth now inhabited by man
which is not infinitely more comfortable as an abode
of life than the most favored regions of Mars at the
present time would be for creatures like ourselves.</p>
<p>
But there are other subjects besides astronomy
that the readers of the <span class="sc">St. Nicholas</span> want to learn
about. I do not wish you to have to say to me
what a little daughter of mine said the other day.
She had asked me several questions about the sun,
and after I had answered them I went on to tell
her several things which she had not asked. She
listened patiently for quite a long time,—fully five
minutes, I really believe,—and then she said:
"Don't you think, papa, that that's enough about
the sun? Come and play with us on the lawn."
So, as it was holiday time, we went and played in
the sun, instead of talking about him.</p>
<br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br />
<h4>Footnotes</h4>
<p class="note"><a name="I1" id="I1"></a>
<a class="note" href="#I1r">[Footnote 1:</a> <i>Dark or gloomy coast</i>. This line was amusingly rendered,
by the printer of my "Saturn and its System," in which I quoted Chaucer's lines, "Mine is the prison, and the dirty coat."]</p>
<p class="note"><a name="I2" id="I2"></a>
<a class="note" href="#I2r">[Footnote 2:</a> <i>Churl's.</i> Notice this word. It is the same as the word rendered
<i>Charles's</i> in the common English name for the Dipper. One should always say Charles's Wain, not Charles'
(as is the way Tennyson does in the "May Queen ").]</p>
<p class="note"><a name="I3" id="I3"></a>
<a class="note" href="#I3r">[Footnote 3:</a> I must re-mention that though this explanation is made as simple as I
possibly can make it, so far as words are concerned, the figures present the result of an exact geometrical investigation.
Every dot, for instance, in Fig. 2, has had its place separately determined by me.]</p>
<p class="note"><a name="I4" id="I4"></a>
<a class="note" href="#I4r">[Footnote 4:</a> See "The Moons of Mars" in the "<a class="note" href="#moons">Letter Box</a>" Department.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="tragedy" id="tragedy"></a>
<h2>A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY—IN TWO PARTS.</h2>
<div class="figright1">
<img src="images/0151-2-304.jpg" width="304" height="261" alt="PART II." border="0" /><br /><br />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">Part</span> II.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>AND, but for a sudden</p>
<p class="i4">and unforeseen disaster,</p>
<p class="i2">The puppy might have kept</p>
<p class="i8">his resolution to this day.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figleft1">
<img src="images/0151-1-300.jpg" width="300" height="261" alt="PART I." border="0" />
<p class="center"><span class="sc">Part</span> I.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"MOTHER! from this moment,</p>
<p class="i4">behold me, my own master!</p>
<p class="i2">Yes, madam, I am old enough.</p>
<p class="i8">I mean just what I say."</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<br clear="all" /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="bell" id="bell"></a>
<h2>THE STICKLEBACK BELL-RINGERS.</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By C. F. Holder</span>.</h4>
<p>
A certain pond in the country was once peopled
with a number of turtles, frogs, and fishes which I
came to consider my pets, and which at last grew so
tame that I fed them from my hands. Among
them, however, were four or five little sticklebacks
that lived under the shade of a big willow, and
these were so quarrelsome that I generally fed
them apart from the rest. But sometimes all met,
and then the feast usually was ended by the death
of a minnow. For, shocking to say, whenever there
was a dispute for the food, some one of the little
fishes was almost sure to be devoured by the hungry
sticklebacks.</p>
<p>
These stickleback-and-minnow combats, after a<a name="page32" id="page32"></a><span class="left">[page 32]</span>
while, came to be of daily occurrence, and the reason
for this was a singular one, which I must explain.</p>
<div class="figleft">
<img src="images/0152-343.jpg" width="343" height="600" alt="THE STICLEBACK BELL-RINGERS." border="0" />
</div>
<p>
Under the willow shade, and from one of the
branches, I had hung a miniature "belfry," containing
a tiny brass bell, and had led the string into
the water, letting it go down to a considerable depth.
At first, I tied bait at intervals upon the line, and
the sticklebacks, of course, seized upon it, and thus
rang the bell. Generally the ringing was done in a
very grave and proper way, although sometimes, when
the bait was too tightly tied, the quick peals sounded like
a call to a fire.</p><br style="line-height: 12%" />
<p>
I generally fed them first, about twenty feet up
the bank; but one morning I found one or two
had followed me down to the residence of the
stickleback family. They met with a rude reception,
however, and, to avoid making trouble, the
next day I went to the willow first. But no sooner
had the bell begun to ring, than I saw a lot of ripples
coming down, and in a second the two factions
were in mortal combat. The sticklebacks were fighting
not only for breakfast, but for their nests, which
were near by; and they made sad work of the poor
minnows, who, though smart in some things, did
not know when they were whipped, and so kept up
the fight, though losing one of their number nearly
every morning. The bell now and then rang violently,
but I fear it was only sounding an appeal
from a voracious stickleback
whose appetite had
got the better of his rage.</p>
<p>
So it went on every
morning. The minnows
had learned what the bell
meant, and though usually
defeated in the fight, they
in reality had their betters
as servants to ring the bell
and call them to meals.
Finally, they succeeded,
by force of great numbers,
in driving away their pugnacious
little rivals, and
the bell hung silent; for,
strange to say, they knew
what the sound meant, but
I could never teach them
to ring it, when they could
rise and steal the worm
from my hand without.
But I am inclined to think
it was more laziness than
inability to learn, as they
afterward picked up readily
some much more difficult
tricks. I taught them to leap from the water into
my hand, and lie as if dead; and having arranged
a slide of polished wood upon the bank, by placing<a name="page33" id="page33"></a><span class="left">[page 33]</span>
worms upon it I soon had them leaping out and
sliding down like so many boys coasting in the
winter. That they afterward did it for amusement
I know, as I often watched them unobserved when
there was nothing to attract but the fun of sliding.
This kind of amusement is not uncommon with
many other animals, particularly seals, which delight
in making "slides" on the icy shores.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="cricket" id="cricket"></a>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/0154-1-600.jpg" width="600" height="463" alt="THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH." border="0" />
</div>
<h2>THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH.</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates</span>.</h4>
<table width="100%" align="center" border="0" summary="poem">
<tr>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem2">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Old Granny Cricket's rocking-chair,</p>
<p class="i2">Creakety-creak, creakety-creak!—</p>
<p>Back and forth, and here and there,</p>
<p class="i2">Squeakety-squeak, squeakety-squeak!—</p>
<p>On the hearth-stone, every night,</p>
<p class="i2">Rocks and rocks in the cheery light.</p>
<p>Little old woman, dressed in black,</p>
<p class="i2">With spindling arms and a crooked back,</p>
<p>She sits with a cap on her wise old head,</p>
<p class="i2">And her eyes are fixed on the embers red;</p>
<p>She does not sing, she does not speak,</p>
<p class="i2">But the rocking-chair goes creakety-creak!</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem2">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Cheerily sounds the rocking-chair,</p>
<p class="i2">Creakety-creak, creakety-creak!—</p>
<p>While it swings in the firelight there,</p>
<p class="i2">Squeakety-squeak, squeakety-squeak!</p>
<p>Old Granny Cricket, rocking, rocking,</p>
<p class="i2">Knits and knits on a long black stocking.</p>
<p>No matter how swiftly her fingers fly,</p>
<p class="i2">She never can keep her family,</p>
<p>With their legs so long from foot to knee,</p>
<p class="i2">Stockinged as well as they ought to be;</p>
<p>That's why, at night, week after week,</p>
<p class="i2">Her rocking-chair goes squeakety-squeak!</p>
</div>
</div>
</td></tr></table>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page34" id="page34"></a><span class="left">[page 34]</span>
<h2>HOW I WEIGHED THE THANKSGIVING TURKEY.</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By G. M. Shaw</span>.</h4>
<p>
"Here, sir! Please take this bird around to
Albro's, and see how much it weighs."</p>
<p>
The idea! What would the folks over the way
say, to see the "professor" walking out with a big
turkey under his arm? That was the way the
thing presented itself to the good-natured college-student
acting as private tutor in the family. But
Mrs. Simpson, the portly and practical housewife,
had no such idea of the fitness of things.</p>
<p>
It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the
farmer who had agreed to supply her with a turkey
had brought it, but had not weighed it, and, of
course, they could not agree on its weight, all of
which ended in the startling proposition with which
we began.</p>
<p>
"Well, if you aint the laziest man——! Just as
though it was going to hurt you any to take this
bird to the corner and back!" she went on, as she
saw me looking, apparently, for a hole to crawl
into, but, in reality, for the broom, which, when I
found, I made use of in putting into execution a plan
I had formed for weighing the turkey at home.</p>
<p>
I hung the broom-handle to the gas-jet by a wire
loop, and slid it along in the loop until it balanced.
By this time all were curious to see what I was about.</p>
<p>
I then fixed a wire to the turkey's feet and hooked
it so that it would slide on the broom-handle. Next
I got a flat-iron and fixed it in the same way.
When the broom was nicely balanced, I hung the
turkey on the broom end of the stick, two inches
from the balancing loop. Then I hung the flat-iron
on the other side, and shoved it along until it
balanced the turkey. Next I measured the distances
of the turkey and flat-iron from the balancing
loop, and found that the turkey hung two inches
and the flat-iron eight inches from the balancing
loop. That was all. I had found the weight of
the turkey, and told them: Twenty-four pounds.</p>
<p>
"Do you s'pose I'm going to believe all that
tomfoolery? It doesn't weigh more'n twenty, I
know. Here, Maggie! Take this out and ask
Albro to weigh it for you."</p>
<p>
"I'm blamed if he hasn't hit it about right,"
said the farmer who had brought the turkey.
"How did you find out?"</p>
<p>
"Well, you see," said I, "the flat-iron has a
figure 6 on it; that shows that it weighs six pounds.
Now, if the turkey had not weighed more than the
flat-iron they would have balanced each other at
the same distance from the balancing loop; but
the turkey was the heavier, so I had to move the
flat-iron out further. At the same distance from
the loop as the turkey (two inches), the flat-iron
pulled six pounds' weight, and at every addition of
that distance it would pull six pounds more. Thus:
at four inches it pulled twelve pounds; at six inches,
eighteen pounds; and at eight inches, twenty-four
pounds. At that distance it just balanced the
turkey, thus proving that it weighed——"</p>
<p>
"Well, Maggie, what does Albro say?"</p>
<p>
"Twenty-four poun', mum," replied Maggie,
coming in.</p>
<p>
"Well, I give up," said Mrs. Simpson; and she
did, and so do I—till next time.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="melon" id="melon"></a>
<h2>NIMBLE JIM AND THE MAGIC MELON</h2>
<h4><span class="sc">By J. A. Judson</span>.</h4>
<p>
Once upon a time, in a snug little cottage by a
brook under a hill, lived an old widow and her only
child. She was a tidy, pleasant-faced dame, was
"Old Mother Growser;" and as to her boy, there
wasn't a brighter lad of his age in all the village.
His real name was James, but he had always been
so spry and handy that when he was a little bit of
a chap the neighbors called him "Nimble Jim."
At work in the cottage garden, or at play on the
village green, even at his books and slate, he was
ever the same industrious, active "Nimble Jim,"
and always a comfort to his mother.</p>
<p>
His father had been the village cobbler, and when
he died the folks said: "Who'll mend our shoes
now, and auld Jamie gone?"</p>
<p>
Then up sprang the boy, saying: "I'll mend
them, now father's dead."</p>
<p>
The simple folks laughed at him. "Hoot! toot!
lad," said they; "ye canna mend shoes!"</p>
<p>
But he answered bravely: "Am I not fifteen<a name="page35" id="page35"></a><span class="left">[page 35]</span>
years old, and e'en a'most a mon? Haven't I all
father's tools? Haven't I seen him do it day after
day ever since I was a wee boy? It's time I was
doing something besides jobbin' and runnin' and
pretendin' to work! I may take to th' auld bench,
and e'en get my father's place among ye in time,
so I be good enough. Mother canna allus be
a-spinnin', spinnin', spinnin'. The poor old eyes
are growing dim a'ready,"—and Jim gently stroked
her thin gray hair.</p>
<p>
"Ye're a brave darlin', and my own handy
Nimble Jim," said the fond mother, smilingly.</p>
<p>
"Ah, well, boy," the neighbors said, "be about
it if ye will, for there's no cobbler hereabout now,
and the shoes must be mended. But ye'll do the
work fairly, mind, or we'll no' pay ye a penny!"</p>
<p>
"I'll try my best, and bide your good favor,
neighbors," was Jim's cheery answer.</p>
<p>
And so he succeeded to his father's old bench by
the window, the lap-stone and hammer and awl;
and as he waxed his thread and stitched away,
singing the old songs, the country folks passing by
would listen, look at each other, smile and nod
approvingly, or say:</p>
<p>
"Hark to that, friend! One might think auld
Jamie back again, with the whack o' the hammer
and the blithe song, though the voice ben't so
crackit like as th' auld one."</p>
<p>
"Aye, it's a bit clearer, but no happier. Auld
cobbler Jamie was a merry soul," says one.</p>
<p>
"And the lad'll prove worthy his father, I warrant.
Listen to the turn of that song, now; I've
heard Jamie singin' it many a day," says another.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Whack! whack! thump-pet-ty crack!</p>
<p>In go the shoe-nails with many a smack.</p>
<p>Zu! zu! pull the thread through;</p>
<p>Soon will the shoe be, done, master, for you!</p>
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Nay! nay! there's nothin' to pay,</p>
<p>If it is not mended as good as I say.</p>
<p>I do my work honestly—that is the thing;</p>
<p>Then Jamie the cobbler's as good as the king!"</p></div>
</div>
</div>
<p>
And the folks passed on, or stopped to leave
shoes to mend.</p>
<p>
Jim prospered in the old stall, and they called
him "Nimble Jim, the Cobbler," for soon he was
fairly installed as cobbler to the whole country-side.
He was happy, and his old mother was happy, and
proud, too, of the success of her boy, who was the
light of her home and the joy of her heart.</p>
<p>
All day Jim worked away at his bench. Winter
evenings he read his few books by the firelight; in
the cool of the summer days, or in the early mornings,
he busied himself in the little garden. His
vegetables were his pride, and for miles around no
one had so trim a garden-patch, or so many good
things in it, as Nimble Jim.</p>
<p>
Only one kind of all his plants failed to come
to anything,—his melon-vines,—and these always
failed. This began to grieve him sorely, for he
was fond of melons; and, besides, he thought if he
could only raise fine ones, he might sell them for a
deal of money, like gruff, rich old Farmer Hummidge.</p>
<p>
"Oh dear! my melons don't grow like other
folkses. They don't come up at all, or if they do
they wither or spindle away," he said, losing his
temper, and tearing up some of the vines by the
roots. Then he went into the cottage, angrily,
and began to pound away, driving in big hob-nails.
With the twilight, his mother called him to the
simple meal, but he was sullen and silent.</p>
<p>
"What be the matter with ye, my Nimble Jim?"
asked the good dame, cheerily.</p>
<p>
"Matter enough, mother! My melons wont
grow; there's somethin' the matter with them.
Faith, I believe some imp has cast a spell over 'em.
I do, mother," quoth he, thumping the table with
his fist until the dishes rattled.</p>
<p>
"Softly, softly, boy! Where's thy good nature
gone?" said Mother Growser, staring at him in
wonder.</p>
<p>
"It be well enough to say 'Softly, softly,'" said
he, "and I don't want to grieve ye, mother; but
it's naught with me but hammer, stitch, dig,—hammer,
stitch, dig,—the day in, the day out,
when I might be raisin' fine melons and sellin' 'em
for mints of gold in the great city. Yea, mother,
sellin' 'em e'en to the king and queen and all the
grand lords and ladies at the court, like old Farmer
Hummidge."</p>
<p>
For almost the first time in his life Jim was unhappy.</p>
<p>
"I would you had your wish, Nimble Jim; but
then we've a neat bit garden besides the melons;
and the home is snug, and you're a good boy and
the best o' cobblers. Can't you be happy with
that, my lad?"</p>
<p>
But Nimble Jim shook his head, for the spirit of
discontent had taken possession of him.</p>
<p>
Now, for many days, Nimble Jim neglected his
cobbling and let the weeds grow in his garden,
while he moodily watched his melons as they
withered away. Soon he came to idle about them
in the evening, too, until, one bright moonlight
night, as he was grieving over the wretched, scraggy
vines, he heard a tiny, silvery voice quite near him
cry, tauntingly:</p>
<p>
"Hello, Nimble Jim! How are your melons?"</p>
<p>
Jim would have been very angry at such a question
could he have seen anybody to be angry with;
but, though he looked and looked with all his eyes,
not a soul could he see.</p>
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/0156-1.jpg">
<img src="images/0156-1-250.jpg" width="250" height="352" alt="THE ELFIN QUEEN" border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">
THE ELFIN QUEEN
</p></div>
<p>
"Hello, Nimble Jim! How are your melons?
Ha, ha, ha! Melons! melons! Ha, ha, ha!"
<a name="page36" id="page36"></a><span class="left">[page 36]</span>
And the sweet little voice sang, in a merry, mocking
strain:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i4">"Nice sweet melons!</p>
<p class="i4">Round ripe melons!</p>
<p>Nimble Jim likes them, I know.</p>
<p class="i4">Mean sour melons,</p>
<p class="i4">Crooked green melons,</p>
<p>Nimble Jim only can grow!</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>
Ha, ha, ha! How are your melons, Nimble Jim?"</p>
<p>
"Who are you? What
are you? Where are you?"
cried Jim, hardly knowing
whether to be angry,
amused, or frightened.</p>
<p>
"You ask a good many
questions at once, don't
you?" said the silvery
voice. "<i>Who</i> am I? <i>What</i>
am I? <i>Where</i> am I? Eh!
I'm the Queen of the Elfs,"
said her tiny majesty, "and
if you look sharply you'll
see where I am."</p>
<p>
Just then a moonbeam
streaming through the
trees overhead fell across
his path, and, dancing up
and down on it, he saw
the tiny elfin queen,—a
lovely little creature with
long, bright, wavy hair,
and glittering garments
fluttering in the breeze,
wings like a butterfly, a
mischievous smile on her
face, and in her hand a
wee wand tipped with a star. But the brightest
thing about her was the twinkle that played hide-and-seek
in her eye.</p>
<p>
Nimble Jim took off his hat and made a low bow.</p>
<p>
"Now, what is all this about?—and why are you
neglecting your work, sir?" demanded she, sternly.</p>
<p>
Jim trembled beneath her royal gaze, little as
she was, and replied humbly:</p>
<p>
"May it please your majesty, I wish I'd some
melon-seeds that'd grow like magic. I am dead
tired of being nothin' but a cobbler. I want to
be a melon-merchant, and raise the finest, largest
melons ever seen,—supply the whole kingdom with
them, and grow to be as rich as the king himself."</p>
<p>
"Oh, you do, do you?" she answered, laughing
her merry little laugh, and capering up and down
the moonbeam. "Oh! quite a modest youth!
Well, I'll make a bargain with you; and if you
will do something for me, you shall have your
wish," said the queen.</p>
<p>
Nimble Jim was about to pour out his gratitude,
when she interrupted him, saying: "Now, Nimble
Jim, listen to me. Your wish is a foolish one, and
I warn you that if you gain it you will be sorry.
Why will you not be content as you are?"</p>
<p>
"Your majesty," replied the obstinate youth. "I
<i>cannot</i> be content as I am."</p>
<p>
"Well, since you insist on having your own
way, we'll make our bargain. Here,"—and, sitting
down on the moonbeam, she pulled off a shoe,—"here,
sir, I want you to
mend my shoe. I tripped
just now on a rough
place in this moonbeam.
Mend the rip; show me
you are a good cobbler,
and I promise that you
shall have your wish."</p>
<p>
"But, your majesty,"
began Nimble Jim, taking
the shoe, which was no
bigger than a bean, "I
can't sew such a little shoe;
my fingers are ——"</p>
<p>
"There, there! Stop!
I'm a queen, and people
don't say 'can't' or 'wont'
to me, sir," interrupted
her majesty, with much
dignity. "Take the shoe,
and find a way to mend
it. I will come for it to-morrow
night at this same
place and hour," and off
she went up the moonbeam,
half skipping, half
flying, while Jim stood
stupidly staring until she had entirely disappeared.
Then he began, slowly: "Well,—I—never—in—all—my—life—saw—such—a——"</p>
<p>
He said no more, but went in, and sat up all
night, thinking how and where he could find needle
and thread fine enough to do such a piece of cobbling
as this. About dawn a thought struck him.
His mother thought he had gone crazy when she
saw him chasing bees and pulling down spider-webs.
Hours and hours he worked, and though
his fingers were big, they were nimble, like his
name; so, by and by, with a needle made of a
bee's sting and thread drawn from a spider-web, he
sewed up the rip in her fairy majesty's dainty shoe.</p>
<p>
He hardly could wait for the hour of meeting,
but went into the garden, with the shoe in his
hand, long before the time. At length, the queen
came sliding down the moonbeam, laughing and
singing:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
"Hello, Nimble Jim! How are your melons?"
</div>
</div>
<p>
But he was not angry now; he only laughed
respectfully, made a profound bow, and said:</p>
<a name="page37" id="page37"></a><span class="left">[page 37]</span>
<p>
"May it please your majesty, I have mended
your majesty's shoe."</p>
<p>
The merry little queen took it from him, looked
at it closely, saying to herself: "Humph! I didn't
think he could, but he did,"—and, turning to Jim,
said, much more graciously than before: "I suppose
you think yourself quite a cobbler; and so you
are—for a mortal. Since you have done your work
so well, I will do as I said. Now," she continued,
handing him a little package about as big as a baby's
thumb, "plant these melon-seeds, and——"</p>
<p>
"Are these little things melon seeds? They
look too small," interrupted Jim,—for he had made
no ceremony, even in the queen's presence, about
peeping into the package,—and it must be confessed
that they were very small indeed.</p>
<p>
"Certainly they are, or I would not tell you so.
They are the magic melons of fairy-land. As I
was about to say when you rudely interrupted,
plant——"</p>
<p>
"I beg your pardon, your majes——"</p>
<p>
"<i>Will</i> you keep still? Was there <i>ever</i> such a
chatterbox!" said she. "I say, plant these melon-seeds
to-morrow at sunrise, and you will have your
wish, foolish boy." And, while Jim was thinking
of melons and wealth, she skipped away up the
moonbeam, singing:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Nimble Jim is quite demented,—</p>
<p class="i2">Wants to be a melon-king!</p>
<p>Silly mortal! not contented</p>
<p class="i2">With the riches home-joys bring!</p>
<p class="i6">Oh! ho!</p>
<p class="i6">Oh! ho!</p>
<p>He will be sorry to-morrow;</p>
<p>To-morrow will bring only sorrow."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>
But Nimble Jim heeded her not. This night
also he could not close his eyes, and in the early
morning he hastened to tell his mother their good
fortune. She looked grave, and said:</p>
<p>
"Ah, my lad! I'd rather you minded the cobbler's
bench, nor trafficked with fairies. I fear me
they're uncanny folks to deal with."</p>
<p>
"Never fear, mother; we'll be rich yet, and I'll
make you a queen yourself, and then you need
spin no more," said Jim, wild with hope and excitement.</p>
<p>
"I don't mind the spinnin', my boy. I'd rather
be——".</p>
<p>
Jim heard no more, for he dashed off at once to
the garden to plant his precious seeds just at sunrise.
With furious energy, he tore up all his old<a name="page38" id="page38"></a><span class="left">[page 38]</span>
vines, flung them over the fence, and, after that,
spaded up the melon-bed with the greatest care.
Then he opened the paper and poured the magical
seeds into his hand.</p>
<p>
There were only <i>four</i>—four wee seeds, each no
bigger than a pin's head! His first impulse was
to fling them away in wrath, for he thought such
little things couldn't possibly make as big a fortune
as he wanted. But then he reflected, "Fairies are
little, so I suppose their seeds are little, too. I'll
try them, anyhow." And with that he put them in
the ground and carefully covered them.</p>
<p>
In an instant, the ground burst open in four
places, and up shot four sturdy melon-vines, that
grew east, west, north, south!</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/045-600.jpg" width="600" height="441" alt="THE YARD WAS FULL OF MELON-VINE" border="0" />
<p class="center">"BEFORE NIMBLE JIM COULD GET BACK TO THE HOUSE, THE YARD WAS FULL OF MELON-VINE."</p>
</div>
<p>
Grew? No! they raced, they tore, they dashed
through the country far and wide! In no time,
before Nimble Jim could get back to the house
door, the whole yard was full of melon-vine, and
one great big melon, bigger than the cottage itself,
blocked the door-way.</p>
<p>
"Oh! oh! oh!" roared Jim. "What <i>have</i> I
done? What <i>shall</i> I do?" And with his spade
he cut a hole through the melon. It took him a
whole hour, and when he got into the house he
found that his poor mother had fainted from fright.</p>
<p>
And all the time the vine and melons kept growing—east,
west, north, south.</p>
<p>
Nimble Jim was frantic!</p>
<p>
But the vines didn't mind Jim. On they went,
growing like mad, a mile a minute, faster than any
railroad train. The big arms filled up the main
roads; the smaller ones crammed themselves into
the lanes and by-paths, while the tendrils embraced
the tall trees, the houses, and the church steeples,
and snarled up everything. The leaves grew so
large, thick and green that they covered the whole
face of the country, shutting out the sun from the
fields so the crops couldn't grow; and the whole
kingdom became so dark from the awful shade of
Nimble Jim's magic melon-vine, that the people
had to burn candles day and night.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/046-600.jpg" width="600" height="177" alt="THE MAGIC MELON OVERRUNS THE COUNTRY." border="0" />
<p class="center">THE MAGIC MELON OVERRUNS THE COUNTRY.</p>
</div>
<p>
It grew like mad. On! on! Stem, branch,
leaf, tendril, fruit—on, on it went! The melons
grew—great, round, smooth, rich, ripe, juicy melons,
as big as houses—at the cross-roads, on the
roads, in the fields, filling barn-yards and door-yards
so people and cattle couldn't pass, or go in
or out, till they had eaten their way through the
melons, or got ladders and climbed over, or dug
trenches and crawled under! On, on it went, surrounding
the king's palaces and choking up his
forts! Down, down it grew into the brooks and
rivers, and out into the king's harbors, where the
tendrils seized and wound about his ships of war
riding at anchor, and climbed up the masts, while
melons grew on the decks till the vessels sank to
the bottom! It choked up and drank up all the
rivers and lakes in the kingdom, or dammed them
up so the waters overflowed the land, drowning
people and cattle, and sweeping away houses and
barns!</p>
<p>
On, on it grew—melons, melons everywhere!
Ruin and starvation stared the nation in the face;
while poor, poor Nimble Jim, hid within the rind
of the melon he had dug out, shivered, cried and
bewailed his folly.</p>
<p>
"I'll be killed! I'll be killed! The people
will murder me!" he shrieked. But no one of
them all save his mother knew he had had anything
to do with bringing on the dire calamity
that had befallen the kingdom.</p>
<p>
Then some of the people proposed: "Let us go
immediately to our king, and ask him to make a
law that the vine shall stop growing ere it ruin us
forever."</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/048-450.jpg" width="450" height="467" alt="MAKING AN ENTRANCE FOR THE KING THROUGH THE MELON IN FRONT OF THE PALACE GATE." border="0" />
<p class="center">MAKING AN ENTRANCE FOR THE KING THROUGH THE MELON IN FRONT OF THE PALACE GATE.</p>
</div>
<p>
But when they had eaten and hewed their way to
the palace, they found the king had gone to count
his soldiers; and while he was gone the vine came
galloping along, and an enormous melon grew and
blocked up the palace gate. So they had to help
the king and his guards force their way through to
the hall of audience.</p>
<p>
When they all were in, and the king had wiped<a name="page39" id="page39"></a><span class="left">[page 39]</span>
the melon-juice off his robes and crown, and was
fairly seated on his throne, surrounded by his
guards and courtiers, the trumpets sounded, drums
beat, banners waved, and the people fell on their
knees and said:</p>
<p>
"O mighty king! We, thy liege subjects, have
come to tell thee of the ruin and desolation this
fearful vine maketh in all thy great kingdom, and
to entreat thy majesty to enact a law forbidding
it to grow any more, and commanding it to wither
away."</p>
<p>
"Alas!" answered the troubled king, "what
can I do? No law of mine can stop this awful
thing. It is an enchanted vine sent to torment us.
Hear me, my people! Proclaim it, ye my heralds!
I pledge my kingly word to give up my crown and
kingdom, and change places with any one of my
subjects who will wither and instantly sweep away
this direful vine. I, your king, am as helpless as a
child to stop it."</p>
<p>
And the king, who was a good old man, shed
tears for the misery of his people, and commanded
the queen and all the court to dress themselves in
mourning and fast night and day.</p>
<p>
The people got home as best they could, and
each fell to thinking how he could stop the vine
and so be king. Even Nimble Jim heard of this.
So, every night, he watched, hoping to see the
elfin queen. At last she came, as before, on her
moonbeam footpath, saying: "Hello, Nimble Jim!
How are your melons by this time?"</p>
<p>
But he was in no mood to be facetious now. He
only said, humbly:</p>
<p>
"May it please your majesty, what can I do to
stop the growth of this horrible vine, and instantly
sweep it from the face of the earth? Help me, I
beg your gracious majesty!"—and Jim knelt before
her.</p>
<p>
"Ha, ha! Nimble Jim don't seem to like melons!
I told you you'd be sorry," laughed the
little elfin queen. "I suppose you still want to
be as rich as the king? Or perhaps you would
like to be the king himself?" said she, tauntingly.</p>
<p>
"Of course I would, your majesty," said Jim,
"if the vine can only be stopped."</p>
<p>
"You are a very good cobbler, Nimble Jim,"
she answered, "and since you mended my shoe so
nicely, and as the king has promised to exchange
with any one who will wither and destroy the vine,
and as you might as well be king as another (and
as you need a good lesson," said she to herself),
"I give you the means to do it all!"</p>
<p>
And the tiny queen pulled off the mended shoe,
and cried: "Here, you silly boy! Take this and
run to the palace. Once there, you need touch but
a tendril with this magic shoe, and the vine will
wither and disappear, and the crown and kingdom
will be yours. I wish you joy of both. Good-bye!
You will learn contentment yet, poor Jim, I hope,"
she added, as he ran out of hearing, with the
precious little shoe in his hand.</p>
<p>
Leaving his poor mother behind, for he had forgotten
all about her during these days, Jim set off
for the palace. It was a long, hard journey, on
account of the melon-vines, that not only blocked
the road, but even chased him. Many a narrow
escape had he from being crushed to death in the
embrace of some young tendril that would shoot
out, wriggling and writhing toward him like a great
green serpent.</p>
<p>
At length, he arrived at the palace gate, which
in old times was marble, but now was only a hole
that had been cut through a melon.</p>
<p>
"Halt! Who goes there!" shouted a sentinel,
thrusting his spear in front of Jim's panting breast.</p>
<p>
"It's only Nimble Jim, the Cobbler. I want to
see the king," said the boy.</p>
<p>
"Be off, you fellow!" shouted the sentry. "Our
noble king don't hob-nob with cobblers! Be off, I
say, or——" And he shook his spear at our hero
ominously.</p>
<p>
"Hold, there!" shouted the king himself, straining
out of a window to look between the melon-leaves.
"Hold, I say! What do you want, young
cobbler?"</p>
<p>
"I want your crown and kingdom, sire," boldly
answered Jim. "I've heard of the new law, and
I'll stop the melon-vine."</p>
<p>
"Let him pass, guards," shouted the king;
"and send him hither."</p>
<p>
A little page dressed in black led Jim to the
throne-room. The king and his court no longer
blazed in gold and jewels. Black covered everybody
and everything, even the golden throne itself,
and grief and dismay were on all faces.</p>
<p>
Then said the king, in a hollow tone: "What
know you of this vine? Speak!"</p>
<p>
And Jim, tremblingly, told the whole story.</p>
<p>
"Wicked boy!" groaned the king. "You well
deserve punishment for the ruin you have brought
on the land. But I have passed my royal word,
and you shall try to destroy the vine. If you succeed,
bad as you are, you then will be the king and
I the cobbler. But if you fail, you shall be put
where you shall have nothing but melons to eat for
the rest of your days. Guards, take him away!"</p>
<p>
That night, before the king and queen and all
the assembled court, when the moon was fairly
risen, Nimble Jim touched with the toe of the
magic shoe the end of a tendril that was running
rapidly up a tower.</p>
<p>
In an instant, every vestige of the vine vanished
throughout all the palace grounds; and in the
morning the people all over the country shouted<a name="page40" id="page40"></a><span class="left">[page 40]</span>
for joy and cried with one voice: "Let us all go up
to the coronation, for to-day we have a new king
who has delivered us from the horrible vine."</p>
<p>
And on they came, in hordes, till the capital was
full and the country about the palace was one vast
camp, while throughout the kingdom not a trace
of the vine was to be seen.</p>
<p>
Then the nobles and prelates prepared for the
coronation. It was magnificent. They girt Jim
with the sword of state, clothed him in the imperial
robes, placed the scepter in his hand, and, as the
golden crown descended upon his head, all the
people shouted:</p>
<p>
"Hail, King Nimblejimble, our deliverer! Long
live the king!"</p>
<p>
And the silly boy was happy.</p>
<p>
Meanwhile, the poor, faithful old king, who
cheerfully had given up all for his people, was
hammering and stitching and digging away on
Jim's cobbler-bench off in the village; and Jim's
mother, whom the naughty boy, in his strange
elevation, had forgotten all about, tenderly cared
for the humbled old monarch.</p>
<p>
Before long, the elfin queen saw how patient the
old king and Jim's mother were, and how badly
Nimble Jim was behaving now he was king, for he
was given up to all sorts of wickedness and tyranny,
was fast becoming hated by every one, and himself
was beginning to see that he was not nearly so
happy as he had been while he was a cobbler.</p>
<p>
Jim was really good at heart, only his unreasonable
discontent with his lot had got him into all<a name="page41" id="page41"></a><span class="left">[page 41]</span>
this misery. At last, he began to repent, and, one
moonlight night when he was walking alone on the
palace terrace, he said:</p>
<p>
"I wish I could see that little elfin queen, and I
would ask her to let me go back home again."</p>
<p>
"Well, here I am!" said the silvery voice; and,
sitting on a moonbeam beside him, there she was.
"Tired of being king, Jim?" she asked.</p>
<p>
"Yes, your majesty, indeed I am," he replied.</p>
<p>
"Want any more melons, Jim?" said she,
laughing.</p>
<p>
"No, no, no!" groaned Jim. "No more!"</p>
<p>
"How is your mother, Jim?" asked her majesty.</p>
<p>
"Alas! I don't know,"—and he hung his head
in shame.</p>
<p>
"Are you ready to go and see her, Jim?" she
asked, gently. "And will you be contented now?"</p>
<p>
"Yes, yes!" was his eager reply.</p>
<p>
Now, the old king had been mending shoes all
day, and was at this moment resting in the cottage
porch, when, suddenly, he was whisked away on a
cloud and landed in his palace again. His crown
was popped on his head, and the scepter thrust in
his hand, while his old chamberlain tenderly tucked
him up in bed.</p>
<p>
At the same instant, another cloud brought back
Nimble Jim to his bench and his faithful mother,
who at once made him some oat-meal porridge
without a murmur or word of reproach.</p>
<p>
"There!" said the elfin queen to herself. "That
boy is cured of his silly notions."</p>
<p>
"Mother, I think I don't care much for melons.
I wont plant any more," said Jim next morning.</p>
<p>
"I don't like 'em myself, lad," said the mother.
"I'd a deal rather you'd stick to the bench, like
your auld father."</p>
<p>
"I will, mother dear," answered Nimble Jim.
And he is mending shoes there to this day, as
happy as happy can be.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="lady-girl" id="lady-girl"></a>
<div class="figcenter1" style="width: 40%;">
<img src="images/049-400.jpg" width="400" height="362" alt="MAMMA'S LADY-GIRL" border="0" />
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i4">"Oh! I'm my mamma's lady-girl</p>
<p class="i4">And I must sit quite still;</p>
<p class="i4">It would not do to jump and whirl,</p>
<p class="i4">And get my hair all out of curl,</p>
<p class="i4">And rumple up my frill.</p>
<p class="i4">No, I'm my mamma's lady-girl,</p>
<p class="i4">So I must sit quite still."</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page42" id="page42"></a><span class="left">[page 42]</span>
<h2>A BUDGET OF HOME-MADE CHRISTMAS GIFTS.</h2><br /><br />
<a name="II1r" id="II1r"></a>
<h4><span class="sc">Hints for Girls and Boys, Little and Big</span>.<a href="#II1"><sup>1</sup></a></h4>
<div class="figleft">
<a href="images/050a.jpg"><img src="images/050a-100.jpg" width="100" height="104" alt="W" border="0" /></a>
</div>
<br /><br />
<p>
HO is it that every year invents the thousand-and-one
new and pretty things which hang on Christmas-trees,
and stuff the toes of Christmas stockings?
Who is it that has so wise and watchful an eye
for the capacities of little people, and the tastes of
bigger ones, providing for each, planning for tiny
purses with almost nothing in them, as well as
for fat wallets stuffed with bank-bills, and suggesting
something which can be made, accepted
and enjoyed by everybody, large and small, all the
wide world over? Who can it be that possesses
this inexhaustible fertility of invention and kindness
of heart? No ordinary human being, you may be
sure. Not Father Santa Claus! He has enough
to do with distributing the presents after they are
made; besides, fancy-work is not in a man's line,—not
even a saint's! But what so likely as that he
should have a mate, and that it is to her we are
indebted for all this? What an immense work-basket
Mother Santa Claus's must be! What a
glancing thimble and swift needle and thread!
Can't you imagine her throwing aside her scissors
and spool-bag to help the dear saint "tackle up"
and load the sledge? And who knows but she sits
behind as he drives over the roofs of the universe
on the blessed eve, and holds the reins while Santa
Claus dispenses to favored chimneys the innumerable
pretty things which he and she have chuckled
over together months and months before the rest
of us knew anything about them?</p>
<p>
This is not a fact. It can't be proved in any way,
for none of us knows anything about the Santa
Clauses or their abode. There is no telegraphing,
or writing to the selectmen of their town to inquire
about them; they haven't even a post-office address.
But admitting it to be a fiction, it is surely
a pleasant one; so, as the children say, "Let's
play that it is true," and proceed to see what
Mother Santa Claus has in her basket for us this
year. We will first pull out some easy things for the
benefit of little beginners who are not yet up to all
the tricks of the needle; then some a little harder
for the more advanced class; and, at bottom of all,
big girls not afraid to dive will find plenty of elaborate
designs suited to their taste and powers.</p>
<p>
Here, to begin with, is something nice for papa's
pocket:</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Postage-Stamp Holder</span>.</h4>
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/050b.jpg"><img src="images/050b-200.jpg" width="200" height="270" alt="STAMP HOLDER" border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A POSTAGE-STAMP HOLDER.</p>
</div>
<p>
Cut two pieces of perforated board, or of stiff
morocco, two inches long by one and a half wide,
and stitch them together, leaving one end open.
If you choose the board, a little border in cat-stitch
or feather-stitch should be worked before putting
the pieces together, and, if you like, an initial in the
middle of one side. If the morocco is chosen, an
initial in colored silk will be pretty, and the edges
should be bound with narrow ribbon, and over-handed
together.</p>
<p>
Cut two other pieces of the material a quarter of
an inch smaller than the first. Bind the morocco
with ribbon. Make a fastening at one end with a ribbon
loop; place the stamps between the two, and slip the
little envelope thus filled into the outer case, the open end
down. It fits so snugly that it will not fall out in the
pocket, and is easily drawn forth by means of the loop
when papa wants to get at his stamps.</p>
<p>
A letter-case for papa's other pocket: This can
be made either of morocco, oiled silk, or rubber
cloth. Cut an envelope-shaped piece, about an
inch larger all round than an ordinary letter envelope.
Bind the edges, work an initial on one side,
and for a fastening use a loop of elastic braid.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Sand-Bags for Windows</span>.</h4>
<p>
These are capital presents for grandmammas
whose windows rattle in winter weather and let cold
air in between the sashes. You must measure the
window, and cut in stout cotton cloth a bag just as
long as the sash is wide, and about four inches
across. Stitch this all round, leaving one end<a name="page43" id="page43"></a><span class="left">[page 43]</span>
open, and stuff it firmly with fine, dry sand. Sew
up the open end, and slip the bag into an outer
case of bright scarlet flannel, made just a trifle
larger than the inner one, so that it may go in
easily. Lay the sand-bag over the crack between
the two sashes, and on cold nights, when you are
asleep, grandmamma will rejoice in the little giver
of such a comfortable bulwark against the wind.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Rack for Tooth-Brushes, in Rustic-Work</span>.</h4>
<p>
This is very simple, but it is pretty as well. Cut
two straight spruce twigs, each having two or three
little branches projecting upward at an angle of
forty-five degrees. These twigs must be as much
alike in shape as possible. Place them six inches
apart; lay two cross-twigs across, as you see them
in the picture, and tie the corners with fine wire,
or fasten them with tiny pins. Two diagonal braces
will add to the strength of the rack. Hang it to
the wall above the wash-stand by a wire or ribbon.
The tooth-brushes rest on the parallel branches.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/051a.jpg"><img src="images/051a-400.jpg" width="400" height="341" alt="A RACK FOR TOOTH-BRUSHES." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A RACK FOR TOOTH-BRUSHES.</p>
</div>
<p>
For further particulars concerning spruce-wood
work, see <span class="sc">St. Nicholas</span>, Vol. III., pp. 114 and 115.</p><br /><br />
<div class="figleft" style="width: 33%;">
<a href="images/051b.jpg"><img src="images/051b-150.jpg" width="150" height="178" alt="MINIATURE HANGING-SHELVES." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">MINIATURE HANGING-SHELVES.
</p>
</div>
<h4><span class="sc">Miniature Hanging-Shelves</span>.</h4>
<p>
Boys who have learned to use their pocket-knives
skillfully may make a very pretty set of
hanging-shelves by taking
three bits of thin wood (the
sides of a cigar-box, for instance),
well smoothed and
oiled, boring a hole in each
corner, and suspending them
with cords, run in, and knotted
underneath each shelf
as in the picture. The wood
should be about eight inches
long by three wide, and the
shelves, small as they are, will be found convenient
for holding many little articles.</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Paper-Cutters</span>.</h4>
<p>
Another idea for these graduates of the knife is
this falchion-shaped paper-cutter. It can be made
of any sort of hard-wood, neatly cut out, rubbed
smooth with sand-paper, and oiled or varnished.
It has the advantage that the materials cost almost
nothing. Suggestions for more elaborate articles
in wood will be given further on.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/051c.jpg"><img src="images/051c-400.jpg" width="400" height="76" alt="A FALCHION-SHAPED PAPER-CUTTER." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A FALCHION-SHAPED PAPER-CUTTER.</p>
</div>
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/051d.jpg"><img src="images/051d-250.jpg" width="250" height="272" alt="A WALL LETTER-HOLDER FOR PAPA." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center"><span class="sc">A WALL LETTER-HOLDER FOR PAPA</span>.
</p>
</div>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Wall Letter-Holder</span>.</h4>
<p>
This is something which quite a little boy could
make. Cut out three pieces of thin wood, a foot
long by six inches wide; smooth and sand-paper
two of them, bore a hole in each corner and in the
middle of one side, and fasten them together with
fine wire, cord, ribbon, or the small brass pins
which are used for holding manuscripts. The
pieces should be held a little apart. Cut one end
of the third piece into some ornamental shape, glue
it firmly to the back of one of the others, and suspend
it from the wall by a hole bored in the top.
It will be found a useful thing to hold letters or
pamphlets. A clever boy could make this much
handsomer by cutting a pattern over the front, or
an initial, or monogram, or name in the middle.
The wood should be oiled or shellacked.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Shoe-Cases</span>.</h4>
<div class="figleft">
<a href="images/052-1.jpg"><img src="images/052-1-300.jpg" width="300" height="126" alt=" A SHOE-CASE FOR TRAVELING." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A SHOE-CASE FOR TRAVELING.</p>
</div><br />
<p>
These cases are meant to take the place of paper
when shoes are to be wrapped up to go in a trunk.
They are made of brown crash, bound with red
worsted braid. One end is pointed so as to turn<a name="page44" id="page44"></a><span class="left">[page 44]</span>
over and button down, or the top has strings over
the braid to tie the mouth up. There should be
three or four made at a time, as each holds but one
pair of shoes; and you will find that mamma or
your unmarried aunts will like them very much.</p>
<br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Skate-Bags</span>.</h4>
<p>
A nice present for a skating boy—and what boy
does not skate?—is a bag made much after the
pattern of the shoe-case just described, only larger
and wider, and of stouter material. Water-proof
cloth or cassimere is best. Sew it very strongly,
and attach a string of wide braid, or a strong elastic
strap, that the bag may be swung over the shoulders.
A big initial letter cut out in red flannel and button-holed
on will make a pretty effect.</p><br /><br />
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/052-3.jpg"><img src="images/052-3-300.jpg" width="300" height="351" alt="A SCALLOP-SHELL ALBUM." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A SCALLOP-SHELL ALBUM.</p>
</div><br /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Scallop-Shell Album</span>.</h4>
<p>
Young folks who are fortunate enough to have a
pair of good-sized scallop-shells (picked up, perhaps,
at the sea-side during the last summer vacation),
can make a very pretty little autograph
album in this way:</p>
<p>
Take a pair of well-mated scallop-shells. Clean
them with brush and soap. When dry, paint them
with the white of egg to bring out the colors, and
let them dry again. Now insert between the shells
a dozen or more pages of writing-paper, cut of the
same shape and size as the shells, and very neatly
scalloped around the edges. Then secure the whole
loosely, as shown in the picture, by means of a
narrow ribbon passed through two holes previously
bored in the shells. Of course, holes also must be
pierced in the sheets of paper to correspond with
those in the shells.</p><br /><br /><br /><br />
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/052-2.jpg"><img src="images/052-2-150.jpg" width="150" height="314" alt="A LITTLE NUN." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A LITTLE NUN.</p>
</div>
<h4><span class="sc">A Little Nun</span>.</h4>
<div class="figleft">
<a href="images/053-1.jpg"><img src="images/053-1-300.jpg" width="300" height="297" alt="DIAGRAMS FOR MAKING THE LITTLE NUN." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">DIAGRAMS FOR MAKING THE LITTLE NUN.</p>
</div>
<p>
This droll figure is cut out in black and white
paper. Fastened at the end of a wide ribbon, it
would make an odd and pretty book-mark. The
black paper should be dull black, though the glossy will
answer if no other can be procured. Fig. 1 of the diagrams
is cut in white, a rosary and cross being put in with pen
and ink, and is folded in the middle by the dotted lines,
the head and arms being afterward folded over, as indicated.
Figs. 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 are cut in black and pasted
into place, leaving a narrow white border to the bonnet,
a mite of white band at the end of the sleeve, and a suggestion
of snowy stocking above the shoe. Fig. 6, cut
double, forms a book, which can be pasted to look
as if held in the hand.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Bean-Bag Cases</span>.</h4>
<p>
Are there any of you who do not know the game
of bean-bags? It is capital exercise for rainy days,
besides being very good fun, and we would advise
all of you who are not familiar with it to make a set
at once. Usually, there are four bags to a set, but
any number of persons from two to eight can play
at bean-bags. Each player holds two, flinging to
his opponent the one in his right hand, and rapidly
shifting the one in his left to the right, so as to
leave the left hand free to catch the bag which is
thrown at him. A set of these bags would be a
nice present for some of you little girls to make for
your small brothers; and there are various ways
of ornamenting the bags gayly and prettily. The
real bags must first be made of stout ticking, over-handed
strongly all round, and filled (not too full)
with white baking-beans. Over these are drawn
covers of flannel, blue or scarlet, and you can work
an initial in white letters or braid on each, or make<a name="page45" id="page45"></a><span class="left">[page 45]</span>
each of the four bags of a different color—yellow,
blue, red, green; anything but black, which is
hard to follow with the eye, or white, which soils
too soon to be desirable.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Baby's Shoes in Cashmere</span>.</h4>
<p>
Babies who can't walk are particularly hard on
their shoes! We once heard of one who "wore
out" nine pairs in two months! In these circumstances,
it seems very desirable to have a home
shoe-maker, and not have to frequent the shops too
often; so we will tell you of an easy kind, which
almost any little sister can make. You must take
an old morocco shoe which fits, and cut out the
shape in paper, first the sole, and then the upper.
Then cut the same shape in merino or cashmere,
line the little sole with Canton flannel or
silk, and bind it with very narrow ribbon.
Line and bind the upper in the same
way, and feather-stitch round the top and
down both sides of the opening in front;
sew on two ends of ribbon to tie round
the ankle, and the shoe is done. It will
look very pretty on baby's pink foot, and
he will thank you for your gift in his
own way, by kicking his toes joyfully,
and getting the shoes into his mouth as
soon as possible.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Hemlock Pillow</span>.</h4>
<p>
It is rather late in the year to make
these pillows, but you can try them for
next Christmas. They must be prepared for
beforehand by gathering and drying a quantity of
the needles of the hemlock, the fine ones from the
ends of the young shrubs being the best. Make
a large square bag of cotton, stuff it full of the
needles, and inclose it in an outer case of soft thick
silk or woolen stuff. The one from which we take
our description had "Rêve du forêt" embroidered
on it in dull yellow floss, and we don't believe any
one could help dreaming of the forest who laid a
cheek on the pillow and smelled the mingled spice
and sweetness of its aromatic contents.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Sachets for Linen-Closets</span>.</h4>
<p>
If you have any old-fashioned lavender growing
in your garden, you can easily make a delightful
sachet for mamma to lay among her sheets and
pillow-cases in the linen-closet, by cutting a square
bag of tarletane or Swiss muslin, made as tastefully
as you please, and stuffing it full of the flowers.
Another delightful scent is the <i>mellilotte</i>, or sweet
clover, which grows wild in many parts of the
country, and has, when dried, a fragrance like that
of the tonquin-bean, only more delicate.</p><br /><br />
<div class="figleft">
<a href="images/053-2.jpg"><img src="images/053-2-300.jpg" width="300" height="182" alt="A TISSUE-PAPER MAT." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A TISSUE-PAPER MAT.</p>
</div>
<h4><span class="sc">Tissue-Paper Mats</span>.</h4>
<p>
We like to be able to tell you about these mats,
for they cost almost nothing at all, and are so
simple that any little boy or girl can make them.
All the material needed for them is three sheets of
tissue-paper,—a light shade, a medium shade, and
a dark shade, or, if you like, they can also be made
of one solid color, but are not quite so pretty then.
Cut a piece of each color nine inches square, fold
it across, and then across again, so as to form a
small square, and then fold from point to point.
Lay on it a pattern, like the first diagram on next
page, and cut the tissue paper according to the lines
of the pattern. Opening the paper, you will find
it a circle, with the edge pointed in scallops. Now
take a common hair-pin, bend its points over that
they may not tear the paper, slip it in turn over each
point, as shown in the diagram, and draw it down,
<i>crinkling</i> the paper into a sort of double scallop.
(The second diagram on next page will explain this<a name="page46" id="page46"></a><span class="left">[page 46]</span>
process.) Treat your three rounds in this way, lay
them over each other like a pile of plates, stick a
small pin in the middle to hold them, set a goblet
upon them, and gently arrange the crinkled edges
about its base, so as to give a full ruffled effect, like
the petals of a dahlia, although less stiff and regular.
These mats are exceedingly pretty.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width:40%">
<a href="images/054b.jpg"><img src="images/054b-252.jpg" width="252" height="450" alt="DIAGRAM SHOWING THE MANNER OF CRIMPING EACH SCALLOP OF THE PAPER MAT OVER A HAIR-PIN." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">DIAGRAM SHOWING THE MANNER OF CRIMPING EACH SCALLOP OF THE
PAPER MAT OVER A HAIR-PIN.</p>
</div>
<div class="figleft" style="width:40%">
<a href="images/054a.jpg"><img src="images/054a-265.jpg" width="265" height="450" alt="DIAGRAM FOR PAPER MAT, SHOWING MODE OF FOLDING AND SHAPING." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">DIAGRAM FOR PAPER MAT, SHOWING MODE OF FOLDING AND SHAPING.</p>
</div>
<br clear="all" /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Work Basket in Vanilla Grass</span>.</h4>
<p>
If any of you live where the sweet-scented vanilla
grass grows plentifully, you can make a delicious
little basket by drying the long wiry blades, braiding
them in strands of three, tying the ends firmly
together to make a long braid, and coiling and sewing
as in straw plaiting. Two circles the size of a
dessert plate should be prepared, one for the bottom
of the basket, and the other for the top of the lid
(the latter a trifle the larger). Then draw the braid
tighter, and form a rim to each about two inches
deep. The lid, which is separate, fits over the
bottom, and the scent of the grass will impart
itself to everything kept in the basket.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<p>
So much for the dear little people. Our next
dip into Mother Santa Claus's basket brings out a
big handful for girls (and boys) who are a trifle
older,—say from twelve to fifteen.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Hair-Pin Holders</span>.</h4>
<p>
On the next page is a picture of the hair-pin holder
when finished; and above it you will find a diagram
of it when cut out and not yet put in shape. It is
cut, as you will observe, in one piece. The material
is perforated card-board, either white or "silver."
The dotted lines show where to fold it.</p>
<p>
A, A and B, B are lapped outside the end pieces,
D, D, and held in place by stitches of worsted, long
below and very short above, where the sides join.
A little border is worked in worsted at top and
bottom before the sides are joined. The inside is
stuffed with curled hair, and topped with a little
cover crocheted or knit in worsted—plain ribbing
or the tufted crochet, just as you prefer.
A cord and a small worsted tassel at either
end complete it, and it is a convenient little thing<a name="page47" id="page47"></a><span class="left">[page 47]</span>
to hang or stand on mamma's or sister's toilet-table.
It will be an easy matter to enlarge the
pattern, if this hair-pin holder would be too small.</p>
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/055b.jpg"><img src="images/055b-300.jpg" width="300" height="255" alt="END OF HAIR-PIN HOLDER WHEN FOLDED." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">END OF HAIR-PIN HOLDER WHEN FOLDED.</p>
</div>
<div class="figleft">
<a href="images/055a.jpg"><img src="images/055a-343.jpg" width="343" height="255" alt="PATTERN OF HAIR-PIN HOLDER." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">PATTERN OF HAIR-PIN HOLDER.</p>
</div>
<br clear="all" />
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/055c.jpg"><img src="images/055c-500.jpg" width="500" height="230" alt="A HAIR-PIN HOLDER." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A HAIR-PIN HOLDER.</p>
</div>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Crib-Blanket for Baby</span>.</h4>
<p>
The prettiest and simplest crib-blanket
which we have seen of late, was made of thick
white flannel, a yard wide, and a yard and
a quarter long. Across each end were basted
two rows of scarlet worsted braid, four
inches apart, and between the two a row
of bright yellow braid. These were cat-stitched
down on both edges with black worsted, and
between them were rows of feather-stitching
in blue. Above, in each corner, was a small
wheel made of rows of feather-stitch—black, red,
yellow and blue. Nothing could be easier to make,
but the effect was extremely gay and bright, and
we advise some of you who are lucky enough to
"belong to a baby" to try it.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Another Baby's Blanket</span>.</h4>
<p>
For this you must buy a real blanket—one of the
small ones which come for use in a baby's crib.
Those with blue stripes and a narrow binding of
blue silk are prettiest for the purpose. Baste a
narrow strip of canvas between the stripes and the
binding, and with blue saddler's silk doubled, work
in cross-stitch a motto, so arranged that it can be
read when the top of the blanket is folded back. If
the stripe is red instead of blue, the motto must
be in red silk, and it should, of course, have
reference to the baby. Here are some pretty
ones in various languages: "<i>Nun guten ruh, die
augen zu</i>" (Now go to sleep, and shut your eyes).
"<i>Cap-à-pie</i>" (From head to foot). "<i>Ad ogni
ucello, suo nido è bello</i>" (To every bird its own
nest is beautiful). And here is one in English:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Shut little eyes, and shut in the blue;</p>
<p>Sleep, little baby, God loves you."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>
The same idea can be beautifully applied to a pair
of large blankets, but this is rather a considerable
gift for young people to undertake.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Summer Blankets</span>.</h4>
<p>
A pair of thin summer blankets, of the kind which
are scarcely heavier than flannel, can be made very
pretty by button-holing them all round loosely with
double zephyr wool in large scallops, and working
three large initials in the middle of the top end.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Work-Basket for "Sister</span>."</h4>
<p>
For this, you must buy a straw basket, flat in
shape, and without a handle. It can be round,
square, oval, or eight-sided, just as you prefer.
You must also buy a yard of silk or cashmere
in some pretty color. Line the
whole basket, first of all cutting
the shape of the bottom exactly, and fastening
the lining down with deft stitches, which shall<a name="page48" id="page48"></a><span class="left">[page 48]</span>
show neither inside nor out. Make four little
pockets of the stuff (six if the basket is large), draw
their tops up with elastic cord, and fasten them
round the sides at equal distances. These are to
hold spools of silk, tapes, hooks-and-eyes, and such
small wares, which are always getting into disorder
in a pocketless basket. Between two of the pockets
on one side, suspend a small square pincushion, and
on the other a flat needle-book hung by a loop of
ribbon. At the opposite ends, between the pockets,
fasten an emery bag and a sheath of morocco bound
with ribbon to hold a pair of scissors. Finish the
top last of all with a quilling of ribbon, and you
have as dainty and complete a gift as any younger
sister can wish to make, or any older one receive.
It will cost time and pains, but is pretty and useful
enough to repay both.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Fancy Wheelbarrow</span>.</h4>
<p>
This cannot be made easily by any boy or girl
who is not already acquainted with fancy wood-sawing,
and to such the illustration gives all the
hint that will be needed. We would simply suggest
that the body of this barrow is about six inches
long, that it is lined with crimson silk, and that
standing upon a dressing-bureau, writing-table, or
mantel-shelf, it makes a very pretty receiver of
cards or knick-knacks. Many beautiful Christmas
gifts can be made by boys or girls owning one of the
little bracket-saws, which, with books of directions,
can now be bought in almost any hardware shop.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/056.jpg"><img src="images/056-500.jpg" width="500" height="221" alt="A FANCY WHEELBARROW." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A FANCY WHEELBARROW.</p>
</div>
<br /><br />
<p>
For further particulars on wood-carving, see illustrated
articles in ST. NICHOLAS, Vol. I., pp. 84,
215, 346, 592.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Set of Tea-Napkins</span>.</h4>
<p>
There hardly could be a nicer gift for a girl to
make for her mother or married sister than a set
of tea-napkins, with a large initial letter in white,
or white and red, embroidered on each. The
doily should be folded in four, and the letter out-lined
in lead pencil in the corner of one of the
quarters. If inked very black on paper, and held
dry to the window behind the linen, the initial
is easily traced. The pattern is then run and
"stuffed" with heavy working-cotton, and the letter
embroidered in finer cotton. Another nice gift
is a long fringed towel, with three very large letters
in white, or blue, or crimson, worked half-way
between the middle and the side edge. Folded
over lengthwise, it is a convenient thing to lay on
a bureau-top or the front of a sideboard, and the
large colored letters make it ornamental as well.
Patterns of initials can be bought in any fancy shop.
If desired, they can be bought already worked, requiring
only to be transferred to the napkin.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Napkin-Bands</span>.</h4>
<p>
Any of you who have mastered cross-stitch, and
learned to follow a pattern, will find these bands
easy enough to make. Their use is to fasten a
napkin round a child's neck at dinner, and take the
place of that disobliging "pin," which is never at
hand when wanted. You must cut a strip of Java
canvas, two inches wide by a foot long; overcast
the edges, and work on it some easy little vine in
worsted, or a Grecian pattern, or, if you like, a
short motto, such as "More haste, worse speed."
Line the strip with silk, turn in the edges, overhand
them, and finish the ends with two of those
gilt clasps which are used to loop
up ladies' dresses.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Rustic Vase</span>.</h4>
<p>
It is very easy to get the material
out of which this vase is made.
You need only go to your wood-pile,
or, if you have none, to the
wood-pile of a neighbor. Choose
a round stick four inches in diameter
and eight or ten inches long,
with a smooth bark. If you find
the stick, and it is too long, you can
easily saw off an end. Now comes
the difficult part of the work: The inside of the
stick must be scooped out to within four inches of
the bottom. The easiest way of accomplishing this
will be to send it to a turning-mill if there is one at
hand; if not, patience and a jack-knife will in the
end prevail. Next, with a little oil-color, paint a
pretty design on the bark, if you can,—trailing-arbutus,
partridge berry, sprays of linnea,—any
wood thing which can be supposed to cluster naturally
round a stump. Set the stump in a flower-pot
saucer, filled with earth, and planted with
mosses and tiny ferns; fit a footless wine or champagne
glass, or a plain cup, into the hollow end,
and, with a bunch of grasses and wild flowers, or
autumn leaves, you have a really exquisite vase,
prettier than any formal article bought in a shop,<a name="page49" id="page49"></a><span class="left">[page 49]</span>
and costing little more than time and patience, with a touch of that rare thing—taste! which, after all,
is not so very rare as some people imagine. Any friend will prize such a vase of your own making.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Table-Cover</span>.</h4>
<p>
A really charming cover for a small table can be made in this way: Cut a square—or oblong,
as the case may be—of that loosely woven linen which is used for glass-towels, making it
about four inches larger all round than the table it is meant to fit. Pale yellow or brown
is the best color to select. Ravel the edges into a fringe two inches deep; then, beginning
two inches within the edge, draw the linen threads all round in a band an inch
and three-quarters wide. Lace the plain space thus left with dark-red ribbon
of the same width, woven in and out in regular spaces, and at each corner
tie the ribbon in a graceful knot with drooping ends.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Another Table-Cover</span>.</h4>
<p>
This cover is made of pale-brown Turkish toweling. Cut a piece
of the size to suit your table, and baste all round it, first a row of
scarlet worsted braid, then of olive, then of yellow, leaving spaces
each an inch and a half wide between the rows. Cat-stitch the
braids down on both edges with saddlers' silk, and feather-stitch
between them in silks, choosing colors which harmonize,
and turning the whole into a wide stripe brilliant
and soft at the same time. The choice and
placing of the colors will be excellent practice for
your eye, and after a little while you will be
able to tell, as soon as a couple of inches
are done, if you are putting the right tint
into the right place. It is infinitely
more interesting to feel your way thus through a piece of work
than to follow any set pattern, however pretty, and it is
far more cultivating to the taste.</p><br /><br />
<div class="figright1">
<a href="images/057.jpg">
<img src="images/057-357-01.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="A PAPER TRANSPARENCY." />
<img src="images/057-357-02.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-03.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-04.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-05.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-06.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-07.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-08.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-09.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-10.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-11.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-12.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-13.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-14.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-15.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-16.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-17.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-18.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-19.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-20.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-21.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-22.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-23.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-24.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-25.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-26.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-27.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/057-357-28.jpg" class="bellright" border="0" alt="" />
</a>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Paper Transparency</span>.</h4>
<p>
Take a piece of white, or tinted, or
silver paper, exactly ten and a half inches
square. Fold it double diagonally. Fold it
double again. Fold it double once more.</p>
<p>
You will now have a triangular-shaped form of
eight thicknesses. Now lay this folded piece on a
pine table, or on a smooth piece of pine board. Next,
lay evenly over it, so that it will fit exactly, the "pattern
of transparency," or an exact tracing from it. When so placed,
secure them firmly to the board by pins driven in at each corner.
Now, with a very sharp pen-knife follow and cut <i>through to the
board</i> the lines of the pattern, so as to cut out all the portions that
show black in the design. When this is all done, pull out the pins,
open your folded paper, and you will have a square form beautifully
figured in open-work. It should be laid between two sheets of white paper
and carefully pressed with a hot iron, and then it can be lined with black or
fancy tissue paper, and hung against a pane in the window as a "transparency;"
or you may use it as a picture-frame, inserting an engraving or photograph in the center.</p>
<p>
The original, from which our pattern is taken, was cut during the late war by a young
Union soldier while in Libby prison.</p>
</div>
<h4><span class="sc">Shawl-Bags</span>.</h4>
<p>
These bags are capital things to save a shawl from the dust of a journey, and, if of good size,
can be made to serve a useful purpose by packing into them dressing materials, etc., for which
there is not room in your hand-bag. The best material for them is stout brown Holland. Cut two
round end-pieces eight inches in diameter and a piece half a yard wide by twenty-four inches long.<a name="page50" id="page50"></a><span class="left">[page 50]</span>
Stitch these together, leaving the straight seam
open nearly all the way across, and bind its edges
and the edges of the end-pieces with worsted braid
(maroon or dark brown), put on with a machine.
Close the opening with five buttons and button-holes.
Bind with braid a band of the Holland two
inches wide, and fasten it over the button-holed
side, leaving a large loop in the middle to carry
the bag by.</p>
<p>
By way of ornament you may embroider three
large letters in single-stitch on the side, using
worsted of the color of the braid, or may put a
pattern down either side of the opening and round
the ends in braiding, or a braided medallion with
initials in the center.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width:50%">
<a href="images/058a.jpg"><img src="images/058a-150.jpg" width="150" height="447" alt="JAPANESE HANGING-BASKET OF STRAW AND SILK." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">JAPANESE HANGING-BASKET OF STRAW AND SILK.</p>
</div><br /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Japanese Basket for Grandmother</span>.</h4>
<p>
You will never guess what the top of this droll
little basket is made of, unless we tell you. It is
one of those Japanese cuffs of brown straw
which can be bought nowadays for a small price at
any of the Japanese shops. You may embroider a little
pattern over it—diagonally, if you wish to make
it look very Japanese-y; line it with silk or satin,
and fasten a small bag of the same material to the
bottom, drawn up with a ribbon bow or a tassel.
A band of wide ribbon is sewed to the top. Grandmamma
will find this just the thing to hang on her
arm for holding her knitting-ball,
or the knitting itself if she wishes to lay
it aside. This sort of basket also is useful as a
"catch-all" when hung at the side of a dressing-bureau.</p>
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/058b.jpg"><img src="images/058b-150.jpg" width="150" height="421" alt="A CATCH-ALL MADE OF PERFORATED PAPER." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A CATCH-ALL MADE OF PERFORATED PAPER.</p>
</div>
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Catch-All, Made from a Single Square</span>.</h4>
<p>
This is very pretty, and very easily made. Take
a piece of silver (or gold) perforated paper, eight
inches square, and ornament it with worsted or
silk, as in the diagram, all in one direction. To
make the cornucopia, it is only necessary to join
any two edges (as A and B) by first binding each
with ribbon and then sewing them together. Line
with silk, and put box-plaiting at the top. A
worsted tassel might be put at the top (in front) as
well as at the bottom, and a loop at C.</p>
<p>
If silver paper is used, the trimmings would better
be all red. All blue would look well with gold
paper. But the colors may be varied according to
taste. If your friend is a brunette, you will find that
he or she will be most pleased with the red, while
a blonde will prefer blue.</p>
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/058c.jpg"><img src="images/058c-150.jpg" width="150" height="158" alt="DIAGRAM OF PATTERN TO BE WORKED ON PERFORATED PAPER FOR A CATCH-ALL." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">DIAGRAM OF PATTERN TO BE WORKED ON PERFORATED PAPER FOR A CATCH-ALL.</p>
</div>
<br clear="all" /><br /><br />
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/059a.jpg"><img src="images/059a-150.jpg" width="150" height="259" alt="DIAGRAM OF WALL-POCKET." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">DIAGRAM OF WALL-POCKET.</p>
</div>
<div class="figleft" style="width:40%">
<a href="images/058d.jpg"><img src="images/058d-300.jpg" width="300" height="316" alt="WALL-POCKET OF SPLITS." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">WALL-POCKET OF SPLITS.</p>
</div>
<h4><span class="sc">A Wall-Pocket of Splits</span>.</h4>
<p>
Splits, or cigar-lighters as they are sometimes
called, are to be had at any of the fancy shops.
They are an inch wide and about seven inches
long, and come in various shades of brown and
<a name="page51" id="page51"></a><span class="left">[page 51]</span>
straw color, and their flexibility makes it easy to
weave them in and out like basket-work. For the
wall-pocket you must weave two squares, each containing
six splits each way, but one made larger
than the other, as seen in the picture. A few
stitches in cotton of the same color will hold the
strips in place. Line the smaller of the squares with
silk, and lay it across the face of the other in such
a way that the four points shall make a diamond,
touching the middle of each side of the square.
Fasten it to the wall by two of the splits crossed
and united by a bow of ribbons, and fill the pocket
with dried autumn leaves and ferns gracefully arranged.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Silhouette Likenesses</span>.</h4>
<p>
This is rather a Christmas game than a present,
but will answer well for either; and young folks
can get much fun out of an evening spent in "taking"
each other. Each in turn must stand so as to cast
a sharp profile shadow on the wall, to which is previously
pinned, white side out, a large sheet of paper, known as silhouette
paper, black on one side and white on the other.
Somebody draws the outline of this shadow <i>exactly</i> with a
pencil; it is then cut out and pasted neatly, black side up,
on a sheet of white paper. Good and expressive likenesses
are often secured, and droll ones <i>very</i> often.
Try it, some of you, in the long evenings which are coming.</p><br /><br />
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/059b.jpg"><img src="images/059b-300.jpg" width="300" height="306" alt="A LEAF PEN-WIPER." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A LEAF PEN-WIPER.</p>
</div><br /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Leaf Pen-Wiper</span>.</h4>
<p>
Your pattern for this must be a beech-leaf again,—a
<i>long</i> one this time,—or you may trace the shape
from the illustration. Outline the shape as before,
and from the model thus secured cut six leaves in
flannel—two green, two brown, and two red, or
red, white and blue, or any combination you like.
Snip the edge of each leaf into very tiny points,
and chain-stitch veins upon it with gold-colored
floss. Attach these leaves together by the upper
ends, arranging under them three triply pointed
leaves of black broadcloth or silk to receive the ink,
and finish the top with a small bow of ribbon.</p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Birds'-Nest Pen-Wiper</span>.</h4>
<p>
Girls are always trying to find something which
they can make to delight their papas, and a gay little
pen-wiper with fresh uninked leaves rarely comes
amiss to a man who likes an orderly writing-table.
Here is a pretty one which is easily made. For the
pattern you may borrow a moderately large beech-leaf
from the nearest tree (or botanical work); lay
it down on paper, pencil the outline and cut it out
neatly. Repeat this six or eight times in black cloth
or velvet, and sew the leaves round a small oval
or circle of black cloth. Knit and ravel out a quantity
of yellow worsted or floss silk, and with it construct
a nest in the center of the oval, putting a hen into the nest.
This hen may be made of canton flannel, stuffed with
cotton-wool and painted in water color, with a comb of
red flannel, two black beads for eyes, and a tuft of
feathers by way of tail. But better still and much
easier, buy one of the droll little Japanese chicks
which can be had at the shops now for twenty or
twenty-five cents, and fasten it in the middle of the
nest. Three plain circles of cloth are fastened
underneath for wiping the pens.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width:40%">
<a href="images/059c.jpg"><img src="images/059c-300.jpg" width="300" height="220" alt="A JAPANESE PEN-WIPER." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A JAPANESE PEN-WIPER.</p>
</div><br /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Japanese Pen-Wiper</span>.</h4>
<p>
A nice little pen-wiper can be made by cutting
three circles of black cloth, snipping the edges or<a name="page52" id="page52"></a><span class="left">[page 52]</span>
button-holing them with colored silk, and standing
in the middle one of the droll little Japanese birds
just mentioned. Of course it should be secured
firmly at the feet. There are long-legged birds
and short-legged ones. A tiny stork is very pretty.</p>
<br /><br /><br />
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/060.jpg"><img src="images/060-250.jpg" width="250" height="456" alt="A JAPANESE PEN-WIPER." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A JAPANESE PEN-WIPER.</p>
</div><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Bleached Grasses</span>.</h4>
<p>
Some of you who have been pressing autumn
leaves for winter use may like to hear of a new way
of bleaching grasses to mix with them. The process
is exceedingly simple. Take a few of the grasses
in your hand at a time, dip them into a pan of water,
shake gently, dip into a pan of sifted flour, and again
shake gently. All the superfluous flour will fall off, but
enough will remain to make the grasses snowy-white.
When dry it is perfectly firm, and you would never
guess what process produced the effect. A bunch of these
white grasses in a coral-red basket is a vivid object.</p>
<p>
Colored grasses, to our thinking, are not half so
pretty as the same grasses when left in their own soft
natural browns and yellows. Still, as some people like
them, we will just mention that the same process
can be used for them as for the white grass, by mixing
with small portions of flour, a little dry paint powder,
vermilion, green, etc. A bunch of the deep red mixed
with the bleached grass has a gay and uncommon effect.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Nubé in Two Colors</span>.</h4>
<p>
A novelty in knitting is a nubé in Shetland wool of
two colors—pink or crimson or blue with white.
The skeins are opened, and the two strands, laid
side by side, are wound double in a large ball. The
nubé is then knit in the usual way with large
needles and common garter-stitch, and is very fine.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Lamp Shades</span>.</h4>
<p>
Plain white porcelain lamp-shades, such as are
used on the German student-lamps, look well when
decorated with wreaths of autumn leaves put on
with mucilage. We read lately in the <i>Tribune</i>
that leaves treated with extract of chlorophyl became
transparent. This would be a fine experiment
for some of you to try, and a garland of the
transparent leaves would be much more beautiful
around a shade than the ordinary dried ones.</p>
<p>
There are other styles of lamp-shades that can
be made with little difficulty, for instance: A
very pretty shade is easily formed by cutting in
thin drawing-board fine scalloped sections, which,
tied together with narrow ribbon, take the form
of a shade. Leaves are glued to the under side of
these, and a lining of thin tissue-paper is pasted on to
hold them in place. Still another is made in the same
way, with doubled sections of card-board, between each
pair of which is laid a steel engraving or wood-cut, or
an unmounted photograph. The pictures are invisible
till the lamp is lighted: then they gleam forth with
something of the soft glow of a porcelain transparency.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Glove-Box</span>.</h4>
<p>
In any of the fancy shops you can now buy the slender
frames of silvered tin on which these boxes are made.
Cut out double pieces of pale-tinted silk to fit the
top, bottom, sides and ends, and quilt each separately
with an interlining of cotton batting, on which sachet-powder
has been lightly sprinkled. Slip the pieces
between the double rods of the frame, sew over and
over, and finish with a plaited satin ribbon all
round, adding a neat little loop and bow to lift the lid.</p>
<p>
The small tin boxes in which fancy biscuits are
sold can be utilized for glove-boxes, covered as you
choose on the outside, and lined with wadded silk.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Another Glove-Box</span>.</h4>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/061a.jpg"><img src="images/061a-500.jpg" width="500" height="239" alt="SILK GLOVE-BOX." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">SILK GLOVE-BOX.</p>
</div>
<div class="figright" style="width:40%">
<a href="images/061b.jpg"><img src="images/061b-200.jpg" width="200" height="85" alt="DIAGRAM" border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">DIAGRAM SHOWING THE MANNER OF TUFTING
THE LINING OF SILK GLOVE-BOX.</p>
</div>
<p>
This box can be made in very stiff card-board,
but tin is better if you have the pieces which form its
shape cut by the tinman, and punched with holes
in rows an inch and a half apart. If you use card-board,
you must punch your own holes, measuring
the places for them with rule and pencil. In either<a name="page53" id="page53"></a><span class="left">[page 53]</span>
case, you will need the same number of pieces and
of the same size, namely: two strips one foot long
and five inches wide, two strips one foot long and
three inches wide, and two strips five inches long
and three inches wide. Cover each piece with a
layer of cotton wadding, sprinkled with sachet
powder, and a layer of silk or satin of any color you
prefer. Then catch the silk firmly down through
the holes in the tin, making long stitches on the
wrong side, and small cross-stitches on the right,
so as to form neat regular tufts. A very tiny button
sewed in each depression has a neat effect.
When the inside of the box is thus tufted, baste the
pieces together, cover the outside with black or
dark silk or satin, embroidered or ornamented in
any way your fancy may dictate, overhand the
edges daintily, and neatly finish with a small cord.
Square boxes made in the same way are pretty
for pocket-handkerchiefs.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width:50%">
<a href="images/061c.jpg"><img src="images/061c-300.jpg" width="300" height="308" alt="COAL-SCUTTLE PINCUSHION AND NEEDLE BOOK." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">COAL-SCUTTLE PINCUSHION AND NEEDLE BOOK.</p><br />
</div><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Coal-Scuttle Pin-Cushion</span>.</h4>
<p>
This droll little scuttle is made of black enamel
cloth, cut according to the diagrams on next page.
Fig. 1 is cut double and folded over at G. The
two sides marked B and E in Fig. 1 are bound with
black galloon; also the two sides marked with the
same letters in Fig. 2.</p>
<p>
Before binding over, cast a bit of wire around the
top and one around the bottom of the scuttle, and
bend each into its proper shape. Figs. 3 and 4 are
bound all round, and sewed over and over to the
places indicated. Wrap two bits of wire, one four
inches long and the other an inch and a quarter, with
black worsted, and insert them through little holes
made for the purpose to serve as the handles of the
scuttle; stuff the inside firmly with hair or cotton-wool,
cover the top with flannel, cut after Fig. 4,
and button-hole the edges down all round
with worsted of the color of the flannel. If
you like to add a needle-book you can do so
by cutting three leaves of differently colored
flannels, after the shape of Fig. 4, snipping
the edges into points, or button-holing
them, and fastening the leaves to the back
of the scuttle above the pincushion.</p><br />
<p class="center">DIAGRAMS OF COAL-SCUTTLE PINCUSHION AND NEEDLE-BOOK.</p>
<div class="figleft1">
<a href="images/062ab.jpg">
<img src="images/062ab-562-01.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="DIAGRAMS OF COAL-SCUTTLE PINCUSHION AND NEEDLE-BOOK." />
<img src="images/062ab-562-02.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/062ab-562-03.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/062ab-562-04.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/062ab-562-05.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/062ab-562-06.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/062ab-562-07.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/062ab-562-08.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/062ab-562-09.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/062ab-562-10.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
</a>
<p>
Fig. 1.—Pattern of Coal-Scuttle Pinchusion.<br />
Fig. 2.—Part of Pattern of Coal-Scuttle Pinchusion.<br />
Fig. 3.—Bottom of Coal-Scuttle.<br />
Fig. 4.—Top of Coal-Scuttle.</p>
</div>
<br clear="all" />
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Bit of Plain Work</span>.</h4>
<p>
There are notable little sempstresses even
in these days of machines ("and I am
thankful to know that there are," says
Mother Santa Claus) who set their stitches as
swiftly and as precisely as ever their grandmothers
did before them, and have the same liking for what
used to be called "white seam." To such we would
suggest, what a nice and useful
Christmas present would be a beautifully
made under-garment. It need not of necessity be a
shirt, though in old days no girl was considered
educated who could not finish one all by herself,
from cutting out to the last button-hole; but an
apron or petticoat or dressing-jacket or night-gown,
over which little fingers had labored deftly and
lovingly, would, it seems to us, be a most wonderful
and delightful novelty for mamma or grandmamma
to find on the Christmas-tree this year. A set
of handkerchiefs nicely hemmed and marked (girls
used to cross-stitch the marks in their own hair!),
or a soft flannel petticoat, cat-stitched at the seams,
scalloped with coarse working cotton,—which grows
whiter with washing, instead of yellowing like
silk,—with three pretty initials on the waistband,
would be other capital ideas. Try them.</p>
<br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Work Aprons</span>.</h4>
<p>
The great convenience of these aprons is that the
work can be rolled up in them and laid aside for<a name="page54" id="page54"></a><span class="left">[page 54]</span>
use. They are made of brown Holland trimmed
with black or blue or crimson worsted braid. Little
loops of doubled braid ornament the edge, and are
held in place by a plain row of the braid stitched
on above them. The lower and largest pocket
should be made full and drawn up with a cord at
top, so as to hold rolls of pieces, worsteds and patterns.
The little pockets are for spools of silk and
thread, tapes, buttons, and so on.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/062b.jpg"><img src="images/062b-500.jpg" width="500" height="332" alt="DIAGRAM OF WORK APRON." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">DIAGRAM OF WORK APRON.</p>
</div>
<h4><span class="sc">A Leaf Needle-Book</span>.</h4>
<p>
For this needle-book you will need the following
materials: One-eighth of a yard of crimson or
green velvet, one-eighth of a yard of lining silk to
match, one-eighth of a yard of fine white flannel,
two skeins of white silk floss, a bit of Bristol-board,
and a half yard of narrow ribbon.</p>
<p>
Cut in the Bristol-board a couple of leaf-shaped
pieces like the illustration. Cover each with the
velvet, turning in the edges neatly, line with the
silk, and button-hole both together all round with
white floss. Stitch the veins in the leaves with the
floss, held tightly, so as to depress the lines a little.
Cut three leaves of flannel in the same shape, button-hole
the edges, lay them between the leaves,
and fasten all together at top with a bow of ribbon.
A tiny loop and button should be attached to the
point to hold the needle-book together.</p>
<div class="figright"><br /><br />
<a href="images/063a.jpg"><img src="images/063a-300.jpg" width="300" height="313" alt="PAD OF LEAF NEEDLE-BOOK." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">PAD OF LEAF NEEDLE-BOOK.</p>
</div>
<div class="figleft">
<a href="images/062d.jpg"><img src="images/062d-300.jpg" width="300" height="345" alt="PATTERN OF LEAF NEEDLE-BOOK." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">PATTERN OF LEAF NEEDLE-BOOK.</p>
</div><br clear="all" />
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/063b.jpg"><img src="images/063b-250.jpg" width="250" height="377" alt="PATTERN OF CROSS FOR BOOK MARK." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">PATTERN OF CROSS FOR BOOK MARK.</p>
</div>
<br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Book-Mark</span>.</h4>
<p>
A large lace-like cross hanging from the end of a
wide ribbon makes a handsome and appropriate
mark for a big bible or prayer-book. The
materials cost almost nothing, all that is required
being a bit of perforated card-board,
a sharp penknife, and—patience. Trace the
form of the cross on the card-board, and outline
the pattern on one side in pencil. You
will observe that the one given as illustration
is made up of small forms many times repeated,
and this is the case with all patterns
used for this purpose. The easiest way to outline it
regularly is to do a square of eight holes at a time,<a name="page55" id="page55"></a><span class="left">[page 55]</span>
marking the places to be cut, and leaving the uncut
places white. When all is marked, place on a
smooth board and cut, following the markings
exactly with your knife. The work cannot be hurried:
it must be done slowly and very carefully if
you hope to succeed.</p><br clear="all" />
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<p>
And now we will turn out the more difficult
things from the bottom of the basket, and you big,
clever boys and girls who can do what you like
with your fingers and knives and needles and
paint-brushes, can take your pick from them.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<div class="figleft" style="width:33%">
<a href="images/064a.jpg"><img src="images/064a-200.jpg" width="200" height="338" alt="VASE (AUTUMN-LEAF WORK)." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">VASE (AUTUMN-LEAF WORK).</p>
</div>
<div class="figright" style="width:33%">
<a href="images/066b.jpg"><img src="images/066b-200.jpg" width="200" height="342" alt="VASE, PAINTED BLACK AND ORNAMENTED WITH FERNS (AUTUMN-LEAF WORK)." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">VASE, PAINTED BLACK AND ORNAMENTED
WITH FERNS (AUTUMN-LEAF WORK).</p>
</div>
<h4><span class="sc">Autumn-Leaf Work</span>.</h4>
<p>
If you have an old work-box, or desk, or table-top,
or screen, which has grown shabby, and which
you would like to renew, we can tell you how to do
so. First, you must take those generous friends,
the woods, into your counsel. Gather and press
every bright, perfect leaf and spray which comes
in your way this autumn, and every graceful bit of
vine, and a quantity of small brown and gold-colored
ferns, and those white feathery ones which have
blanched in the deep shadows. These ready, paint
your box, or whatever it is, with solid black, let it
dry, rub it smooth with fine sand-paper, and repeat
the process three times. Then glue the leaves
and ferns on, irregularly scattered, or in regular
bouquets and wreaths, as suits your fancy. Apply
a coat of isinglass, dissolved in water, to the whole
surface, and when that is dry, three coats of copal
varnish, allowing each to dry before the next is put
on. The effect is very handsome. And, even
without painting the objects black, this same style
of leaf and fern-work can be applied to earthen
vases, wooden boxes, trays and saucers, for card-receivers.
For these, you may get some good
hints from the illustrations on subsequent pages.
The same illustrations will apply to the "novelties
in fern-work" given further on.</p><br /><br />
<div class="figleft">
<a href="images/065a.jpg"><img src="images/065a-300.jpg" width="300" height="300" alt="CARD-RECEIVER (AUTUMN-LEAF WORK)." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">CARD-RECEIVER (AUTUMN-LEAF WORK).</p>
</div>
<div class="figright"><br /><br /><br /><br />
<a href="images/067.jpg"><img src="images/067-300.jpg" width="300" height="193" alt=" WOODEN BOX, ORNAMENTED WITH FERNS (AUTUMN-LEAF WORK)." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center"> WOODEN BOX, ORNAMENTED WITH FERNS (AUTUMN-LEAF WORK).</p>
</div><br clear="all" /><br /><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Window Transparency</span>.</h4>
<p>
Another pretty use for autumn leaves is a transparency
for a window. Arrange a group of the
leaves upon a pane of glass, lay another pane of
same size over these, and glue the edges together,
first with a strip of stout muslin, and then with
narrow red ribbon, leaving a loop at each upper
corner to hang it up by. The deep leaf colors
seen against the light are delightful.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Side-Light Transparencies</span>.</h4>
<p>
Any of you who happen to live in a house which
has, like many old houses, a narrow side-light on
either side of its front-door, and a row of panes
across the top, can make a pretty effect by preparing
a series of these transparencies to fit the door-glasses,
and fastening them on by driving a stout
tack into the sashes so as to support the four corners
of each pane. The transparencies could be prepared
secretly and put into place overnight, or on
Christmas morning, before any one is up, so as to
give mother a pleasant surprise as she comes downstairs.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Frame of Autumn Leaves</span>.</h4>
<p>
Procure an oblong bit of tin, eight inches by ten,
or ten inches by twelve, and have a large oval cut<a name="page56" id="page56"></a><span class="left">[page 56]</span>
out in the middle. Paint the tin with two coats of
black, glue a small group of leaves in each corner,
with a wire spray or tendril to connect them, varnish
with two coats of copal, and put a small picture behind
the oval.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Frame of Maiden-Hair</span>.</h4>
<p>
Cut a pasteboard frame three inches wide of the size
you need, and sew thickly all over it little sprays of
maiden-hair ferns, pressed and dried. It is fastened to
the wall with a pin at each corner, and of course
does not support a glass. The effect of the light fern
shapes against the wall is very delicate and graceful,
and unsubstantial as it may seem, the frame lasts a long
time, especially if, when the maiden-hair first begins to
curl, the whole is taken down and re-pressed for two or
three days under a heavy book.</p><br /><br />
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/065b.jpg"><img src="images/065b-600.jpg" width="600" height="102" alt="PAPER-CUTTER (NOVELTIES IN FERN-WORK)." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">PAPER-CUTTER (NOVELTIES IN FERN-WORK).</p>
</div>
<h4><span class="sc">Novelties in Fern-Work</span>.</h4>
<p>
We hope some of you have collected a good supply of
ferns of the different colors,—deep
brown, yellow, green and white,—for by
means of a new process you can make something
really beautiful with them. It requires deft fingers
and good eyes, but with practice and patience any
of you could manage it. Supposing it to be a
table-top which you wish to ornament, you proceed
as follows: Paint the wood all over with black or
very dark brown; let it dry, and rub it smooth
with pumice. Next varnish. And here comes the
point of the process. <i>While the varnish is wet</i>,
lay your ferns down upon it, following a design
which you have arranged clearly in your head, or
marked beforehand on a sheet of paper. A pin's
point will aid you to move and place the fragile
stems, which must not be much handled, and must
lie perfectly flat, with no little projecting points to
mar the effect, which when done should be like
mosaic-work. As soon as the pattern is in place,
varnish again immediately. The ferns, thus
inclosed in a double wall of varnish, will keep their
places perfectly. Next day, when all is dry, varnish
once more. Small articles of white holly-wood
decorated in this way are very pretty, and
a thin china plate with an overlaying of these varnished
ferns becomes a beautiful and ornamental card-receiver.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a href="images/068.jpg"><img src="images/068-400.jpg" width="400" height="399" alt="TABLE-TOP (NOVELTIES IN FERN-WORK)" border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">TABLE-TOP (NOVELTIES IN FERN-WORK)</p>
</div>
<div class="figleft1">
<a href="images/064b.jpg">
<img src="images/064b-362-01.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="A SHOE-CHAIR." />
<img src="images/064b-362-02.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-03.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-04.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-05.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-06.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-07.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-08.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-09.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-10.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-11.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-12.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-13.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-14.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-15.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-16.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-17.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-18.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-19.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
<img src="images/064b-362-20.jpg" class="chair" border="0" alt="" />
</a>
<br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Shoe-Chair</span>.</h4>
<p>
An old cane-seated chair will answer perfectly
to make this, provided the frame-work is
strong and good. Cut away the cane and insert in
its place a stout bag of twilled linen, the size of the
seat and about ten inches deep. Around this bag
sew eight pockets, each large enough for a pair of
shoes. The round pocket left in the middle will
serve to hold stockings. Have a bit of thin wood<a name="page57" id="page57"></a><span class="left">[page 57]</span>
cut to fit the seat of the chair; fasten on this a
cushion covered with cretonne, with a deep frill all
around (or a narrow frill, provided you prefer to
fasten the deep ruffle around the chair itself, as
shown in the picture), and a little loop in front by
which the seat can be raised like the lid of a box,
when the shoes are wanted. This chair is really a most
convenient piece of furniture for a bedroom.</p>
</div>
<p class="tag" style="text-indent: 3em;">A SHOE-CHAIR, WITH COVER (OR SEAT) REMOVED.</p><br /><br />
<div class="figleft" style="width:26%">
<a href="images/064c.jpg"><img src="images/064c-150.jpg" width="150" height="268" alt="PATTERN OF EACH OF THE FOUR SIDES OF SCRAP-BAG." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">PATTERN OF EACH OF THE FOUR SIDES OF SCRAP-BAG.</p><br /><br />
</div>
<div class="figright" style="width:30%">
<a href="images/064d.jpg"><img src="images/064d-200.jpg" width="200" height="568" alt="SCRAP-BAG IN TURKISH TOWELING." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">SCRAP-BAG IN TURKISH TOWELING.</p>
</div>
<h4><span class="sc">Scrap-Bags in Turkish Toweling</span>.</h4>
<p>
These are convenient little affairs.
Hung on the gas-fixture beside a looking-glass,
or on a hook above the work-table, they will be
found just the things to catch odds and ends, such as hair,
burnt matches, ravelings and shreds of cloth, which are always
accumulating, and for which many city bedrooms afford
no receptacle. The materials needed are three-quarters
of a yard of pale-brown Turkish toweling,
six yards of red worsted braid, four steel rings (to
hold the strings), one-eighth of a yard each of blue,
white, and scarlet cashmere, a skein each of blue,
red, green, yellow, and black worsted, and a small
red tassel in chenille or silk.</p>
<p>
Cut four pieces of the toweling, twelve inches
long and six and a half wide, and shape them
according to diagram.</p>
<p>
Bind each around with braid. Cut out a shape
in cashmere of the three colors laid one over the
other, and button-hole it on with worsted, contrasting
the shades in as gay and marked a manner as
possible. In the design given, A is white cashmere,
B red, and C blue. A is button-holed with green,
B with black, and C with yellow. B is chain-stitched
in blue and white lines, C feather-stitched
in white and yellow. The daisy-like flower above
is white, with a yellow center and a green stem,
and the long lines of stitching on either side are in
red and black. Some of these bags are very pretty.</p>
<p>
This bag could be simplified by using no cashmere,
and feather-stitching each quarter diagonally across
with alternate black, red, and yellow lines.</p><br /><br />
<div class="figleft" style="width:26%">
<a href="images/066a.jpg"><img src="images/066a-150.jpg" width="150" height="489" alt="ANOTHER SCRAP-BAG (SILVER PERFORATED PAPER AND CROCHET-WORK)." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">ANOTHER SCRAP-BAG (SILVER PERFORATED PAPER AND CROCHET-WORK).</p>
</div>
<h4><span class="sc">Another Scrap-Bag</span>.</h4>
<p>
The upper part of this bag is made of silver perforated paper.
Buy a strip a foot long and six inches wide, and embroider
it all over in alternate lines of cross and single stitching,
using single zephyr worsted, blue or rose-colored.
Cut a piece of stiff card-board of exactly the same size,
and line it with pink or blue silk to match the worsted. Sew the
two ends together to form a circle, lay the silver
paper smoothly over it, stitch down, and trim both
edges with plaited satin ribbon three-quarters of
an inch wide.</p>
<p>
This is the top of your bag. The bottom is
crocheted in worsted by the ordinary long stitch,
and sewed to the silver-paper top piece under the
satin ribbon. A worsted tassel finishes the lower end.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Artistic Embroidery</span>.</h4>
<p>
Just here a word to the girls about embroidery.
In old days, when embroidery was the chief
occupation of noble dames and demoiselles, the
needle was used as a paint-brush might be, to
make a picture of some real thing or some ideal
occurrence. For instance: the Bayeux tapestry,
worked in the eleventh century by Matilda, wife<a name="page58" id="page58"></a><span class="left">[page 58]</span>
of William the Conqueror, and her ladies, is a
continuous series of pictures, two hundred and
fourteen feet long by about two feet wide, which
represent scenes in the invasion and conquest of
England. Old as it is, the colors are still undimmed
and brilliant. Even so lately as the last century,
ladies designed their own patterns, and embroidered
court dresses and trimmings with flowers
and birds copied from nature. But for many
years back fancy-work has degenerated into the
following of set models, without exercising any
"fancy" of one's own at all. Now the old method
is come into fashion again, and it means so
much more, and is so vastly more interesting
than copying a cut-and-dried pattern from a
shop, that we long to set you all to trying your
hands at it. For example, if you want a
cushion with a group of daisies, gather a handful
of fresh ones,—take a bit of linen or china crape, or
fine crash or pongee, and, with green and white and gray and
gold-colored silks, make a picture of the daisies
as they look to you, not using any particular kind
of stitch, but employing long ones or short ones,
or loose or tight ones, just as comes most easily in
giving the effect you want to get. This is much
nicer than counting the stitches on a paper pattern
and a bit of canvas, and when done, produces a
much better effect. Even in winter, a real flower
or a fern-spray, by way of model, can always be
found in the flower-shops or greenhouses. Practice
will stimulate invention and suggest all sorts
of devices and ideas. Bits of pretty stuffs will catch
your eye as adaptable for use, and oddly tinted
silks (the old, faded colors often work in better
than fresh ones), patterns on fans, on rice paper,
on Japanese pictures—all sorts of things—will serve
as material for your fancy. And when your work
is done it will be <i>original</i>, and, as such, more
valuable and interesting than any shop model, however
beautiful in itself, can possibly be.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Oriental Work</span>.</h4>
<p>
Very gay and quaint effects are produced with
this work, which is an adaptation of the well-known
Eastern embroideries. Its ground-work is plain
cashmere or flannel, red, black or blue, on which
small fantastically shaped figures in variously colored
velvets or cashmeres are laid and button-holed
down with floss silks. All sorts of forms are
employed for these figures—stars, crescents, circles,
trefoils, shields, palm-leaves, griffins, imps; and
little wheels and comets in feather-stitch and cat-stitch
are inserted between, to add to the oddity of
the whole. These forms can be bought at a low
price in almost any fancy shop. A good deal
of ingenuity and taste can be shown in arranging
and blending the figures richly and brilliantly,
without making them too bright and glaring.
Table-covers in this work should have falls of
deep points, pinked on the edges. Smaller points
of white cashmere are sometimes inserted between
the deep ones, and similarly decorated. Bright
little tassels are swung between the points by
twisted silk cords. The tassels are made of strips
of scarlet and white flannel, cut <i>almost</i> across, in
narrow fringes, rolled into shape, and confined by
a tiny heading of flannel embroidered with silk.
Sofa-pillows in this Oriental work are bright and
effective, also wall-pockets and brackets—in fact, it
can be applied in many ways. The bracket shapes
must be cut in wood, and topped with flannel, the
embroidered piece hanging across the
front like a miniature drapery.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Bedside Rugs</span>.</h4>
<p>
The prettiest bedside rug which we ever saw was made
in part of a snow-white lamb's-wool mat. This was laid
in the center of a stout burlap, which projected
six inches beyond the fleece all around, and was
bordered with a band of embroidery on canvas six
inches wide, the whole being lined with flannel and
finished with a cord and a heavy tassel at each corner.
A simpler rug is made of brown burlap, with
a pattern in cross-stitch, worked in double zephyr<a name="page59" id="page59"></a><span class="left">[page 59]</span>
worsteds of gay colors. Initials, or a motto, can
be embroidered in the middle. The burlap can
be fringed out around the edges for a finish.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Rag Rug</span>.</h4>
<p>
An effective rug can be made in this way: Cut
long inch-wide strips of cloths, flannels, and various
kinds of material (widening the strip, however,
in proportion as the fabric is thinner). Sew the
ends together so as to make one very long strip,
which, for convenience' sake, can be loosely wound
up in a ball. Then, with a very large wooden
crochet-needle, you crochet a circle, a square, or
oblong mat of this rag-strip, just as with cotton or
worsted. It makes a strong, durable, and, with
bright and tasteful colors, a very pretty rug.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Screen</span>.</h4>
<p>
A folding clothes-horse with two leaves, such as
is used in laundries, makes the foundation for this
screen. The wood is painted solid black, and
covered inside and out with very yellow unbleached
cotton, stretched tightly over the frame, and held
down by black upholstery braid fastened on with
gilt nails. A design in flowers, leaves, birds,
double circles, crescents, and parallel bars, to imitate
the Japanese style of decoration, is painted in
oil colors on the cotton, and a motto on the wood
along the top. If the motto is arranged to read
backward, the foreign effect of the whole will be
enhanced. We have seen a striking screen of this
sort made by a little girl who, as she could not
paint in oil colors, decorated the surface with
figures of various kinds cut from Japanese picture-papers,
such as are now sold for from ten to twenty
cents in the Japanese goods shops. Her figures
were so well pasted and arranged, that the screen
was one of the prettiest things in the bedroom.</p>
<p>
Screens covered with pictures cut from magazines
and illustrated newspapers are very much
liked by boys and girls, and by some of their elders.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Couvre-Pied</span>.</h4>
<p>
This is a large oblong in loosely knitted double
zephyr wools, and is made double, dark brown on
one side, for instance, and pale blue on the other.
The two are united with a border in open crochet
of the brown, laced through with light blue ribbon,
which is finished at each corner with a loosely tied
bow and ends. The <i>couvre-pied</i>, as the name
indicates, is meant to cover the feet of a person
who lies on a sofa, and is an excellent present to
make to an elderly or invalid friend.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Tile or China Painting</span>.</h4>
<p>
Don't be frightened at the word, dears. China-painting
is high art sometimes, and intricate and
difficult work often, but it is quite possible to produce
pretty effects without knowing a great deal
about either china or painting. Neither are the
materials of necessity expensive. All that you need,
to begin with, are a few half tubes of china or mineral
paints, which cost about as much as oil colors,
four or five camel's-hair brushes, a palette-knife, a
small phial of oil-of-lavender, and another of oil-of-turpentine,
a plain glazed china cup or plate or tile
to work on, and either a china palette or another
plate on which to rub the paints. For colors,
black, capuchine red, rose-pink, yellow, blue, green
and brown are an ample assortment for a novice
and for purposes of practice. We would advise
only two tubes, one of black and one of rose pink,
which are colors that do not betray your confidence
when it comes to baking. For the chief
difficulty in china-painting is that to be permanent
the work must be "fired,"—that is, fused by a
great heat in a furnace,—and it requires a great
deal of experience to learn what the different tints
are likely to do under this test. Some colors—yellow,
for instance—eat up, so to speak, the colors
laid over them. Others change tint. Pinks and
some of the greens grow more intense; white cannot
be trusted, and mixing one paint with another,
as in oils, can only be done safely by experts. It
is well, therefore, to begin with two simple colors,
and you will be surprised to see how much may
be done with them. (See "Hollenberry Cup," in
ST. NICHOLAS for May, 1877, page 458.) A cup
of transparent white china, the handle painted
black, a Japanese-looking bough with black foliage
and pink blossoms thrown over it, and a little motto,
has a really charming effect. But be sure to put
on the pink very pale, and the black, not in a hard,
solid streak, but delicately, to suggest shading from
dark to light, or the result of the baking will be
disappointment.</p>
<p>
The method of preparing the colors is to squeeze
a very little paint from each tube upon your palette
or plate; take a tiny drop of oil-of-lavender on the
palette-knife, and with it rub the paint smooth. It<a name="page60" id="page60"></a><span class="left">[page 60]</span>
should be thinned just enough to work smoothly;
every drop of oil added after that is a disadvantage.
Use a separate brush for each color, and wash them
thoroughly with soap and hot water before putting
them aside. The painting should be set away
where no dust can come to it, and it will dry rapidly
in forty-eight hours or less. Elaborate work often
requires repainting after baking, the process being
repeated several times; but for simpler designs
one baking is usually enough. There are bakeries
in Boston, New York, and others of our large cities,
to which china can be sent, the price of baking
being about ten cents for each article.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Other Modes of Decorating China</span>.</h4>
<p>
The picture-books which are to be found at the
Japanese stores nowadays suggest numberless excellent
designs for china decorating. So do the
"Walter Crane Fairy-tales." A plain olive or
cream-colored tile with a pattern in bamboo-boughs
and little birds, a milk-jug in gray with leaves and
a motto in black, a set of tiny butter-plates with
initials and a flower-spray on each, are easy things
to attempt and very effective when done. Pie-dishes
can be ornamented with a long, sketchy
branch of blossoms or a flight of swallows across
the bottom, and we have seen those small dishes
of Nancy ware, in which eggs are first poached and
then served on table, made very pretty by a painting
on each of a chicken, done in soft browns and
reds, with a little line to frame it in and run down
along the handle. What we have mentioned
here are only suggestions; a little patience and
practice will soon help you to other patterns of
your own, and we can't help hoping that some of you will
be tempted to try your hands at this delightful art.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Drawing and Painting on Wood</span>.</h4>
<p>
Articles in plain white wood can be bought almost anywhere
nowadays. Pen-trays, letter-racks, easels, paper-knives,
photograph-frames, watch-cases, needle-books,
portfolios, glove-boxes, fans, silk-winders—there is no end
to the variety which can be had, and had at a very moderate
price. Now, any girl or boy among you with a
paint-box and a little taste for drawing, can make a really
pretty gift by decorating some one of these wooden things,
either in color or with pen drawings in brown or black.
The pattern need by no means be elaborate. A
wreath of ivy simply out-lined in sepia or india-ink, or
a group of figures sketched with the same, produces a very pleasing and harmonious
effect. "Prout's Brown," a sort of fluent
ink of a burnt-umber tint, will be found excellent
for drawing purposes. For designs, our own
ST. NICHOLAS will furnish excellent examples.
Scarcely a number but holds something which a
clever artist can adapt to his purpose. The "Miss
Muffett" series, for example, or the silhouettes, or
the sea-side sketches, or the ornamental borders
and leaf-and-flower headings. Look over your
back numbers, and you will see how rich they are
in subjects for copies.</p>
<p>
Here is a suggestion for such of you as live by
the sea, and who know something about drawing.
Search for clam-shells on the beach, and select the
whitest and most perfectly formed. Separate the
two shells, cleanse them thoroughly, and make on
the smooth pearly lining of each a little drawing in
sepia. It will serve as a receiver to stand on a
lady's toilet and hold rings and trinkets, or it can<a name="page61" id="page61"></a><span class="left">[page 61]</span>
be used as an ash-holder by a smoking gentleman,
or to contain pens on a writing-table.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Shoe-Chair Made of a Barrel</span>.</h4>
<p>
Another shoe-chair as nice as that pictured on
page 56 can be made out of a barrel by any girl
who has a father or big brother to help her a little
with the carpentering. The barrel is cut as in
Fig. 1 below, so as to form a back and a low front.
The back is stuffed a little, and covered with chintz
nearly down to the floor. The front has a deep
frill tacked on all around the chair. Four blocks
are nailed inside the barrel to support a round of
wood, stuffed and cushioned with the same chintz,
to serve as a seat.</p>
<p>
A straight shoe-bag, with eight pockets, is made
in the same chintz, and tacked firmly all around
the inside. A loop of the chintz serves to raise the
seat. Four castors screwed to the bottom of the
barrel will be an improvement, as the chair without
them cannot easily be moved about. About five
yards of chintz will be required for the covering; or
you might use the merino of an old dress.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/069a.jpg">
<img src="images/069a-500.jpg" width="500" height="453" alt=" BARREL SHOE-CHAIR... " border="0" />
</a>
<p class="tag">1. SHOWS MANNER OF CUTTING BARREL.<br />
2. BARREL SHOE-CHAIR COMPLETED.<br />
3. INTERIOR OF BARREL SHOE-CHAIR.<br />
4. DIAGRAM SHOWING MODE OF MAKING POCKETS FOR BARREL SHOE-CHAIR.</p>
</div><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Muslin Tidy</span>.</h4>
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/069b.jpg"><img src="images/069b-300.jpg" width="300" height="292" alt="A MUSLIN TIDY TRIMMED WITH LACE FOOTING." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">A MUSLIN TIDY TRIMMED WITH LACE FOOTING.</p>
</div>
<p>
Three-quarters of a yard of clear French muslin
will be needed for this. Lay a large dinner-plate
down on the muslin, draw the circle made by its
edge with a pencil, cut out, and lightly whip it
round, pulling the thread a little to keep the circle
perfect. Measure the circle, and cut a straight
muslin ruffle, five inches wide and a little less than
twice as long as the measure. Roll one edge finely,
and overhand on a plain lace footing an inch and a
half wide. Whip the other edge, and sew it round
the circle, graduating the fullness equally.</p>
<br /><br />
<p>
Baste a bit of lace footing three-quarters of an
inch wide in the middle of the circle, giving it the
form of a bow-knot with two ends. The lace must be bent and folded
into the form, but not cut. Run the edges with embroidery cotton,
and button-hole all round. Then, with sharp scissors, cut away the
muslin underneath, leaving the bow-knot transparent on a thicker
ground. Dry-flute the ruffle. This little affair is very dainty and odd,
one of the prettiest things which we have seen lately.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">An Illuminated Border for a Photograph</span>.</h4>
<p>
St. Nicholas has given us of late such precise directions for the
process of illuminating in color,<a href="#II2"><sup>2</sup></a><a name="II2r" id="II2r"></a>
that it is not needful to repeat them; but we should like to suggest an idea
to those of you who have begun to practice the art. This is to illuminate
a border or "mount" around a favorite photograph. The picture
must first be pasted on a large sheet of tinted card-board, pale
cream or gray being the best tints to select. You then measure the spaces
for your frame, which should be square if the picture is oval or round,<a name="page62" id="page62"></a><span class="left">[page 62]</span>
and outline them lightly in lead-pencil. Next you
sketch and paint your pattern,—flowers, leaves,
birds, butterflies, or a set pattern, as you prefer,—putting
the designs thickly together; and, lastly,
you fill all the blank spaces in with gold paint,
leaving the pattern in colors on a gilded ground.
The outer edge of the frame should be broken into
little scallops or trefoils in gold, and the card-board
should be large enough to leave a space of at least
three inches between the illuminated border and
the frame, which should be a wide band of dull
gilding or pale-colored wood, with a tiny line of
black to relieve it. The ornament should, if possible,
chord in some way with the picture, Thus a
photograph of a Madonna might have the annunciation-lilies
and passion-flowers on the gold ground.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Book of Texts</span>.</h4>
<p>
Another choice thing which can be done by a
skillful illuminator is a small book, containing a
few favorite texts, chosen by some friend. Half-a-dozen
will be enough. Each text occupies a separate
page, and is carefully lettered in red or black,
with decorated initials, and a border in colors. A
great deal of taste can be shown in the arrangement
of these borders, which should be appropriate
to the text they surround. A title-page is added,
and the book is bound in some quaint way. A
cover of parchment or white vellum, illuminated
also, can be made very beautiful.</p><br /><br />
<div class="figleft" style="width:25%">
<a href="images/070.jpg"><img src="images/070-150.jpg" width="150" height="400" alt="CARTE-DE-VISITE RECEIVER." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">CARTE-DE-VISITE RECEIVER.</p>
</div><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Carte-de-Visite Receiver</span>.</h4>
<p>
For this you must procure from the tin-man a
strip of tin three times as long as it is wide—say
six inches by eighteen—with each end shaped to a
point, as indicated in the picture. Measure off
two bits of card-board of exactly the same size and
shape; cover one with silk or muslin for a back,
and the other with Java canvas, cloth, or velvet,
embroidered with a monogram in the upper point,
and a little pattern or motto in the lower. Lay
the double coverings one on each side of the tin,
and cross the outside one with narrow ribbons,
arranged as in the picture. Overhand firmly all
around; finish the top with a plaited ribbon and a
little bow and loop to hang it by, and the bottom
with a bullion fringe of the color of the ribbon.<br /><br /></p><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Pair of Bellows</span>.</h4>
<p>
There seems no end to the pretty devices which
proficients in painting can accomplish. We saw not
long since a pair of wooden bellows which had
been decorated with a painting of a tiny owl sitting
on a bough, and the motto "Blow, blow, thou
bitter wind." Why should not some of you try
your hands at something similar? Wood fires,
thank heaven, are much more common than they
used to be, and most of you must know a cozy
chimney corner where a pretty pair of bellows
would be valued.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Door-Panel</span>.</h4>
<p>
A great bunch of field-flowers, or fruit-boughs,
or Virginia-creeper, painted in water-paints on the
panel of an ordinary door, is another nice thing for
you young artists to attempt. Perhaps you will object
that a picture on a door can hardly be called
a Christmas present; but we don't know.</p>
<p>
Anything which loving fingers can make,
and loving hearts enjoy, is a gift worthy
of Christmas or any other time.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Sachet in Water-Colors</span>.</h4>
<p>
Another dainty idea for you who can paint is a small
perfume-case of white or pale-colored silk or satin,
on which is painted a bunch of flowers or a little motto.
The flowers must be small ones, such as forget-me-nots
or purple and white violets. A great deal of white
paint—body color, as it is called—should
be mixed with the color, to make it thick enough not
to soak and stain the silk along the
edges of the pattern. Some people paint the whole
design in solid white, let it dry, and then put on
the color over the white. Others mix a little ox-gall
with the paint.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Decorated Candles</span>.</h4>
<p>
The large wax or composition candles, of a firm
texture, are best for purposes of decoration. Water-color
paints can be used, or those powders which<a name="page63" id="page63"></a><span class="left">[page 63]</span>
come for coloring wax flowers. In either case it
will be necessary to use a little ox-gall to give the
paint consistency. A band of solid tint—crimson,
black, blue or gold—is usually put around the
middle of the candle, with a pattern in flowers or
small bright points above and below. Spirals of
blue forget-me-nots all over the candle are pretty,
or sprays of leaves and berries set in a regular
pattern. These gay candles are considered ornamental
for a writing-table, and look well in the
brass candlesticks which are so much used just
now, though <i>we</i> confess to a preference for unornamented
candles of one solid tint.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">A Rustic Jardinière</span>.</h4>
<p>
Boys and girls who live in the country hardly
know how lucky they are, or what mines of materials
for clever handiwork lie close by them in the
fruitful, generous woods. What with cones and
leaves and moss and lichens and bark and fungi
and twigs and ferns, these great green store-houses
beat all the fancy shops for variety and beauty, and
their "stock" is given away without money or
price to all who choose to take. Most of you know
something of the infinite variety of things which
can be made out of these wood treasures, though
nobody knows, or can know, <i>all</i>. Now, we want to
tell you of a new thing, not at all difficult to make,
and which would be a lovely surprise for some one
this coming Christmas.</p>
<p>
It is a rustic jardinière, or flower-pot. The first
step toward making it is to find a small stump
about ten inches high, and as odd and twisted in
shape as possible. It should have a base broader
than its top, and three or four little branches projecting
from its sides. Carry this treasure home,
brush off any dirt which may cling to it, and ornament
it with mosses and lichens, glued on to look
as natural as possible. Make three small cornucopias
of pasteboard; cover them also with mosses
and lichens, and fasten them to the stump between
the forks of the branches, using small brads or
tacks to keep them firm. Stuff the cornucopias
with dry moss, and arrange in each a bouquet of
grasses, autumn leaves, and dried ferns, dipping
the end of each stem in flour paste, to make it
secure in its place. Sprays of blackberry-vine or
michella, and the satin-white pods of the old-fashioned
"honesty," make an effective addition.
When done, we have a delightful winter-garden,
which will keep its beauty through the months of
snow and sleet, and brighten any room it stands in.
Nor is its use over when winter ends, for, inserting
small glass phials in the cornucopias, fresh flowers
can be kept in them as in a vase, and the grays
and browns of the lichened wood set off their hues
far better than any gay vase could.</p><br /><br />
<h4><span class="sc">Another Jardinière</span>.</h4>
<p>
Another rustic flower-holder can be made by
selecting three knotty twigs, two and a half feet
long and about an inch in diameter, and nailing
them together in the form of a tripod, one half
serving as a base, the other to hold a small flower-pot
or a goblet whose foot has been broken off.
The lower half should be strengthened with cross
pieces nailed on, and both halves with twists of
wild grape-vine or green briar, wired at their crossings
to hold them firmly in place. When the frame
is ready, melt together half a pound of bees'-wax,
a quarter of a pound of rosin, and enough powdered
burnt-umber to give a dark brown color;
and pour the mixture on boiling hot. It will give
the wood a rich tint. Fill the pot with sand, place
over the sand a layer of green moss well pulled
apart, and in that arrange a bouquet of dried
leaves, ferns and grasses, or, if it is summer-time,
wild flowers and vines.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<p>
Now, dear fancy-workers, little and big, surely
Mother Santa Claus has furnished you with ideas
enough to keep you busy for more Christmases
than one. Just one thing more, and that is the
manner in which the presents shall be given.
Nothing can be droller than to hang up one's stockings,
and nothing prettier or more full of meaning
than a Christmas-tree. But for some of you who
may like to make a novelty in these time-honored
ways, we will just mention that it is good fun to
make a "Christmas-pie" in an enormous tin dish-pan,
with a make-believe crust of yellow cartridge
paper, ornamented with twirls and flourishes of the
same, held down with pins, and have it served on
Christmas Eve, full of pretty things and sugar-plums,
jokes and jolly little rhymes fastened to the
parcels. The cutting should be done beforehand,
and hidden by the twirls of paper; but the carver
can pretend to use his knife and fork, and spooning
out the packages will insure a merry time for all at
table. And one more suggestion. Little articles,
wrapped in white paper, can be put inside cakes,
baked and iced, and thus furnish another amusing
surprise for the "pie" or the Christmas-tree.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<p>
We are indebted to Mrs. L. B. Goodall, Mrs. M. E. Stockton,
Mrs. Tolles, Miss Annie M. Phœbus,
Miss M. Meeker, and Miss M. H. D., for designs
and suggestions in aid of this article; and to the
"Ladies' Floral Cabinet" for some valuable hints
on "Leaf-work."</p>
<br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br />
<h4>Footnotes</h4>
<p class="note"><a name="II1" id="II1"></a>
<a class="note" href="#II1r">[Footnote 1:</a> The present paper will enable our young friends
to make over seventy different articles for Christmas gifts. While a few familiar things
may be found among them, a great majority of the objects are entirely novel, and are here
described for the first time. All who may wish
for still further hints in regard to home-made Christmas presents will find very many useful
suggestions in the paper "One Hundred Christmas Presents, and How to Make Them," published in
<span class="sc">St. Nicholas</span> for December, 1875—Vol. III.]</p>
<p class="note"><a name="II2" id="II2"></a>
<a class="note" href="#II2r">[Footnote 2:</a> <span class="sc">See St. Nicholas</span>, Vol. IV., page 379.]</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page64" id="page64"></a><span class="left">[page 64]</span>
<h2>LITTLE TWEET.</h2>
<p>
There were once some nice little birds who lived together in a great
big cage. This cage was not at all like the bird-cages we generally see.
It was called an aviary, and it was as large as a room. It had small
trees and bushes growing in it, so that the birds could fly about
among the green leaves and settle on the branches. There were
little houses where the birds might make their nests and bring up their
young ones, and there was everything else that the people who owned
this big cage thought their little birds would want. It had wires all
around it to keep the birds from flying away.</p>
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/072.jpg"><img src="images/072-300.jpg" width="300" height="352" alt="THE OTHER BIRDS BRING SEEDS TO POOR TWEET." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">"THE OTHER BIRDS BRING SEEDS TO POOR TWEET."</p>
</div>
<p>
One of the tamest and prettiest of the
birds who lived in this place was called little Tweet, because, whenever
she saw any of the family coming near the cage she would fly up close to
the wires and say, "Tweet! Tweet!" which meant "Good-morning! how
do you do?" But they thought it was only her pretty way of asking for
something to eat; and as she said "Tweet" so much, they gave her that
for a name.</p>
<p>
One day there was a boy who came to visit the family who owned
the birds, and very soon he went to see the big cage. He had never
seen anything like it before. He had never been so close to birds that
were sitting on trees or hopping about among the branches. If the birds
at home were as tame as these, he could knock over lots of them, he thought.</p>
<p>
There was one that seemed tamer than any of the rest. It came up
close to him and said: "Tweet! Tweet!"</p>
<a name="page65" id="page65"></a><span class="left">[page 65]</span>
<p>
The boy got a little stick and pushed it through the wires at little Tweet,
and struck her. Poor little Tweet was frightened and hurt. She flew up
to a branch of the tree and sat there, feeling very badly. When the boy
found he could not reach her any more with his stick, he went away.</p>
<p>
Tweet sat on the branch a long time. The other birds saw she was
sick, and came and asked how she felt. Some of them carried nice seeds
to her in their bills. But little Tweet could not eat anything. She ached
all over, and sat very quietly with her head down on her breast.</p>
<p>
She sat on that branch nearly all day. She had a little baby-bird,
who was in a nest in one of the small houses, but the other birds said
she need not go and feed it if she did not wish to move about. They
would take it something to eat.</p>
<p>
But, toward night, she heard her baby cry, and then she thought she
must go to it. So she slowly flew over to her house; and her baby, who
was in a little nest against the wall, was very glad to see her.</p>
<div class="figright">
<a href="images/073.jpg"><img src="images/073-400.jpg" width="400" height="291" alt="I WILL BE A KIND MOTHER TO IT, FOR THE SAKE OF POOR LITTLE TWEET." border="0" /></a>
<p class="center">"I WILL BE A KIND MOTHER TO IT, FOR THE SAKE OF POOR LITTLE TWEET.</p>
</div>
<p>
In the morning, two of the birds came to the house to see how little
Tweet was, and found her lying on the floor, dead. The little baby-bird was
looking out of its nest, wondering what it all meant. How sorry those two
birds were when they found that their good little
friend Tweet was really dead!</p>
<p>
"Poor Tweet!" said one of them, "She was the
gentlest and best of us all. And that poor little
dear in the nest there, what will become of it?"</p>
<p>
"Become of it!" replied the other bird, who
was sitting by poor Tweet, "Become of it! Why, it shall never want for
anything. I shall take it for my own, and I will be a kind mother to it,
for the sake of poor little Tweet."</p>
<p>
Now, do you not think that there were good, kind birds in that big
cage? But what do you think of the boy?</p>
<a name="page66" id="page66"></a><span class="left">[page 66]</span>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%;">
<a href="images/074.jpg"><img src="images/074-400.jpg" width="400" height="469" alt="JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT." border="0" /></a>
</div>
<p>
<span class="sc">Hurrah</span> for the new volume!—Volume V.,
I believe it is to be called. That reminds me of
the names of Japanese children, hundreds of years
ago. Instead of being known by the Japanese for
Tom, Henry, or John, it was No. 1, No. 2, No. 3,
and so on, through a whole family of little folks.</p>
<p><a name="III1r" id="III1r"></a>
Once you had an article<a href="#III1"><sup>1</sup></a> on Japanese Games
by a native of Japan, Ichy Zo Hattori. Well, this
name, as you will all admit, is a fine-sounding appellative
enough, but in English it means simply
No. 1 Hattori.</p>
<p>
So, welcome to the lovely new child, No. 5 St.
Nicholas!—and that he may grow to be a brave,
bright volume, beautiful to look at and useful to
this and many a generation of little folks, is your
Jack's earnest wish.</p>
<p>
Of one thing the little fellow may be sure,—Jack
and the Deacon, and the dear, blessed Little School-ma'am,
will stand by him to the end. And so will
you, my chicks, Jack verily believes. He'll be a
good friend to you, bringing you any amount of
fun, and telling you more good things every month
than you'll remember in a thousand years.</p>
<p>
Now we'll take up our next subject.</p><br /><br />
<h4>AN ARTIFICIAL HORSE THAT CAN GO.</h4>
<p>
Well, well! The birds must be joking, for
who ever heard of a bird telling a deliberate lie?
And yet it <i>may</i> be true. There have been artificial
men,—manikins, automata, or whatever they are
called,—so why shouldn't there be artificial horses?</p>
<p>
Come to think of it, it was not the birds who
told me about them. It was a letter; and "artificial
horses" the letter said, as plainly as could be.
It told how a fine specimen had just been exhibited
in the capital of Prussia. The thing must look
like a horse, too, for it is a hobby between two high
wheels (the rider sits on the saddle), and it travels
about as rapidly as a trotting horse. As I understand
it, the rider moves his legs to make the
machine go, and yet it isn't a bicycle. It goes
over stony roads, turns corners, and, for aught
Jack knows, rears and kicks like any ordinary
charger—that is, when it's out of order.</p>
<p>
I should like to see one among the boys of the
red school-house. How they would make it go!</p><br /><br />
<blockquote>
<h4>A LETTER FROM DEACON GREEN.</h4>
<p class="indent">
<span class="sc">Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit</span>: I wish some of the boys and girls
who think they never have any chance to read could know a little
fellow of my acquaintance, named George. He is fourteen years old
and employed as errand boy in a business house in New York. All
day long he runs, runs,—up-town, down-town, across town,—until
you would suppose that his little legs would be worn out. But,
always on the alert as he is, and ready to do his duty whether tired
or not, he still keeps constantly before his mind the idea of self-improvement,
in business and out. Through a friend he has of late
been able to procure books from the Mercantile Library. Although
his time during the day, as I have said, is wholly taken up with his
duties, yet he managed, during the evenings of last fall and winter
(in five months), to read twelve books, some of them quite long ones
and some of them in two volumes, all selected with his friend's assistance.
From the list, I fancy the little fellow had an eye to enjoyment
as well as profit, for they are not all what are called instructive
books, although every one of them is a good book for a boy to read,
and George tells me he enjoyed them all heartily.</p>
<p>
As many of your youngsters, friend Jack, may like to know just
what books the little fellow has read, I will give you the list that he
wrote out at my request. It does not seem a very long list, perhaps,
but I think very few hard-working boys in New York have read
more than George in the same space of time. Here is the list:</p>
<p>
"Robinson Crusoe;" "Benjamin Franklin," 2 vols.; "Life of
Napoleon," 2 vols.; "Schoolmaster Stories;" "Hans Brinker;"
"Swiss Family Robinson;" "Dickens's Child's History of England:"
"Kenilworth;" "The Scottish Chiefs;" "The Boy Emigrants;"
"Sparks' Life of Washington;" "Glaisher's Aerial Navigation."</p>
<p>
This letter, dear Jack, is sent, not by way of puffing George, but
as a sort of spur to studious boys and girls who may follow his example,
if somebody puts them up to it.—Yours truly,</p>
<p class="author">
<span class="sc">Silas Green</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<h4>"SEE HOW I HELP!"</h4>
<p>
One of Jack's good friends, L.W.J. sends you
this new fable:</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"See how I help!" said a little mouse</p>
<p class="i2">To the reapers that reaped the grain,</p>
<p>As he nibbled away, by the door of his house,</p>
<p class="i2">With all of his might and main.</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>"See how I help!" he went on with his talk;</p>
<p class="i2">But they laid all the wide field low</p>
<p>Before he had finished a single stalk</p>
<p class="i2">Of the golden, glittering row.</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>As the mouse ran into his hole, he said:</p>
<p class="i2">"Indeed, I cannot deny,</p>
<p>Although an idea I had in my head,</p>
<p class="i2">Those fellows work better than I."</p>
</div>
</div>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<h4>AMONG THE CRANBERRY BOGS.</h4>
<blockquote><p class="author">
New Jersey, 1877.</p>
<p class="indent">
<span class="sc">Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit</span>: You would not think, from their
names, that cranberry bogs are pleasant places, but I enjoyed very
much a visit to one last year in the fall. Seen merely from the road,
a bog doesn't show very well, for the leaves are small, and the vines
are crowded in heavy masses; but, when you get near, the white
and red berries look pretty among the dark-green leaves.</p>
<p>
The meadow is checquered with little canals by means of which
the whole surface is flooded in winter-time, so as to protect the vines
from the ill effects of frosts and thaws. In the spring, the water is
drawn off at low tide through the flood-gates.</p>
<p>
When the cranberry-pickers are at work, they make a curious
sight, for there are people of all ages, odd dresses, and both sexes
among them, and often a tottering old man may be seen working
beside a small child. The little ones can be trusted to gather cranberries,<a name="page67" id="page67"></a><span class="left">[page 67]</span>
for the fruit is not easily crushed in handling. Where cranberries
grow thickly, one can almost fill one's hand at a grasp.</p>
<p>
The overseer's one-roomed shanty, where he cooks, eats and
sleeps, is on a knoll, and near it are the barrels in which the berries
are packed, after they have been sorted according to size and quality.</p>
<p>
Picking cranberries may be pleasant enough in fine weather, but it
must be miserable work on a cold, drizzly day.</p>
<p>
I hope this short account will be news to some of your chicks, of
whom I am one, dear Jack; and I remain yours truly,</p>
<p class="author">
H. S.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<h4>MORE CRYSTALLIZED HORSES.</h4>
<p class="author">
Piermont, N. H.</p>
<p class="indent">
<span class="sc">Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit</span>: You ask in the March number of the
St. Nicholas if any of us have seen crystallized horses "with our own
eyes." We (Willie and I) have seen them many times; so has
everybody else who lives here; that is, we have seen something very
much like it, though we do not call it the same. When the thermometer
is from thirty to thirty-six degrees below zero, horses and
oxen are all covered with a white frost, so you cannot tell a black
horse or ox from a white one; nor can you tell young men from old
ones. Their whiskers, eyebrows and eyelashes, are all perfectly
white. I've often had my ears frost-bitten in going to the school-house,
which is only about as far as two blocks in a city.</p>
<p>
When we see these sights, Jack Frost cannot paint his delicate pictures
on the windows, for a thick white frost covers them all over, or
rubs them out.</p>
<p>
We like the St. Nicholas very much, and even our little sister,
Mary, likes to look at the pictures, and she said that she wished she
could see Jack-in-the-Pulpit. We intend to introduce her next summer
to some of your relations that live by the big brook. We live
about one hundred miles north-west of Concord, in the Connecticut
valley, about half a mile from the Connecticut River. I am thirteen
years old.—Good-bye, </p>
<p class="author">
E. A. M.</p>
</blockquote>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<h4>A TURTLE CART.</h4>
<blockquote><p class="indent">
<span class="sc">Dear Jack</span>: Looking over the fence into my neighbor's yard last
summer, I saw what seemed to be a Liliputian load of hay in a tiny
cart, going along the path. Whatever power drew it, was hidden
from my sight; but the motion of the cart made me half expect to
see a yoke of tiny oxen turn the corner. In a few moments, a small
turtle appeared in sight, plodding leisurely along and drawing behind
him the cart I had seen, which was very small and light.</p>
<p>
I was assured by my little neighbor that the turtle liked the business
very much; but, belonging to the S. P. C. A., I felt obliged to
know the facts. I found that the turtle had his liberty nearly all the
time, and a pond of water specially for his use; and that, when the
haying season should end, he would be turned out to pasture in his
native bog for the rest of the year.</p>
<p>
It was a very comical sight, and, knowing my little friend's tenderness
of heart, I was sure the turtle would receive nothing but kindness
at his hands. The shell was not pierced, but the queer trotter
was attached to the cart by means of a harness made of tape, allowing
him free movement of the head, legs, and tail. If any of your
boys should decide to follow my little friend's example, I trust that
they will be as gentle as he in the treatment of their turtles.—Yours
truly, </p>
<p class="author">
E. F. L.</p>
</blockquote>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<h4>ANOTHER TURTLE STORY.</h4>
<blockquote><p class="indent">
<span class="sc">Dear Jack</span>: One day, Rob and I (he's my brother) heard sister
Welthy screaming awfully. We were playing in the barn, but of
course we rushed out as hard as we could to save her life, if possible.
We did not know where she was, but the screams grew louder as we
neared the house.</p>
<p>
At last we found her near the side-door—and what do you think
was the matter?</p>
<p>
Why, she was screaming at a turtle!</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%;">
<img src="images/075-500.jpg" width="500" height="460" alt="A CORNER IN TURTLES." border="0" />
<p class="center">A CORNER IN TURTLES.</p>
</div>
<p>
You don't know how funny it did seem. But we captured the
dreadful monster (?) and comforted her as well as we could.</p>
<p>
Now, Jack, as you and the Little Schoolma'am can do everything,
wont you please get ST. NICHOLAS to show us a picture of this
scene? I do believe Sis would laugh as hard as any of us if she
could see it.—Yours affectionately, </p>
<p class="author">
<span class="sc">Ned</span> G. P.</p>
</blockquote>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<h4>HALF SWEET, HALF SOUR.</h4>
<p>
The birds tell me that in a certain country
grows an apple one half of which is sweet and the
other half sour. I don't think I should like that
sort of apple. The sweet side might do very well,
as far as it went; but if you happened to bite on
the other side,—ugh!</p>
<p>
I like things that are good all through, so that I
can be sure how to take them. Don't you?</p><br /><br />
<h4>Footnotes</h4>
<p class="note"><a name="III1" id="III1"></a>
<a class="note" href="#III1r">[Footnote 1:</a> See <span class="sc">St. Nicholas</span> for January, 1874.]</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page68" id="page68"></a><span class="left">[page 68]</span>
<h2>OUR MUSIC PAGE</h2>
<h3>CAN A LITTLE CHILD, LIKE ME?</h3>
<h4><span class="sc">A Thanksgiving Hymn</span>.</h4>
<p>
<span style="float: right;">
Music by <span class="sc">Wm. K. Bassford</span>. </span>
Words by <span class="sc">Mary Mapes Dodge</span>.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%;">
<a href="images/076.jpg"><img src="images/076-320.jpg" width="320" height="465" alt="A THANKSGIVING HYMN." border="0" /></a>
</div>
<table summary="poem">
<tr>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>1. Can a little child like me,</p>
<p class="i2">Thank the Father fittingly?</p>
<p class="i2">Yes, oh yes! be good and true.</p>
<p class="i2">Patient, kind in all you do;</p>
<p class="i2">Love the Lord and do your part,</p>
<p class="i2">Learn to say with all your heart:</p>
<p class="i4">Father, we thank Thee!</p>
<p class="i4">Father, we thank Thee! </p>
<p class="i2">Father in Heaven, we thank Thee!</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
<td class="poem">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>2. For the fruit upon the tree,</p>
<p class="i2">For the birds that sing of Thee,</p>
<p class="i2">For the earth in beauty drest,</p>
<p class="i2">Father, mother and the rest,</p>
<p class="i2">For thy precious, loving care,</p>
<p class="i2">For Thy bounty ev'rywhere,</p>
<p class="i4">Father, we thank Thee!</p>
<p class="i4">Father, we thank Thee! </p>
<p class="i2">Father in Heaven, we thank Thee!</p>
</div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p class="center">
Music and words copyrighted, 1877, by Wm. K. Bassford</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br />
<a name="page69" id="page69"></a><span class="left">[page 69]</span>
<h3>"THE BABY'S OPERA" AND WALTER CRANE.</h3>
<p>
Of the many great artists of England, Walter Crane
is accounted among the ablest and most gifted. As
a painter on the canvas he stands high with critics;
and in this country he is most widely known by his
designs of colored picture-books for children. This is
what one critic says of him in this regard: "Walter
Crane has every charm. His design is rich, original,
and full of discovery. His drawing is at once manly
and sweet, and his color is as delightful as a garden of
roses in June. And with these accomplishments he
comes full-handed to the children,—and to their parents
and lovers too!—and makes us all rich with a pleasure
none of us ever knew as children, and never could have
looked to know."</p>
<p>
After this, it is very discouraging to learn, from a
letter of Mr. Crane's to the Editor of <span class="sc">Scribner's
Monthly</span>, that one may be deceived in buying Mr.
Crane's books. This is particularly the case with "The
Baby's Opera." So now we tell the readers of <span class="sc">St.
Nicholas</span> that every true copy of "The Baby's Opera"
bears on its title-page the name of Messrs. George
Routledge & Sons, the publishers, as well as Mr.
Crane's, and that of the engraver and printer, Mr.
Edmund Evans. To a purchaser, it would matter little
that there were two editions of a work as long as the
unauthorized one was exactly like the original; but Mr.
Crane says that "the pirated edition grossly misrepresents
his drawings, both in style and coloring; that the
arrangement of the pages is different; and that the full-page
colored plates are complete travesties, and very
coarse ones, of the originals." And it does not at all
improve the false copy that it is to be bought for less
than the true one costs. It would be bad enough merely
to deprive Mr. Crane of the profits of selling an exact
imitation of his book, but it is far worse to put a <i>bad</i>
sham before the people as the work of a true artist. This
not only lessens his gains, but also takes away from his
good name, besides spoiling the taste of the youngsters.</p>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="letters" id="letters"></a>
<h2>THE LETTER-BOX.</h2>
<blockquote><p>
<span class="sc">Girls and Boys</span>: You will all be very sorry, we know, to learn
that the beginning of Miss Alcott's serial story, "Under the Lilacs,"
has been postponed to the December number; but in place of it, we
print this month the capital short story of "Mollie's Boyhood,"
which, we feel sure, will go far toward repaying you for the disappointment.
We must ask you to wait a month longer for the opening
chapters of the serial, and we mean to give you then a much longer
installment of it than could have been printed in the present issue.</p>
<p>
Meanwhile, you will find that the splendid article on Christmas
Gifts, which occupies twenty-two pages of this number, contains
novelties, hints, plates, and directions enough to keep your minds so
busy planning, and your hands so busily at work, during the next
few weeks, that the December <span class="sc">St. Nicholas</span> will come before you
think of expecting it, and perhaps before you have half finished your
pretty gifts.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" /><br />
<blockquote><p>
<span class="sc">Dear Little Schoolma'am</span>: Please will you tell me if it is warm
or cold, and if it is dark or light, in the places between the stars?—Yours
affectionately,</p>
<p class="author">
<span class="sc">Constance Durivage</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="comment"><p>
The Little Schoolma'am respectfully hands over this question to
other little schoolma'ams.</p></blockquote>
<hr class="short" /><br />
<blockquote><p>
<span class="sc">Dear St. Nicholas</span>: I make so many of the "Thistle-Puffs"
spoken of in the September number that I thought I would let you
know how I fix mine. After I get the thistles I cut off all the green
excepting a little at the bottom; then I pull out all the purple, and
leave them out in the sun till they are perfectly round white balls.
They are very pretty in hats. Please put me down as a Bird-defender.—Your
constant reader,</p>
<p class="author">
<span class="sc">Alice Gertrude Benedict</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" /><br />
<blockquote><p class="author">
Exmouth, England, August 27th.</p>
<p>
<span class="sc">Dear St. Nicholas</span>: I have read the story of the "Blue-Coat
Boy," and like it. I am in England, and almost every day see a
Blue-Coat boy pass our house. I think he looks like the picture in
the <span class="sc">St. Nicholas</span>. I should not like to wear the long coat, because
I couldn't run in it; and I should think he would get a sunstroke,
without a hat, if he ever goes to the beach. Aunt Fanny is like my
mamma; she never asks for the right thing at the shops. I like the
<span class="sc">St. Nicholas</span>, and wish another one would come. My aunty gave
it to me for a Christmas present for a whole year.—Your friend,</p>
<p class="author">
<span class="sc">benedict Crowell</span>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" /><br />
<blockquote class="comment"><p>
We are very glad to see the interest which our readers have taken
in the subject of "School-luncheons." Many boys and girls have
sent in letters, thanking us for the article in our September number,
and filled with sage bits of experience. We should like to acknowledge
these separately, and print some of them, but can do no more
here than express our thanks to our young correspondents, one and
all, for their kind and hearty words.</p>
<p>
It will interest them all to know, however, that the article has
attracted attention, and aroused enthusiasm among the older people
too,—their fathers and mothers, and teachers, and even their favorite
writers. For here, among the many letters it has brought us, is one
that is peculiarly welcome. Our readers will have little difficulty in
guessing who the writer is:</p></blockquote> <br /><br />
<blockquote><p class="author">
August 26th.</p>
<p>
<span class="sc">Dear Little Schoolma'am</span>: Being much interested, as well as
amused, by the luncheon article in ST. NICHOLAS for September, I
should like to add one more to the list of odd luncheons.</p>
<p>
A pretty little dish of boiled rice, with a cake of molasses, or preserve
of some sort, in the middle. This, fitted into a basket, and
covered with a plate, goes safely, and, with the addition of a napkin
and two spoons, makes a simple meal for hungry children.</p>
<p>
It may find favor in the eyes, or rather mouths, of the young
readers of <span class="sc">St. Nicholas</span>, not only because it is good, but because it
was the favorite lunch once upon a time of two little girls who are
now pretty well known as "Meg and Jo March." It may be well
to add that these young persons never had dyspepsia in their lives,—pie
and pickles, cake and candy being unknown "goodies" to them.</p>
<p>
With best wishes for the success of this much-needed reform in
school-children's diet, I am, yours truly,</p>
<p class="author">
L. M. A.</p>
</blockquote>
<br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br />
<a name="moons"></a>
<h3><span class="sc">The Moons of Mars</span>.</h3>
<blockquote class="comment"><p>
Since Professor Proctor wrote the paper entitled "Mars, the
Planet of War," published in this number, there has been made, in
relation to its subject, a discovery that the scientists say will rank
among the most brilliant achievements of astronomy.</p>
<p>
A great difference once thought to exist between Mars and the
other planets was that he had no moons; but during the night of the
16th of August, Professor Hall, of the U.S. Naval Observatory at
Washington, D.C., actually saw through his telescope that Mars
has a moon. On the 18th of August another was seen, smaller than
the first and nearer to the planet. The larger satellite is believed to
be not more than ten miles in diameter: it is less than 12,000 miles
distant from its primary, and its period of revolution about it is<a name="page70" id="page70"></a><span class="left">[page 70]</span>
30 hours 14 minutes. The distance of the smaller moon is 3,300 miles,
and its period 7 hours 38 minutes. There is no doubt that these
newly found celestial bodies are the smallest known.</p>
<p>
From measurements made by Professor Hall, it is found, with a
near approach to certainty, that the mass of Mars is equal to
1-3,090,000th part of the mass of the sun. This result was arrived at
after only ten minutes of calculation, and is believed to be more nearly
accurate than that obtained by M. Le Verrier, the great French
astronomer, from observations continued through a century and after
several years of laborious calculation by a corps of computers. This
wonderful difference in the expenditure of time and labor is due to
the vigilance of Professor Hall and to the admirable qualities of his
instrument, the great twenty-six inch refracting telescope made by
Alvan Clark & Sons.</p></blockquote>
<br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br />
<blockquote><p class="author">
Oakland, Cal.</p>
<p>
<span class="sc">Dear St. Nicholas</span>: I do not wish to make you any trouble,
but I would like it very much if you could find room in some
number to give a good explanation of the great war in Europe. I
can't understand it in the newspaper, but I am pretty sure you can
make it plain and simple enough for all of your young readers.—Yours
truly,</p>
<p class="author">
<span class="sc">Neb</span>.</p>
</blockquote> <br /><br />
<blockquote class="comment"><p>
The Turco-Russian war is partly a conflict of religions and
partly one of politics. The Turks came into Europe as the religious
emissaries of the Mohammedan religion. In all the provinces of
Turkey in Europe which they conquered, the Christians of the Greek,
Armenian and Catholic churches were the victims of a bitter persecution.
The Czar of Russia is the head of the Greek church. He
has made repeated wars in defense of the children of his faith. There
have been many wars and long sieges which, like the present, were
said to be only in defense of the faith of the Greek church—a crusade
and a holy war,</p>
<p>
But if "Neb" will only look at the map of Russia, he will see, if
he will study climate a little, that the vast empire of Russia has one
thing lacking. It has no good outlet to the Atlantic Ocean, no power
upon the seas. The Baltic Sea is closed half the year by ice. The
great wheat trade of Russia concentrates at Odessa, on the Black
Sea, and to get her grain to market she must pass through the Turkish
lanes of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. Russia is a prisoner
as to access to the Mediterranean, and so to the Atlantic, and so to
the world at large. If she is at war, she cannot float her fleets. If
she is at peace, she cannot sell her grain without going roundabout
through her neighbors' lots. Turkey stands the tollman at the turnpike-gate,
controlling and usurping the highway of all nations.</p>
<p>
Maps are fascinating reading. "Neb" must not think that
religious faith ever occasioned a war. Russia sincerely desires the
protection of Greek Christians in Roumania and Bulgaria in Europe,
and Armenia in Asia, but she wants also to send her ships free to the
winds through from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean. Look at the
map once more, "Neb," and see how much of a great country, fertile,
strong, and industrious, is closed and shut against the outer
world by the absolute Turkish control of the Bosphorus and the
Dardanelles.</p></blockquote>
<br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br />
<blockquote><p class="author">
Indianapolis, 1877.</p>
<p>
<span class="sc">Dear St. Nicholas</span>: I have taken every number of your splendid
magazine, and I will now try to do my share to entertain the
others.</p>
<p>
My papa was a soldier in the great civil war, and I was born in
camp just after the close of the war, and am now nearly twelve years
old.</p>
<p>
General Sherman, who made the great "march to the sea," wrote
me a letter, which is very much too good for one boy alone, so I send
it to you to publish, so that other children may have the benefit of it
too.—Your reader,</p>
<p class="author">
<span class="sc">Bernie M</span>.</p>
</blockquote><br /><br /><br />
<blockquote class="note">
<p class="author">
"Head-quarters Army of the United States,<br />
"Washington, D. C., April 21, 1877.</p>
<div class="poem2">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"<span class="sc">Master Bernie M</span>.</p>
<p class="i6">"Indianapolis:</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>
"I have received the handsome photograph sent me, and recognize
the features of a fine young lad, who has before him every opportunity
to grow up a man of fine physique, with a mind cultivated to
meet whatever vicissitudes and opportunities the future may present.
Many boys in reading history have a feeling of regret that their lives
had not fallen in some former period, replete with events of stirring
interest, such as our Revolutionary War, or that in Mexico, or even
the Civil War, wherein they feel that they might have played a conspicuous
part.</p>
<p>
"Don't you make this mistake. The next hundred years will present
more opportunities for distinction than the past, for our country
now contains only forty millions of people, which will probably double
every thirty-three years, so that if you live to three score years and
ten you will be a citizen of a republic of two hundred millions of
people. Now, all changes are attended by conflict of mind or of arms,
and you may rest easy that there will be plenty for you to do, and
plenty of honor and fame if you want them. The true rule of life is
to prepare in advance, so as to be ready for the opportunity when it
presents itself.</p>
<p>
"I surely hope you will grow in strength and knowledge, and do
a full man's share in building up the future of this country, which
your fathers have prepared for you.</p>
<p class="author">"Truly your friend,<br />
<span class="sc">"W.T. Sherman</span>, General."</p></blockquote>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<blockquote class="comment"><p>
No doubt many of our readers have read some of the poems of
Charles and Mary Lamb, and all who have will be interested in the
following news concerning one of their books. In 1809 they published
a little volume of "Poetry for Children," but only a few copies
were printed, and these were soon out of print, so that the book
has long been considered lost to the world. It was recently discovered,
however, that the little book had been reprinted in Boston
in 1812, and the only two copies of this edition known to exist in
this country have lately come into possession of Messrs. Scribner,
Armstrong & Co., who intend to republish the volume this fall. The
book contains many delightful little poems for boys and girls, prettily
rhymed, and full of the quaint humor and conceits which mark the
other writings of the authors. We should like to print several of
them, but have only room for these:</p></blockquote>
<br /><br />
<h3><span class="sc">The Young Letter-Writer</span>.</h3>
<div class="poem1">
<div class="stanza">
<p><i>Dear Sir</i>, <i>Dear Madam</i>, or <i>Dear Friend</i>,</p>
<p class="i2">With ease are written at the top;</p>
<p>When these two happy words are penn'd,</p>
<p class="i2">A youthful writer oft will stop,</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>And bite his pen, and lift his eyes,</p>
<p class="i2">As if he thinks to find in air</p>
<p>The wish'd-for following words, or tries</p>
<p class="i2">To fix his thoughts by fixed stare.</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>But haply all in vain—the next</p>
<p class="i2">Two words may be so long before</p>
<p>They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,</p>
<p class="i2">Gives in despair the matter o'er;</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>And when maturer age he sees</p>
<p class="i2">With ready pen so swift inditing,</p>
<p>With envy he beholds the ease</p>
<p class="i2">Of long-accustom'd letter-writing.</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Courage, young friend, the time may be,</p>
<p class="i2">When you attain maturer age,</p>
<p>Some young as you are now may see</p>
<p class="i2">You with like ease glide down a page.</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Ev'n then, when you, to years a debtor,</p>
<p class="i2">In varied phrase your meanings wrap,</p>
<p>The welcom'st words in all your letter</p>
<p class="i2">May be those two kind words at top.</p>
</div>
</div>
<br /><br />
<h3><span class="sc">Crumbs to the Birds</span>.</h3>
<div class="poem1">
<div class="stanza">
<p>A bird appears a thoughtless thing,</p>
<p>He's ever living on the wing,</p>
<p>And keeps up such a carolling,</p>
<p>That little else to do but sing</p>
<p class="i6">A man would guess had he.</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>No doubt he has his little cares,</p>
<p>And very hard he often fares;</p>
<p>The which so patiently he bears,</p>
<p>That, listening to those cheerful airs,</p>
<p class="i6">Who knows but he may be</p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>In want of his next meal of seeds?</p>
<p>I think for <i>that</i> his sweet song pleads;</p>
<p>If so, his pretty art succeeds.</p>
<p>I'll scatter there among the weeds</p>
<p class="i6">All the small crumbs I see.</p>
</div>
</div>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<blockquote class="comment"><p>
We very seldom take up a book only to break the tenth commandment;
but Bayard Taylor's recent volume, "The Boys of Other
Countries," published by the Putnams, always has that effect upon us,
for we wish that every one of the stories in it had been written for
ST. NICHOLAS. The best thing we can say to our boys and girls, of
a book so well described by its title, is that it contains "Jon of Iceland,"
which originally appeared in this magazine, and that each of
the stories is as good in its way as "Jon" itself.</p></blockquote>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<a name="page71" id="page71"></a><span class="left">[page 71]</span>
<h2>THE RIDDLE-BOX.</h2>
<div class="riddle">
<h4>DOUBLE ACROSTIC.</h4>
<p>
The initials name a noted philosopher, and the finals an eminent
astronomer.</p>
<p>
1. A narrow arm of the sea. 2. A beautiful flower. 3. A tree,
usually growing in moist land. 4. A small marine animal. 5. A
river in the United States. 6. A cone-bearing tree. 7. A tract of land,
surrounded by water. 8. A metal.</p>
<p class="author">
ISOLA.</p><br /><br />
<h4>BROKEN WORDS.</h4>
<p>
Find a word to fill the single blank, and divide it into smaller
words (without transposing any letters) to fill the other blanks. Thus:
Such <i>forages</i> have gone on in that forest <i>for ages</i>.</p>
<p>
1. You must not think the whole were —— because he —— ——.
2. One of this boy's minor —— is his constant climbing —— ——.
3. When I gave him a pledge, the toper said with a —— look, "You
—— —— —— ——." 6. The alder was pictured against the ——,
every branch, leaf, and —— —— standing out clearly.</p>
<p class="author">
B.</p><br /><br />
<h4>PICTORIAL NUMERICAL, REBUS.</h4>
<p>
Find the sum expressed in each horizontal row, and add together the
four numbers thus found, to form the complete sum
expressed by the rebus.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/079-400.jpg" width="400" height="402" alt="PICTORIAL NUMERICAL, REBUS." border="0" />
</div><br /><br />
<h4>HOUR-GLASS PUZZLE.</h4>
<p>
1. Unceasing. 2. Of little worth. 3. Habitation. 4. Ancient.
5. A vowel. 6. Devoured. 7. To muse. 8. A maker of arms.
9. Small flat fish. The centrals read downward name the act of unfolding.</p>
<p class="author">
GEORGE CHINN.</p><br /><br />
<h4>BEHEADINGS AND CURTAILINGS.</h4>
<p>
1. Curtail a disgrace, and leave an imposture. Behead, and
leave one of Noah's sons. Curtail, and leave an exclamation denoting
surprise, joy, or grief. Behead again, and leave a vowel.</p>
<p>
2. Curtail a color, and leave a very small part. Behead, and leave
a verb signifying "to strike." Behead again, and leave a pronoun.
Curtail, and leave a simple, personal pronoun.</p>
<p>
3. Curtail a beautiful marine production, and leave a girl's name.
Behead, and leave an ancient coin. Curtail, and leave a conjunction.
Behead, and leave a consonant.</p>
<p>
4. Behead a part of the body, and leave a kind of tree. Curtail,
and leave an article used in toilets. Behead, and leave a preposition.
Curtail, and leave a pronoun.</p>
<p>
5. Curtail a sweet juice collected by bees, and leave a stone for
sharpening razors. Behead, and leave a number. Curtail, and leave
a preposition. Curtail, and leave an invocation.</p>
<p class="author">
N. T. M.</p><br /><br />
<h4>NUMERICAL ENIGMA.</h4>
<p>
After handing a mug of 9, 2, 3 to the man who was at the 7, 4,
5 of the 1, 6, 8, Frank resumed reading the life of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
8, 9.</p>
<p class="author">
ISOLA.</p><br /><br />
<h4>EASY DIAMOND PUZZLE.</h4>
<p>
1. In dwelling but not in house. 2. A Spanish poem. 3. A girl's
name. 4. A precious stone. 5. A term in English law. 6. An insect.
7. In bird but not in beast.</p>
<p class="author">
O'B.</p><br /><br />
<h4>CHARADE.</h4>
<div class="poem1">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i16"><b>I.</b></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Out on the hill-side, bleak and bare,</p>
<p>In winter's chill and summer's glare,</p>
<p>Down by the ocean's rugged shore,</p>
<p>Where the restless billows toss and roar,</p>
<p>Deep in gloomy caves and mines,</p>
<p>Where mists are foul and the sun ne'er shines,</p>
<p>Man studies my first and second well,</p>
<p>To learn what story they have to tell.</p>
</div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="poem1">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i16"><b>II.</b></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Go to the depths of the fathomless sea,</p>
<p>Go where the dew-drop shines on the lea,</p>
<p>Go where are gathered in lands afar,</p>
<p>The treasures of earth for the rich bazaar,</p>
<p>Go to the crowded ball-room, where</p>
<p>All that is lovely, and young, and fair,</p>
<p>Charms the soul with beauty and grace,</p>
<p>And my third shall meet you face to face.</p>
</div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="poem1">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i16"><b>III.</b></p></div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>When war's red hand was raised to slay,</p>
<p>And front to front great armies lay,</p>
<p>Then, oft in the silent midnight camp,</p>
<p>When naught was heard but the sentry's tramp,</p>
<p>As he patiently paced his lonely round,</p>
<p>My whole was sought, and yet when found,</p>
<p>It sent full many a warrior brave</p>
<p>To his last long rest, in a soldier's grave.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="author">
E. J. A.</p><br /><br />
<h4>PUZZLE BOUQUET.</h4>
<p>
1. A cunning animal and a covering for the hand. 2. A voracious
bird of prey and a useless plant. 3. A pipe and a flower. 4. A
sweetmeat and a bunch of hair. 5. A noun meaning a quick breaking
and a winged serpent. 6. A stone fence and the blossom of a plant.
7. Fragrant and a vegetable. 8. An entertainment of dancing and
a boy's nickname. 9. Vapor frozen in flakes, and to let fall. 10. To
enter into the conjugal state, and a precious metal.</p>
<p class="author">
GEORGE CHINN.</p><br /><br />
<h4>TRANSPOSITIONS.</h4>
<p>
Fill the first blank with a certain word, and then, by transposing
the final letter to the place of the initial, form a word to fill the second
blank. Example: In the <i>halls</i> of her ancestors she <i>shall</i> tread without
fear.</p>
<p>
1. There is not on —— a person of larger ——. 2. On the banks
of the —— the traveler —— alone. 3. As the thought of her kindness
—— up in my heart, it causes it to —— with gratitude. 4. It
was with no —— intent that —— destroyed his first will. 5. I noticed
on the —— of the pond quantities of ——.</p>
<p class="author">
B.</p><br /><br />
<h4>LETTER ANAGRAMS.</h4>
<p>
Write a line in each case describing the position of the letters
toward each other, and transpose the letters used in this description
to make a word which will answer the definition given. Thus:</p>
<p>
<tt>R. }</tt> A part of the day. <i>Ans</i>. R. on M. (transposed) Morn.<br />
<tt>M. }</tt></p>
<p>
<tt>1. { L. }</tt> A kind of bird.<br />
<tt> { P. }</tt><br /><br />
<tt>2. S. R.</tt> Parts of a house.<br /><br />
<tt>3. S. T.</tt> A piece of furniture.<br /><br />
<tt>4. { L. }</tt> To pillage.<br />
<tt> { P. }</tt><br /><br />
<tt>5. { Et. }</tt> Not rhythmical.<br />
<tt> { Ic. }</tt></p>
<p class="author">
H. H. D.</p><br /><br />
<h4>HIDDEN DRESS GOODS.</h4>
<p>
1. Seizing the rascal I compelled him to give up the money. 2.
Aunt Nell is fond of singing Hamburg. 3. Belle Prescott only failed
once last year. 4. Eveline never learned to control herself. 5. Where
is Towser, Gertie? 6. I met Homer in Oregon. 7. Where did you
find such a queer fossil, Kenneth? 8. Tom Thumb is a tiny specimen
of humanity. 9. Did Erasmus Lincoln lose all his property by
the fire?</p><br /><br />
<a name="page72" id="page72"></a><span class="left">[page 72]</span>
<h4>PICTORIAL, PROVERB-ACROSTIC.</h4>
<p>
Arrange the words represented by the numbered pictures in their order. The initials
and finals (reading down the former and continuing
down the latter) form a familiar proverb, the sentiment of which is suggested by
the central picture.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/080-500.jpg" width="500" height="464" alt="PICTORIAL, PROVERB-ACROSTIC." border="0" />
</div>
<br /><br /><hr class="short" /><br /><br /><br />
<h3>ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN OCTOBER NUMBER.</h3>
<p class="note"><span class="sc">Double Diamond Puzzle</span>.—</p>
<div class="poem1">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i8"><tt>M</tt></p>
<p class="i6"><tt>G A S</tt></p>
<p class="i4"><tt>M A P L E</tt></p>
<p class="i6"><tt>S L Y</tt></p>
<p class="i8"><tt>E</tt></p>
<p class="i8"><tt>S</tt></p>
<p class="i6"><tt>N U T</tt></p>
<p class="i4"><tt>S U G A R</tt></p>
<p class="i6"><tt>T A R</tt></p>
<p class="i8"><tt>R</tt></p>
</div>
</div>
<br /><br />
<p class="note">
<span class="sc">Square-Word</span>.—Midas, Ivory, Donor, Arose, Syten.<br />
<span class="sc">Charade</span>.—Dilapidated.<br />
<span class="sc">Numerical Enigma</span>.—Handsome.<br />
<span class="sc">Double Acrostic</span>—Centennial Exposition.—<b>C</b>lov<b>E</b>, <b>E</b>sse<b>X</b>,<br />
<b>N</b>a<b>P</b>, <b>T</b>allyh<b>O</b>, <b>E</b>piglotti<b>S</b>, <b>N</b>erol<b>I</b>, <b>N</b>ahan<b>T</b>,
<b>I</b>tta<b>I</b>, <b>A</b>rn<b>O</b>, <b>L</b>emo<b>N</b>.</p>
<p class="note">
<span class="sc">Riddle</span>.—Linest, Inlets, Enlist, Tinsel, Silent, Listen.</p>
<p class="note">
<span class="sc">Diagonal Puzzle</span>.—Grand, Prate.</p>
<div class="poem1">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i4"><tt>G L A R E</tt></p>
<p class="i4"><tt>C R A T E</tt></p>
<p class="i4"><tt>P L A T E</tt></p>
<p class="i4"><tt>C R A N E</tt></p>
<p class="i4"><tt>P L A I D</tt></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="note">
<span class="sc">Combination Puzzle</span>.—</p>
<div class="poem1">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i4"><tt>P—rive—T</tt></p>
<p class="i4"><tt>E—pod—–E</tt></p>
<p class="i4"><tt>A—lid—–A</tt></p>
<p class="i4"><tt>C—ape—–S</tt></p>
<p class="i4"><tt>E—lop—–E</tt></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="note">
<span class="sc">Easy Diamond Puzzle</span>.—I, Asa, Isola, Ale, A.</p>
<p class="note">
<span class="sc">Puzzle</span>.—Gondola.</p><br /><br />
<p class="note">
<span class="sc">Answers to Puzzles in September Number</span> were received previous to September 18, from—Emma Elliott, Brainerd P. Emery,
Allie Bertram, Sarah D. Oakley, "Camille and Leonie," "Tip," "Yankee," J.W. Myers, George G. Champlin, Alice M. Mason, Maria
Peckham, Florence E. Hyde, Minnie Warner, B. O'Hara, "Green Mountain Boy," John Hinkley, Florence Wilcox, "Bessie and Sue,"
Julia Kirene Ladd, Grace Austin Smith, Arthur C. Smith, George Herbert White, William A. Crocker, Jr, Georgiana Mead, A.G.D.,
James Iredell, Lizzie and Anna, Agnes E. Kennedy, Anna E. Mathewson, C.S. Riche, Edith McKeever, Nessie E. Stevens, Carrie
Lawson, Charles G. Todd, Ella and Kittie Blanke, W. Creighton Spencer, W. Irving Spencer, Edith Heard, M.W.C., Mary C. Warren,
Lena and Annie, Annie Streckewald, Hattie Peck, Jennie Passmore, George J. Fiske.</p>
</div>
<br /><br /><br/>
<hr class="full" /><br/><br/>
<table width="50%" align="center" summary="note" border="0">
<tr>
<td class="note">
<p class="tag">
Transcriber's Note:<br />
Some parts of the TOC were illegible, and a few missing page numbers have
been replaced with '?'s.</p>
<p class="tag">
p. 27: changed 'rains' to 'trains':<br />
...--; just like the
lines by which trains are made to run easily off one
track on to another.</p>
<p class="tag">
p. 30: Missing opening quote replaced:<br />
"The snows that glittered on the disc of Mars..."
</p>
<p class="tag">
p. 31: ' replaced with ":
"Don't you think, papa, that that's enough about
the sun? Come and play with us on the lawn."</p>
<p class="tag">
p. 59: Missing ) replaced:<br />
...(widening the strip,
however, in proportion as the fabric is thinner). </p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br/><br/><br /><hr class="full" /><br /><br />
<a name="index" id="index"></a>
<h3>CONTENTS VOLUME V.</h3>
<table width="110%" align="center" border="0" summary="contents">
<tr>
<td colspan="2" valign="top"> </td>
<td class="right">PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Alcott</span>, Miss. (Illustrated from photograph)</td>
<td><i>F. B. S.</i> </td>
<td class="right">129</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Alphabet Français</span>, Un. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Laura Caxton</i> </td>
<td class="right">816</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Always Behindhand</span>. Talk with Girls</td>
<td><i>M. D. K.</i> </td>
<td class="right">434</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Annie and the Balls</span>. (Illustrated by the Author)</td>
<td><i>H. E. H.</i> </td>
<td class="right">205</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">April's Sunbeam</span>. Verses</td>
<td><i>Joy Allison</i> </td>
<td class="right">398</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Arms of Great Britain</span>, The. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes)</td>
<td><i>Susan Archer Weiss</i> </td>
<td class="right">190</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Atlantic Cable</span>, Secrets of the. (Illustrated by A. C. Warren)</td>
<td><i>William H. Rideing</i> </td>
<td class="right">327</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Ax of Ranier</span>, The. (Illustrated by E.B. Bensell)</td>
<td><i>Thomas Dunn English</i> </td>
<td class="right">709</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page69"><span class="sc">"Baby's Opera" and Walter Crane</span>, The.</a></td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page69">69</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Barbecue</span>, The. (Illustrated by Walter Shirlaw)</td>
<td><i>Sarah Winter Kellogg</i> </td>
<td class="right">602</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Belinda Blonde</span>. Verses. </td>
<td><i>Laura E. Richards</i></td>
<td class="right">272</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#bell"><span class="sc">Bell-Ringers</span>, The Stickleback.</a> (Illustrated by James C. Beard)</td>
<td><i>C. F. Holder</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page31">31</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Birds and their Families</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Professor W. K. Brooks</i> </td>
<td class="right">606</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Birds Fly</span>, How. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Professor W. K. Brooks</i></td>
<td class="right">734</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#boggs"><span class="sc">Boggs's Photograph</span>.</a> Picture.</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page21">21</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Born in Prison</span>. (Illustrated by Edwin L. Sheppard)</td>
<td><i>Julia P. Ballard</i> </td>
<td class="right">730</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Boy in the Box</span>, The. (Illustrated by C.S. Reinhart)</td>
<td><i>Helen C. Barnard</i> </td>
<td class="right">356</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Boy's Experience with Tar Marbles</span>, A. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis)</td>
<td><i>C. S. N.</i></td>
<td class="right">617</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Boy who Jumped on Trains</span>, The. Poem. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins)</td>
<td><i>Mary Hartwell</i> </td>
<td class="right">132</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Bruno's Revenge</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Author of "Alice in Wonderland</i> </td>
<td class="right">18?</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Butterfly-Chase</span>, The. Poem. </td>
<td><i>Ellis Gray</i></td>
<td class="right">548</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Butts, A Chapter of Five Pictures</span>.</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right">77</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">By the Sad Sea Waves</span>. Picture drawn by </td>
<td><i>"Sphinx"</i> </td>
<td class="right">716</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page68"><span class="sc">Can a Little Child Like Me</span>?</a> (Thanksgiving Hymn)</td>
<td><i>Mary Mapes Dodge</i> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page68">68</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Canary that Talked too Much</span>, The. </td>
<td><i>Margaret Eytinge</i> </td>
<td class="right">331</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Carlyle</span>, Thomas. (Crumbs from Older Reading, III.)</td>
<td><i>Julia E. Sargent</i></td>
<td class="right">565</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Carol</span>, The Minstrel's. A Christmas Colloquy.</td>
<td><i>I. V. Blake</i></td>
<td class="right">153</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Charades</span>, Four. Verses.</td>
<td><i>C. P. Cranch</i></td>
<td class="right">406</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Charcoal-Burners' Fire</span>, The. (Illustrated by J.L. Dickinson)</td>
<td><i>David Ker</i></td>
<td class="right">490</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#wolves"><span class="sc">Chased by Wolves</span>.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>George Dudley Lawson</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page3">3</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page1"><span class="sc">Child-Queen</span>, A.</a> (Illustrated by Alfred Fredericks) </td>
<td><i>Cecilia Cleveland</i> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page1">1</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Christmas Card</span>.</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right">91</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page42"><span class="sc">Christmas-Gifts</span>, A Budget of Home-Made.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page42">42</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Churning</span>. Poem. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly)</td>
<td><i>Sara Keables Hunt</i></td>
<td class="right">676</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Cock and the Sun</span>, The. Jingle. (Illustrated by F. S. Church)</td>
<td><i>J. P. B</i> </td>
<td class="right">359</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Common-sense in the Household</span>. Verses. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis)</td>
<td><i>Margaret Vandegrift</i> </td>
<td class="right">326</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Coolest Man in Russia</span>, The. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly)</td>
<td><i>David Ker</i></td>
<td class="right">229</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#cricket"><span class="sc">Cricket on the Hearth</span>, The.</a> Poem. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Clara Doty Bates</i> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page33">33</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Crip's Garret-Day</span>.</td>
<td><i>Sarah J. Prichard</i></td>
<td class="right">339</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Crow that the Crow Crowed</span>, The.</td>
<td><i>S. Conant Foster</i></td>
<td class="right">694</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Crumbs from Older Reading</span></td>
<td><i>Julia E. Sargent</i></td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
I. <span class="sc">Emerson</span></td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right">262</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
II. <span class="sc">Irving</span></td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right">354</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
III. <span class="sc">Carlyle</span></td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right">565</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Dab Kinzer</span>: A Story of a Growing Boy. (Illustrated by H. F. Farney, Geo. Inness, Jr., Sol. Eytinge and H. P. Smith)</td>
<td><i>William O. Stoddard</i> </td>
<td class="right">553, 620, 679, 744, 798</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Debby's Christmas</span>. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis)</td>
<td><i>Ella A. Drinkwater</i></td>
<td class="right">223</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Dick Hardin away at School</span>.</td>
<td><i>Lucy J. Rider</i> </td>
<td class="right">386</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Digger-Wasps at Home</span>, The. (Illustrated by R. Riordan)</td>
<td><i>E. A. E.</i></td>
<td class="right">667</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Dog-Show</span>, A Visit to a London. (Illustrated by J. F. Runge)</td>
<td><i>Laura Sked Pomeroy</i></td>
<td class="right">420</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#tragedy"><span class="sc">Domestic Tragedy</span>, A.</a> In Two Parts (Illustration)</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page31">31</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Drifted into Port</span>. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge and Thomas Moran)</td>
<td><i>Edwin Hodder</i> </td>
<td class="right">342, 425, 494</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Easter Eggs</span>. Poem.</td>
<td><i>Clara W. Raymond</i></td>
<td class="right">419</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Easter in Germany</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>F. E. Corne</i></td>
<td class="right">381</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Easter Lilies</span>. Picture </td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right">399</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Emergency Mistress</span>, The. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Frank R. Stockton</i></td>
<td class="right">669</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Emerson, Ralph Waldo</span>. (Crumbs from Older Reading, I.)</td>
<td><i>Julia E. Sargent</i> </td>
<td class="right">262</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Exciting Ride</span> An. Picture drawn by</td>
<td><i>Miss S. A. Rankin</i> </td>
<td class="right">652</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Fair Exchange</span>, A. Poem.</td>
<td><i>M. F. Butts</i> </td>
<td class="right">820</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Father Chirp</span>. Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins)</td>
<td><i>S. C. Stone</i></td>
<td class="right">476</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Fern-Seed</span>. Poem.</td>
<td><i>Celia Thaxter</i></td>
<td class="right">705</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Fishing-Birds of Florida</span>, Some. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Mrs. Mary Treat</i></td>
<td class="right">282</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Forty</span>, Less One. Poem. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge)</td>
<td><i>James Richardson</i></td>
<td class="right">579</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">"Four little Houses Blue and Round</span>." Jingle</td>
<td><i>M. F. B.</i></td>
<td class="right">465</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Fox, The Monkey, and the Pig</span>, The. (Illustrated by the Author)</td>
<td><i>Howard Pyle</i></td>
<td class="right">743</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Fox and the Turkeys</span>, The. (Illustrated from Gustave Doré)</td>
<td><i>Susan Coolidge</i></td>
<td class="right">756</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Full Stop</span>, A. Silhouette picture drawn by</td>
<td><i>L. Hopkins</i></td>
<td class="right">387</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Gerty</span>. (Illustrated by Frederick Dielman)</td>
<td><i>Margaret W. Hamilton</i></td>
<td class="right">690</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Get Up! Got Down</span>! Silhouettes drawn by</td>
<td><i>L. Hopkins</i></td>
<td class="right">461</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Gifts for St. Nicholas</span>. Poem.</td>
<td><i>Emma E. Brewster</i></td>
<td class="right">294</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Girl who Saved the General</span>, The. (Illustrated by H. F. Farney) </td>
<td><i>Charles H. Woodman</i></td>
<td class="right">577</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Guest</span>, An Agreeable </td>
<td><i>Susan A. Brown</i></td>
<td class="right">180</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Hansa</span>, The Little Lapp Maiden. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Kate B. Horton</i></td>
<td class="right">305</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Happy Fields of Summer</span>. Poem. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Lucy Larcom</i></td>
<td class="right">666</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">"Happy Little Froggy</span>." Poem. (Illustrated by F. S. Church)</td>
<td><i>E. Müller</i></td>
<td class="right">789</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Horse at Sea</span>, A. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly)</td>
<td><i>C. B.</i></td>
<td class="right">367</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Horses of Venice</span>, The Famous. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Mary Lloyd</i></td>
<td class="right">89</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How Birds Fly</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Professor W. K. Brooks</i></td>
<td class="right">734</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How He Caught Him</span>. Six Pictures.</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right">740</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page34"><span class="sc">How I Weighed the Thanksgiving Turkey</span>.</a></td>
<td><i>G. M. Shaw</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page34">34</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How Kitty got Her New Hat</span>. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) </td>
<td><i>E. P. W.</i></td>
<td class="right">182</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How Kitty was Lost in a Turkish Bazaar</span>. (Illustrated by Howard Pyle) </td>
<td><i>Sara Keables Hunt</i></td>
<td class="right">377</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How Lily-Toes was Caught in a Shower</span>. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis) </td>
<td><i>Emily H. Leland</i></td>
<td class="right">731</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How Mandy went Rowing with the Cap'n</span>. (Illustrated by the Author) </td>
<td><i>Mary Hallock Foote</i></td>
<td class="right">449</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How Matches are Made</span>. (Illustrated by A. C. Warren)</td>
<td><i>F. H. C</i></td>
<td class="right">315</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How Sir William Phips Found the Treasure in the Sea</span>. (Illustrated by J. O. Davidson)</td>
<td><i>S. G. W. Benjamin</i></td>
<td class="right">278</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How Teddy Cut the Pie</span>. Verses. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Rossiter Johnson</i></td>
<td class="right">821</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How the Pony was Taken</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>C. W.</i></td>
<td class="right">174</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How the Stone-Age Children Played</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Charles C. Abbott</i></td>
<td class="right">413</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How the Weather is Foretold</span>. (Illustrated by W. H. Gibson)</td>
<td><i>James H. Flint</i></td>
<td class="right">581</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How to Keep a Journal</span>.</td>
<td><i>W. S. Jerome</i></td>
<td class="right">789</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How to Make a Telephone</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>M. F.</i></td>
<td class="right">549</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How to Travel</span>.</td>
<td><i>Susan Anna Brown</i></td>
<td class="right">650</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">How Willy Wolly Went a-Fishing</span>. Verses. (Illustrated by Howard Pyle)</td>
<td><i>S. C. Stone</i></td>
<td class="right">562</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Huckleberry</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Frank R. Stockton</i></td>
<td class="right">274</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Ice-Boat</span>, How to make an. (Diagrams by the Author) </td>
<td><i>J. H. Hubbard</i></td>
<td class="right">220</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">"I'm a Little Story</span>." Poem. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) </td>
<td><i>Margaret Eytinge</i></td>
<td class="right">380</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Irving, Washington</span>. (Crumbs from Older Reading, III.)</td>
<td><i>Julia E. Sargent</i></td>
<td class="right">354</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Italian Flower-Merchant</span>, The Little. Picture drawn by</td>
<td><i>Miss E. M. S. Scannell</i></td>
<td class="right">475</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Jack's Christmas</span>. (Illustrated by Jennie Brownscombe)</td>
<td><i>Emma K. Parrish</i></td>
<td class="right">124</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Japanese "House that Jack Built</span>," The. Picture drawn by</td>
<td><i>William McDougal</i></td>
<td class="right">219</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Jingles</span>.</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page6">6</a>, <a href="#page41">41</a>, 359, 404, 412, 465</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">John and His Velocipede</span>. Sketches drawn by</td>
<td><i>B. D.</i></td>
<td class="right">650</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Johnny</span>. (Illustrated by R. Sayre)</td>
<td><i>Sargent Flint</i></td>
<td class="right">361</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Johnny's Lost Ball</span>.</td>
<td><i>Lloyd Wyman</i> </td>
<td class="right">500</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Juno's Wonderful Troubles</span>. (Illustrated by F.S. Church)</td>
<td><i>E. Müller</i></td>
<td class="right">312</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Kept In</span>. Picture drawn by</td>
<td><i>M. Woolf</i></td>
<td class="right">424</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">King and the Hard Bread</span>, The. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>J. L.</i></td>
<td class="right">503</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">King and the Three Travelers</span>, The. (Illustrated by John Lafarge)</td>
<td><i>Arlo Bates</i></td>
<td class="right">207</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">King Cheese</span>. Poem. Versified from story by Maud Christiani. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins)</td>
<td><i>J. T. Trowbridge</i> </td>
<td class="right">641</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Lady-Bird</span>, Fly away Home. Picture drawn by</td>
<td><i>M. Woolf</i></td>
<td class="right">455</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page13"><span class="sc">The Largest Volcano in the World</span>.</a> (Illustrated)
</td>
<td><i>Sarah Coan</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page13">13</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Left Out</span>. Verse.</td>
<td><i>A. G. W.</i> </td>
<td class="right">128</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Letter to American Boys</span>, A.</td>
<td><i>George MacDonald</i></td>
<td class="right">202</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Linnet's Fee</span>, The. Poem.</td>
<td><i>Mrs. Annie A. Preston</i></td>
<td class="right">798</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Lion-Killer</span>, The. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes). From the French.</td>
<td><i>Mary Wager Fisher</i></td>
<td class="right">78</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Little Bear</span>. Poem. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard)</td>
<td><i>Samuel W. Duffield</i></td>
<td class="right">726</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">"Little Bo-Peep, She went to Sleep</span>." Picture drawn by </td>
<td><i>Miss Jessie McDermot</i></td>
<td class="right">268</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Little Red Canal-Boat</span>, The. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>M. A. Edwards</i></td>
<td class="right">541</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Living Silver</span></td>
<td><i>Mary H. Seymour</i></td>
<td class="right">350</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">London Chair-Mender</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Alexander Wainwright</i></td>
<td class="right">821</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">London Chick-Weed Man</span>, The. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Alexander Wainwright</i></td>
<td class="right">361</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">London Dust-Man</span>, The. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Alexander Wainwright</i></td>
<td class="right">272</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">London Milk-Woman</span>, The. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Alexander Wainwright</i></td>
<td class="right">694</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Long Journey</span>, A. Verses.</td>
<td><i>Josephine Pollard</i></td>
<td class="right">540</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page22"><span class="sc">Lord Mayor of London's Show</span>, The.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Jennie A. Owen</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page22">22</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Mackerel-Fishing</span>. (Illustrated by H. P. Smith)</td>
<td><i>Robert Arnold</i></td>
<td class="right">706</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Magician and his Bee</span>, The. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>P.F.</i></td>
<td class="right">143</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#skip"><span class="sc">Making it Skip</span>.</a> Verse. (Illustrated by Thomas Moran)</td>
<td><i>M. M. D.</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page15">15</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Making Ready for a Cruise</span>. Picture.</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right">561</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Man Who Didn't Know When to Stop</span>, The. Verse.</td>
<td><i>M. M. D.</i></td>
<td class="right">415</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Marbles</span>, Some In-door Games of. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>L. D. Snook</i></td>
<td class="right">295</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page26"><span class="sc">Mars, the Planet of War</span>.</a> (Illustrated by the Author)</td>
<td><i>Richard A. Proctor</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page26">26</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Marshal de Saxe and the Dutch Blacksmith</span>.</td>
<td><i>David Ker</i></td>
<td class="right">436</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Master Montezuma</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>C. C. Haskins</i></td>
<td class="right">535</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Matches are Made</span>, How. (Illustrated by A. C. Warren)</td>
<td><i>F. H. C.</i></td>
<td class="right">315</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">May-Day</span>, The Story of. (Illustrated by Howard Pyle)</td>
<td><i>Olive Thorne</i></td>
<td class="right">486</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Meadow Talk</span>. Verse. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis)</td>
<td><i>Caroline Leslie</i> </td>
<td class="right">617</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Merry Mike</span>. Poem. (Illustrated by Albert Shults)</td>
<td><i>Fleta Forrester</i></td>
<td class="right">176</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Merry Rain</span>. Poem.</td>
<td><i>Fleta Forrester</i></td>
<td class="right">425</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Mocking-Bird and the Donkey</span>, The. Poem.</td>
<td><i>William Cullen Bryant</i></td>
<td class="right">88</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Modern William Tell</span>, A. Picture drawn by</td>
<td><i>L. Hopkins</i></td>
<td class="right">207</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page7"><span class="sc">Mollie's Boyhood</span>.</a> (Illustrated by George White)</td>
<td><i>Sarah E. Chester</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page7">7</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Money is Made</span>, Where. (Illustrated by Fred. B. Schell)</td>
<td><i>M.W.</i></td>
<td class="right">477</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Monument with a Story</span>, A.</td>
<td><i>Fannie Roper Feudge</i></td>
<td class="right">364</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Moon, from a Frog's Point of View</span>, The. (Illustrated by H. L. Stephens)</td>
<td><i>Fleta Forrester</i></td>
<td class="right">677</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Mousie's Adventures from Garret to Cellar</span>. Picture drawn by </td>
<td>"<i>Sphinx</i>"</td>
<td class="right">405</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Music on All Fours</span>. Poem. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge)</td>
<td><i>Josephine Pollard</i></td>
<td class="right">200</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Mustang</span>, The Wild. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Charles Barnard</i> </td>
<td class="right">396</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#girl"><span class="sc">My Girl</span>.</a> Poem.</td>
<td><i>John S. Adams</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page25">25</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">My St. George</span>. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes)</td>
<td><i>Alice Maude Eddy</i></td>
<td class="right">726</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Nancy Chime</span>. Poem. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>S. Smith</i></td>
<td class="right">739</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Nan's Peace-Offering</span>. (Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart)</td>
<td><i>Kate W. Hamilton</i></td>
<td class="right">284</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">News-Carrier</span>, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis)</td>
<td><i>Catharine S. Boyd</i> </td>
<td class="right">349</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">New-Year Card</span>.</td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right">182</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Night with a Bear</span>, A. (Illustrated by W. L. Sheppard)</td>
<td><i>Jane G. Austin</i></td>
<td class="right">332</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#melon"><span class="sc">Nimble Jim and the Magic Melon</span>.</a> (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell)</td>
<td><i>J. A. Judson</i> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page34">34</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">No School To-Day</span>. Picture. Drawn by F. Opper </td>
<td> </td>
<td class="right">146</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Now, or Then</span>? Talk with Girls. </td>
<td><i>Gail Hamilton</i></td>
<td class="right">123</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#lady-girl"><span class="sc">"Oh, I'm My Mamma's Lady-Girl</span>."</a> Verse. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard)</td>
<td><i>M. M. D.</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page41">41</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Old Man and the Nervous Cow</span>, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) </td>
<td><i>R. E.</i> </td>
<td class="right">264</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Old Nicolai</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Paul Fort</i></td>
<td class="right">399</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Old Soup</span>. (Illustrated by J.E. Kelly)</td>
<td><i>Mrs. E. W. Latimer</i> </td>
<td class="right">463</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">"One Day an Ant Went to Visit His Neighbor</span>." Jingle.</td>
<td><i>M. F. B.</i> </td>
<td class="right">404</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">One Saturday</span>. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge)</td>
<td><i>Sarah Winter Kellogg</i> </td>
<td class="right">514</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Only a Doll</span>. Poem.</td>
<td><i>Sarah O. Jewell</i></td>
<td class="right">552</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">On the Ice</span>. Picture drawn by </td>
<td><i>L. Hopkins</i> </td>
<td class="right">300</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">"Open the Snowy Little Bed</span>." Jingle.</td>
<td><i>M. F. B.</i> </td>
<td class="right">412</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Out Fishing</span>. Picture drawn by </td>
<td><i>J. Hopkins</i></td>
<td class="right">759</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Painter's Scare-Crow</span>, The. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge)</td>
<td><i>C. P. Cranch</i></td>
<td class="right">714</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Parisian Children</span>. (Illustrated by K. Brown)</td>
<td><i>Henry Bacon</i></td>
<td class="right">456</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Parlor Ball</span>. (Illustrated by the author)</td>
<td><i>L. Hopkins</i> </td>
<td class="right">492</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Parlor Magic</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Professor Leo H. Grindon</i></td>
<td class="right">811</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Perseus</span>, The Story of.</td>
<td><i>Mary A. Robinson</i> </td>
<td class="right">630</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Peterkins are Obliged to Move</span>, The.</td>
<td><i>Lucretia P. Hale</i> </td>
<td class="right">458</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Peterkins' Charades</span>, The. </td>
<td><i>Lucretia P. Hale</i> </td>
<td class="right">91</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Peter Piper's Pickles</span>, Mrs. (Illustrated by F. S. Church)</td>
<td><i>E. Müller</i> </td>
<td class="right">519</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Poems by Two Little American Girls</span>.</td>
<td><i>Elaine and Dora Goodale</i> </td>
<td class="right">109</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#polly"><span class="sc">Polly</span>: A Before-Christmas Story.</a> (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Hope Ledyard</i> </td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page19">19</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Porpoises</span>, About the. (Illustrated by J. O. Davidson)</td>
<td><i>J. D.</i></td>
<td class="right">142</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Pottery</span>, A Chat about. (Illustrated from photographs)</td>
<td><i>Edwin C. Taylor</i> </td>
<td class="right">104</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Primkins' Surprise</span>, Mrs. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge)</td>
<td><i>Olive Thorne</i></td>
<td class="right">794</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Prince Cucurbita</span>. (Illustrated by E. M. Richards)</td>
<td><i>Edith A. Edwards</i></td>
<td class="right">792</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Professor</span>, The.</td>
<td><i>Clarence Cook</i></td>
<td class="right">402</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Puck Parker</span>. (Illustrated by J. Wells Champney)</td>
<td><i>Lizzie W. Champney</i></td>
<td class="right">416</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Quicksilver</span>.</td>
<td><i>Mary H. Seymour</i></td>
<td class="right">359</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Raid of the Camanches</span>, The.</td>
<td><i>The Author of "We Boys"</i></td>
<td class="right">267</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Rain</span>. Poem.</td>
<td><i>Edgar Fawcett</i></td>
<td class="right">613</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Ravens and the Angels</span>, The. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge)</td>
<td><i>Author of "The Schonberg-Cotta Family"</i> </td>
<td class="right">169, 242</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Riddle</span>, A Double. Verses.</td>
<td><i>J. G. Holland</i></td>
<td class="right">94</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Rods for Five</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Sarah Winter Kellogg</i> </td>
<td class="right">645</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Rowing Against Tide</span>.</td>
<td><i>Theodore Winthrop</i> </td>
<td class="right">75</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Sam's Birthday</span>. (Ilustrated by Sol. Eytinge)</td>
<td><i>Irwin Russell</i> </td>
<td class="right">482</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Saturday Afternoon</span>. Picture drawn by</td>
<td><i>Miss S. W. Smith</i> </td>
<td class="right">725</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Scrubby's Beautiful Tree</span>. (Illustrated by F. A. Chapman and Sol. Eytinge)</td>
<td><i>J. C. Purdy</i></td>
<td class="right">147</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Seeing Himself as Others See Him</span>. Picture drawn by</td>
<td><i>J. Wells Champney</i></td>
<td class="right">431</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Shepherd-Boy</span>, The. Poem.</td>
<td><i>Emily S. Oakey</i> </td>
<td class="right">241</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Silly Goose</span>, The. Poem. (Illustrated by F. S. Church)</td>
<td><i>E. A. Smuller</i></td>
<td class="right">453</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Simple Simon</span>. Picture, drawn by </td>
<td><i>E. B. Bensell</i> </td>
<td class="right">791</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Sing-a-Sing</span>. Poem. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes)</td>
<td><i>S. C. Stone</i></td>
<td class="right">122</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Sing-Away Bird</span>, The. Poem. </td>
<td><i>Lucy Larcom</i></td>
<td class="right">462</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Singing Pins</span>. (Illustrated by A. C. Warren)</td>
<td><i>Harlan H. Ballard</i></td>
<td class="right">14?</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Skating</span>. Poem. </td>
<td><i>Theodore Winthrop</i></td>
<td class="right">23?</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Sneeze Dodson's First Independence Day</span>. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge)</td>
<td><i>Mrs. M. H. W. Jaquith</i></td>
<td class="right">61?</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Solimin</span>: A Ship of the Desert. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Susan Coolidge</i></td>
<td class="right">26?</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Song of Spring</span>, A.</td>
<td><i>Caroline A. Mason</i></td>
<td class="right">48?</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="sc">Something in the Old Clothes Line</span>. (Illustrated)</td>
<td><i>Paul Fort</i></td>
<td class="right">21?</td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page18"><span class="sc">Story that Wouldn't be Told</span>, The.</a> (Illustrated)
</td>
<td><i>Louise Stockton</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page18">18</a></td>
</tr>
<tr><td>
<a href="#page16"><span class="sc">Willow Wand</span>, The.</a> Poem. (Illustrated)
</td>
<td><i>A. E. W.</i></td>
<td class="right"><a href="#page16">16</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<pre>
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