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Title: Harper's Young People, March 7, 1882

Author: Various

Release date: April 29, 2017 [eBook #54625]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie R. McGuire


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, MARCH 7, 1882 ***




Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. III.--NO. 123. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, March 7, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration: "I DON'T BELIEVE THE PEOPLE OF THE EARTH WOULD HAVE DARED
TO TREAT YOU AS THEY HAVE TREATED US."]

FATHER TIME'S DILEMMA.

BY RAJA.


There was a commotion in the moon. Father Time had the rheumatism in
both legs, and could not move from his seat by the fire-place. This was
a horrible state of affairs. For thousands upon thousands of
years--nobody knows how many--he had never failed to make his visit to
the earth, and now he was helpless; and what would be the result of a
day's neglect of duty? Perhaps the world would come to an end; for with
the end of Time, what else could be expected? At all events, his
reputation would be ruined, and the bare idea made him writhe and groan.

"My dear, pray be more careful," said his wife, anxiously. "If you toss
your arms about in that reckless fashion, you will certainly do some
mischief. I have picked up your scythe seven times, and your hour-glass
was just on the point of tumbling from the table."

"Let it tumble," growled Father Time, crossly. "If my reputation goes,
what do I care for the hour-glass? Aïe! aïe! where do you suppose I took
this rheumatism? Never dreamed that I could have it at my age, after all
the draughts that I've been exposed to. It must have been that dreadful
eclipse that made the air so chilly."

At this there went up such a howl from the Moon that all the inhabitants
of Venus, which happened to be in the neighborhood, thought there was a
thunder-storm. Father Time's billions and trillions of children had just
come quietly into his room to ask how he felt, and when they heard their
usually gentle parent express himself in such impatient tones they
thought he must certainly be delirious, and wept aloud in anguish. He
was rather ashamed of his burst of passion when he saw how they took it
to heart, and hung his head for a while, upon which his wife tried to
comfort him.

"It's almost time for Sol to go to earth, and how can he if I'm not with
him? I shall go crazy if this state of things continues."

"Papa," cried two billion of his children, "why could not we take your
place for to-day?"

"Oh yes," echoed all the rest; "we do so long to be useful!"

A gleam of hope lighted their father's gloomy face, but he looked a bit
doubtful. "Are you sure that you know what to do and where to go? You
have not my power of ubiquity; that is to say, you can not be everywhere
at once as I am."

"But there are more than enough of us to go around," answered the
children. "Each one of us will spend the day by the side of some mortal,
and we are sure you will not be missed. As for old Sol, it will be easy
enough to explain your absence to him. It is all his fault for letting
himself be eclipsed."

"Very well, then, my dear children; go, and success attend you. Do not
forget our family motto." He stretched out both his arms in blessing,
and solemnly pronounced the words "Tempus fugit."

       *       *       *       *       *

Earth's daylight had fled, and all its inhabitants were soundly
sleeping. Father Time's children trooped back into his room, and a more
dejected multitude was never seen before. With very few exceptions, they
were all pale and tired and forlorn. He looked at them for a moment, and
then a sly twinkle crept into his eyes as he said:

"What is the matter, children? Haven't you enjoyed your day on the
earth?"

They raised their heads to groan an emphatic "No," and wearily let them
drop again.

"Why, you have envied me my daily trip there for ages"--they gave a sigh
in unison--"and never would believe me when I said it had its
drawbacks."

They looked too crushed to answer, but finally one of them said, "I
don't believe the people of earth would have dared to treat you as they
treated us."

Father Time leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud. "Let me hear
what they have done to you," he said. "You begin," nodding to the child
who sat nearest to him, an attenuated little creature with hollow
cheeks. She raised her head, and began, in a feeble voice:

"I am so weak that I can hardly speak, for I have had the most dreadful
day that can be imagined. I took my place by a nice-appearing little
boy, whose mischievous look and dancing eyes attracted me to him at
once. At first I got on very well; he seemed to take a fancy to me. But
after a while he grew careless, dropped his books, yawned and stretched.
Then he began to get into mischief, and did more naughty things in the
course of an hour than I imagined could be done in a day; and so matters
went on from bad to worse. I felt myself wasting away, but he never once
thought of me, never gave me another bit of attention, and I thought I
should not live to get home. Finally, when his mamma came in, and wanted
to know what he had been doing, the naughty child threw all the blame of
his neglected duties on me; said that I was a 'hateful Time to go so
fast,' and called me a hundred other unjust names. I am so tired!--so
tired!"

Father Time smiled pityingly, and stroked his poor child's head.

"You have been terribly wasted, my dear; I know how unpleasant that is.
But never fear; a good sleep will quite restore you.--What have you to
say, my son?" to the next child.

"Look at me," moaned the one questioned. "I am one mass of bruises from
head to foot. I can hardly walk. I was never so treated in my life."

"What has happened to you?"

"I went into the house of a child who seemed very fond of study, and
whom I thought would be very pleasant company. Stupid little
thing!"--with a burst of rage--"she began to practice her music, and
that moment I felt a sharp pain; she set to work beating me with all her
might and main, great irregular thumps, now on my head, now on my
shoulders, until I thought I must scream. I did groan and moan; it was
all of no use, for she went on, as it seemed to me, forever. By-and-by
her teacher came in, and that was better, for although he beat me, it
was in an entirely different way, that did not hurt at all. It was as if
he were caressing me. But the little vixen, belabored me again, and I am
all black and blue."

"Never mind, poor boy," said Father Time. "You will be all right
to-morrow; but I have had enough of such beatings to sympathize with you
fully."

"They have neither of them suffered as much as I," remarked a third
young Time, in a pathetic, subdued voice, "for they at least were abused
in an open sort of way; but I have been mortified beyond conception.
Shortly after my arrival in the world I entered the house of a
respectable middle-aged woman: you know I have always been fond of
associating with my elders, and I thought that I should be likely to
learn something from her which might be of use to me."

"Quite right, my child," said Father Time, nodding his approval.

"But there never was a greater mistake," continued his son. "From
morning until night that same respectable middle-aged lady has done
nothing but attempt to hide me, as if I were something to be ashamed of;
I, a scion of the oldest house in existence; I, a Time with a pedigree
which goes farther back than Adam, though it consists of only one
generation besides my own." (He said this with such pride that the
trillions of dejected Times for one second really straightened
themselves with family feeling.) "The first thing that she did was to
cover my face with the most disgusting paint and powder that were ever
invented, sighing all the time about wrinkles, crow's-feet, and the
ravages of time. Then she put on some untidy mess of hair all over my
forehead, and into my very eyes, after which she dressed me in a style
which made me blush under the paint. Such furbelows! such gew-gaws! Then
followed visits and conversations. She giggled; she simpered; she talked
to me and of me as if I were a babe in arms; why, she talked like Mother
Goose herself, and Father Gander, and the whole family of geese,"
indignantly. "I declare it made my blood boil."

Father Time looked grave. "I know thousands of such women," he said,
"who are ashamed of their acquaintance with us. Very foolish of them,
since they can not possibly cut us, and since, if they only knew it,
there is no alliance in the world more highly respectable. Cheer up, my
dear. You have nothing to be ashamed of.--And now tell me your
experience," to a fourth young Time, who was holding his head with both
hands, and groaning in agony.

"I am tired almost to death, if a Time could die," was the reply. "I
have been with a poet."

"Good things in their way," remarked his father.

"But this one wasn't a good one, though he thought himself so. And the
worst of it all was that he insisted upon writing an ode to Time. Before
the day was over I almost wished that you, my dear father, had never
existed."

"I know the man you mean," said Father Time, gravely; "he lives in every
town on the globe, and is the greatest time-waster on record. You look
thin with the fatigue.--Why, why, what is this?"

A beautiful child stepped up before Father Time, and smiled in answer to
his exclamation.

"Don't you know me, papa?"

"Are you--is it possible--can you be one of my children? What has
happened to make you so lovely?"

"I have been improved," was the answer. "I have never had a happier day
in all my life."

Her brothers and sisters looked up in amazement.

"Yes, I think I am the only one of us all who has been fortunate to-day.
I went into the house of the dearest child in all the world. Why, the
first thing that she did was to kiss and pet me, and say, 'Dear Time,
let us see how we can help each other to-day.' From the moment I came
until the moment I left she never faltered. In the first place, she
studied her lessons with great diligence--"

"Ah!" said Father Time, "that is what makes your eyes shine so
brightly."

"Then she played with some little friends, and was always sweet and
gentle with them. She talked so cheerfully and lovingly--"

"That is what gives your lips that lovely smile," said Father Time
again.

"She helped them in various little ways; picked up one when she fell,
fetched some toys to amuse another--did all she could to make them
happy. And when I left her this evening, she was as much improved as I.
Do you wonder that I have had a happy day?"

"No, indeed," replied Father Time, while his children cried, in chorus,

"Oh, I wish there had been more like her!"

"Well," said the father, "now go to bed, you poor unfortunate creatures,
and sleep off your woes. My rheumatism has disappeared, and I shall be
able to go to earth myself to-morrow. Repeat our motto once more."

With one voice the trillions of children replied: "Tempus Fugit.
Good-night."




MY BEAR HUNT.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.


It wasn't a regular bear hunt; that is, I didn't do nearly as much
hunting as the bear did. I did not start out intending to hunt. He did.
I went to get the butter, when-- But I am getting ahead of my story. It
was when I was about thirteen years old that my father took my brother
and myself camping with him in the Adirondacks. We pitched our tent at
the head of Little Tupper Lake. There was a spring of fine cold water
not far back in the woods. So, after making our beds out of pine boughs,
building a fire, and setting up the table, we went down to the spring,
and put our butter--which was in a tin pail fitted with a water-tight
cover--in it to keep cool.

All went well for the first few days. Father and brother Will (who was
fifteen) shot a deer, so that we had plenty of venison. The guide caught
a quantity of trout, and we were enjoying ourselves so thoroughly that
we began to dread the time when we should have to return home.

"Can't we stay longer than two weeks?" I asked father one morning.

"We'll stay until the butter gives out," he replied, laughing.

The nearest place to get butter was twenty miles away, and as it was
disappearing rapidly, owing to the appetites of growing boys, father had
already warned us of the necessity of economy in that direction. We
were, after that, very sparing in our use of butter, and it seemed, to
bid fair to last longer than the promised two weeks. As the guide was
preparing supper one evening, father said, "Will, I wish that you would
go down to the spring and get some water; and, Charlie, you go too, and
bring up some butter." It was a simple request, but thereby hangs the
tale of my first and only bear hunt.

We started off, and soon came to the spring. The path led around it into
a thicket of huckleberry bushes. Will proposed that we should pick some
for supper. We plunged into the thicket, and soon were busy picking the
delicious fruit. We had not been occupied in this manner very long when
we heard a crashing in the bushes near the spring, and as we looked
back, we saw a great black bear. He was not fifty feet away from us, and
was gazing into the spring with a complacent air.

"He's looking at himself," said Will.

"See him grin," I replied, divided between fear and curiosity.

"Thinks he's handsome," whispered Will.

Bruin looked over in our direction with an annoyed expression, and we
decided to suspend our remarks as to his personal appearance until some
more convenient time--when he was further away, in fact. He continued to
peer intently into the spring, and we were beginning to get impatient,
when, to our horror, he slowly extended his paw, and without much
trouble fished up our butter pail. He calmly seated himself on the
ground, and taking the pail between his hind-paws, regarded it
reflectively for a few moments. He seemed lost in thought. Then he
smiled blandly, and slowly passed one of his strong fore-claws around
the rim of the pail. He repeated the operation, while Will and I looked
on in despair.

"Maybe he can't get the top off," whispered Will.

He had hardly spoken, when, with a slight rattle, the cover fell to the
ground. Will groaned. The bear paused, looked puzzled, smelled the
butter suspiciously, and sat looking at it with the air of a scientific
investigator.

"He thinks that it is oleomargarine," whispered Will.

But no. If Bruin did for a moment doubt the integrity of our butter, his
doubts had vanished; for with one sweep of his great tongue he
transferred about two pounds of it into his mouth. Will groaned. Bruin
paused, and to our excited imaginations looked in our direction, as if
he would have liked some boy to eat with his butter.

We remained perfectly quiet while he finished the contents of the pail.
He licked out the last particle, and then carefully turned the pail over
and licked off the bottom and sides. After he had satisfied himself that
there was no more, he rose and looked into the spring. He seemed
discontented for a moment, but the recollection of his supper brightened
him up, and casting a loving glance at the empty pail, he trotted off,
"the best greased b'ar in the north woods," as our guide afterward
remarked.

When he had gone a safe distance, Will and I sadly picked up the pail
and walked back to camp. Father was getting uneasy, and had started to
meet us. When we told him our adventure, he ran back to camp, and
getting the guide, dogs, and his rifle, started in pursuit of the thief.

A little later we heard a shot, and before long father returned,
bringing the bear's skin, and some choice pieces of his flesh for
supper. Lack of butter compelled us to break up camp next day, and
notwithstanding the beautiful bear-skin rug Will and I have in our room,
we never quite forgave the thief who stole our butter.




[Illustration]

HÄNSCHEN VON MÖNKGUT.


Translated into English, the name of this bright-faced fisher-boy is
"Little Jack." Mönkgut is a barren peninsula forming the southeastern
extremity of Rügen, an island off the coast of Prussia, in the Baltic
Sea.

The Mönkgutes, as the inhabitants of the wild and comfortless strip of
land call themselves, are distinguished by many original traits in
dress, customs, and language. They are a peculiar race, opposing
anything new that comes to them from the outside world, and clinging
stubbornly to the ways and manners of their ancestors.

Yet these people have kind hearts, and many of the boys and girls who
lead constrained lives in our great cities might well envy the freedom
and fun enjoyed by Little Jack as he roams up and down the shore,
gathering shells, and playing hide-and-seek with the snow-capped waves.

One of these days, when he grows up, he will without doubt be a sailor
or a fisherman, as all his forefathers have been. Even now he is all
equipped, with his home-spun vest and wide hat tied so closely under his
chin. Presently he will be permitted to help his father with an oar, and
then the time will come when he himself will command some brave boat as
it rides out over the billows.




THE INVENTION OF THE STOCKING-LOOM.


Nearly two hundred years ago, when Queen Elizabeth was seated on the
throne of England, there lived in the quiet little village of
Woodborough, in Nottinghamshire, a modest, earnest, thoughtful boy
called William Lee. So great was his love for study and for reading of
almost any kind that, after finishing school, his parents sent him to
Cambridge.

One day, while out for a walk, William saw a young girl sitting at a
cottage door knitting a stocking. Very soon he made her acquaintance,
and during the visits he paid her he would read aloud while she plied
her knitting-needles. When tired of reading, William frequently
suggested a ramble in the fields, but Nellie nearly always refused,
giving as her reason that her work must be attended to, and that she
dare not lay it aside for pleasure. Of course her lover admired her
industry, but he could not help wondering if some means could not be
discovered by which stockings might be made more quickly.

In time William became a clergyman, and he married Nellie. But his
income was very small, and they had to save in every possible way.
Nellie saw with pain the care-worn look on his brow; she knew too well
why it had settled there. At length a happy thought flashed across her
mind--she would send for her knitting-needles, and begin her
stocking-knitting again. She knew there would be no difficulty in
selling any number of stockings she might make. Her needles moved so
quickly that before long the amount of work completed was sufficient to
offer for sale.

As William sat watching his wife's needles, he carefully observed how
the loops were made, and how the same thread travelled round and round
the stocking, forming a new loop every time it passed through an old
one. As he watched Nellie's fingers, the idea gradually dawned upon him
how a machine might be invented to do the work instead; and after much
planning he succeeded in making the small model of a knitting-frame.
Delighted with his success, he went to London, where, after much
difficulty, he gained access to Lord Hunsdon, one of the Queen's
ministers, who informed Queen Elizabeth that a poor parson he knew had a
wonderful machine for making stockings, which he wanted her Majesty to
inspect. The Queen refused the patent because the machine only made
woollen stockings.

William was very much disappointed, but he resolved nevertheless to
carry out his plans. For seven or eight years he patiently worked away,
improving his machine, until at length he completed a frame delicate
enough for silk work. With this he made a pair of silk stockings, which
he forthwith forwarded to the Queen. Elizabeth praised their beauty and
elasticity, but gave him nothing for them.

As the time passed on, William's expenses increased, and although he had
made considerable money, it had been necessary to spend so much on his
machines that very little profit remained. The sale, too, of the woven
stockings was hindered by popular prejudice, and, added to all this, his
friend at court was dead.

At this crisis, Lee's stocking-loom, which was being discussed far and
wide, became an object of interest to Henry IV. of France, who sent
William an invitation to remove to that country. Thither the inventor
went, hoping great things from royal patronage, and taking with him a
few workmen, set up his machinery at Rouen. For a short time he carried
on a brisk, thriving trade, and began to indulge the belief that his
last days would be his brightest, when suddenly his hopes were crushed
by the assassination of Henry by Ravaillac. This sad event put an end to
the success of William. The French people regarded him with suspicion
both as a Protestant and as an Englishman, and after wandering about
from place to place, he died, broken-hearted and almost starving, in
Paris.

To-day, machine-made stockings are worn by the people of all civilized
countries, and thousands upon thousands of dollars are made by their
manufacture.




[Illustration: AT ODDS.]




THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

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

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER XXII.


Only a few of the Apache braves went across the river. Many Bears did not
go, and those who did came back almost immediately. Murray soon saw very
clearly that nothing more could be done in behalf of peace.

"Send Warning come with braves?" inquired Many Bears, when at last his
whole force was gathered, impatient to be led away.

"No; we two will stay and help take care of camp. Pale-faces make big
peace with Lipans not long ago. Bad for us to strike them."

The chief could understand that. An Indian of any tribe is held to be
bound by the treaties made by his people. Murray did not lose anything,
therefore, in the good opinion of his new friends by refusing to
accompany them. The only reply of Many Bears was:

"Ugh! Good. Stay with camp. Lodge ready. Lipans never get near camp. All
safe."

Many Bears was thinking of Murray's assertion that his enemies would
surely come to attack him, and he did not intend to let them get by him
in the dark. They came pretty near it, though, widely as the Apaches
spread themselves, and keenly as they kept up their look-out.
To-la-go-to-de's grand "circuit" would have succeeded, and he would have
dashed in upon the unprotected camp, if it had not been for a mere dwarf
of a young brave who had stolen that opportunity to go on his "first
war-path." He had done so without permission from his elders, and so
kept well away from them for fear some old warrior or chief might send
him back to camp in disgrace. Boy as he was, however, his ears were of
the best, and he knew the sound of the feet of many horses. He listened
for a moment, and then he knew by the sudden silence that they had
halted.

This was the moment that the spies of Two Knives came racing up to
announce the suspicious change of direction on the part of the miners,
and the chief was considering the matter.

"Not go back to camp?"

"No," said one of the Lipan braves, pointing toward the south. "All
pale-faces go that way."

"Ugh! Good. Pale-face chief very cunning. Not want to run against
Apaches. Go way around. Get there before we do. We ride."

The Apache boy had not waited for them to start again. He had promptly
wheeled his pony, and dashed away through the darkness with the news. He
had not far to go before he fell in with a squad of his own people, and
his work was done. Older and wiser braves than himself, with eyes and
ears as keen as his own, rode forward to keep watch of the advancing
Lipans, while the others lashed their ponies and darted away to spread
the warning.

Many Bears had no notion of fighting so terrible an enemy with less than
his whole force, and he was in no hurry to begin. Orders were sent for
everybody to fall back without allowing themselves to be seen, and the
Lipans were allowed to come right along, with the mistaken idea that
they were about to make a surprise. They moved in two long scattered
ranks, one about a hundred yards in advance of the other, when suddenly
old To-la-go-to-de himself rose in his saddle, and sent back a low
warning cry.

He had seen shadowy forms flitting along in the gloom around him, and he
was not sure but he had heard the beat of hoofs upon the sod. In half a
minute after, he had uttered the warning cry which so suddenly halted
his warriors, he was quite sure he heard such sounds, and a great many
others.

First came a scattering but hot and rapid crash of rifle firing; then a
fierce chorus of whoops and yells; then, before the two ranks of Lipans
could join in one body, a wild rush of shouting horsemen dashed in
between them. There was a twanging of bows, a clatter of lances, and
more firing, with greater danger of somebody getting hit than there had
been at first. Then in a moment Two Knives found his little band
assailed on all sides at once by superior numbers. The orders of Many
Bears were that the rear rank of his foes should only be kept at bay at
first, so that he could centre nearly all his force upon the foremost
squad. The latter contained a bare two dozen of chosen warriors, and
their courage and skill were of little use in such a wild hurly-burly.
To-la-go-to-de and three more warriors even suffered the disgrace of
being knocked from their ponies, tied up, and led away toward the Apache
village as prisoners.

The rear rank of the Lipans had made a brave charge, and it had taught
them all they needed to know. The battle was lost, and their only
remaining hope was in the speed of their horses. They turned from that
fruitless charge as one man, and rode swiftly away--swiftly, but not
wildly, for they were veterans, and they kept well together. A few of
the Apaches followed in pursuit, but the Lipans were well mounted. The
approach of night favored them, and in the darkness the main body made
its way to the shelter of the mountain pass in safety.

       *       *       *       *       *

Even before the Apaches had set out to find their Lipan enemies, Murray
and Steve made their way across the ford, and were guided by a
bright-eyed boy to the lodge which had been set apart for them.

"Now, Steve," said Murray, "you stay here awhile. I can do some things
better if I'm alone."

"All right;" and Steve threw himself down on the blanket he had spread
upon the grass.

The lodges of the chief were not far apart from each other, and Murray
had not gone twenty steps before he found himself in front of one of
them, and face to face with a very stout and dark-complexioned squaw.
But if she had been a warrior in the most hideous war-paint she could
not have expected a man like Send Warning to be startled so at meeting
her.

Perhaps she did not notice the tremor which went over him from head to
foot, or that his voice was a little husky when he spoke to her. At all
events, she answered him promptly enough, for at that moment there was
nobody in sight or hearing for whose approval or disapproval Mother
Dolores cared a button. The two girls within the tent were not worth
considering.

Murray had used his eyes to some purpose when he had watched Dolores at
her cooking, and his first words had made her his very good friend.

"Squaw of great chief. Squaw great cook. Know how."

"Is Send Warning hungry?"

"Not now. Eat enough. Great chief and warriors go after Lipans.
Pale-faces stay in camp."

"They will all eat a heap when they come back. Bring Lipan scalps, too."

"The Lipans are enemies of the Apaches. The Mexicans are friends."

"The Mexicans!" exclaimed Dolores.

"Yes. Great chief marry Mexican squaw. Handsome. Good cook."

"I am an Apache."

"Yes, Apache now. Mexican long ago. Forget all about it. All about Santa
Maria--"

"No, no; the Talking Leaf remembers that."

And the poor woman nervously snatched from her bosom the leaf of the
magazine on which was printed the picture of the Virgin and Child, and
held it out to Murray. He could but dimly see what it was, but he
guessed right, for he said, instantly:

"You remember that, do you? I suppose you never knew how to read. Not
many of 'em do, down there. The Apaches came one day and carried you
off. Horses, mules, cattle, good cook--killed all the rest."

"How do you know?" suddenly interrupted Dolores. "I remember all that.
Don't want to, but I can't help it. Same thing happens a great many
times. Apaches are great warriors. Many Bears is a great chief. Bring
back heap of prisoners every time."

She was telling Murray what he wanted to know, but he saw that he must
ask his questions carefully, for, as he said to himself: "I never saw a
woman so completely Indianized. She is more of an Apache than a Mexican
now."

He talked and Dolores answered him, and all the while the two girls
heard every word. Ni-ha-be would have liked to make comments every now
and then, and it was quite a trial to be compelled to keep so still, but
Rita would not have spoken on any account. It seemed to her as if
Dolores were telling all that to her instead of to Send Warning. She
found herself thinking almost aloud about him.

"What a kind, sweet voice he has! He can not speak Apache. I know he is
good."

In another moment she again came near betraying herself, for the words
were on her very lips before she could stop them and still them down to
an excited whisper.

"He is not talking even Mexican now. It is the tongue of the Talking
Leaves, and I can hear what he says."

More than that, for she soon found that she could repeat them over and
over to herself, and knew what they meant.

Murray had talked to Dolores as long as was permitted by Indian ideas of
propriety, and it was just as he was turning away from her that he said
to himself, aloud and in English: "I am not mistaken. She is the same
woman. Who would have thought she could forget so? I am on the right
track now." And then he walked away.

He had not gone far, however, when his footsteps were checked by the
sound of war-whoops from the throats of the triumphant braves on their
return to the camp.

"That's the whoop for prisoners," he exclaimed. "If they bring in any, I
must not let them see me here. I never hated Apaches more in my life. It
won't do to lose my friends. Here they come."

He crept to the edge of the bushes and lay still. There would be a
council called at once, he knew, and he would be sent for, but he was
determined to wait and see what was done with the prisoners.

They were the great To-la-go-to-de and his three chiefs, none of them
hurt to speak of, but they were all that were left of the foremost rank
of the Lipans in that brief, terrible combat.

Other braves kept back the mob of squaws and children, while the four
distinguished captives were almost carried into one of the lodges at the
border of the bushes.

Here more thongs of strong deer-skin were tightened upon their helpless
limbs, a strong guard of armed braves was stationed in front of the
lodge, and the Lipans were left in the dark to such thoughts as might
come to them.

Not an Apache among their guards dreamed that anything could happen to
the captives. And yet, within two minutes from the time he was spread
upon his back and left alone, old Two Knives heard inside the lodge a
low warning hiss.

His companions also heard it, but neither of them was so unwise as to
answer by a sound.

The hiss was repeated, and now it was close to the chief's ear.

"Friend come. No Tongue is here. Great chief must be snake. Creep
through hole in back of lodge. Find plenty horse. Ride fast. Get to
pass. Never forget friend. No Tongue come some time."

Even while he was whispering, the sharp edge of Murray's knife was busy
with the thongs, and in a moment more all four of the prisoners were
free--free to lie silently, while their friend repeated to each in turn
his advice as to what they were to do next.

[Illustration: THE ESCAPE OF TO-LA-GO-TO-DE AND HIS CHIEFS.]

Their nerves had not been shaken by their defeat, and when Murray
slipped away again through the slit he had cut in the lodge cover, he
was followed by four forms that made their way every bit as quietly as
so many snakes could have done.

What puzzled To-la-go-to-de and his friends was that when they ventured
to rise upon their feet, out in the dark among the horses, No Tongue was
not with them.

"Ugh! Gone!"

"Cunning snake. Stay and strike Apaches. Then come."

"Good friend. Big warrior."

They could not quite understand the matter, but of one thing they were
sure: No Tongue had penetrated the Apache camp in the most daring
manner, and had set them free at the risk of his life.

He had disappeared now, but they felt abundantly able to look out for
themselves.

Even the ordinary watchers of the corral had left their stations to join
the shouting crowd in camp, who were boasting of their victory, and the
escaping Lipans could do about as they pleased.

They could find no weapons, but there were saddles and bridles and
scores of fleet steeds to choose from, and it was but a few minutes
before Two Knives and his friends were on their way through the darkness
toward the river.

They did not hunt for any ford. Horses and men alike knew how to swim.
Once safely across, there was a great temptation to give a whoop, but
the chief forbade it.

"No. Keep still. No Tongue is on the trail of the Apaches. Noise bad for
him."

With that he sprang into his saddle, and led the way at a fierce gallop.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]




INCIDENTS OF THE GREAT FLOOD.


If we could gather together the records of the mighty flood that lately
laid waste the great valleys of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, we
should have a wonderfully terrible yet glorious picture of peril,
suffering, and heroism. Scarcely a town but has its own sad tale of
bridges carried away, railroad tracks washed out, houses flooded, and
whole families forced to flee before the advancing waters, and in many
cases to flee in vain. In Arkansas and Mississippi the mighty "Father of
Waters" burst through the great levees which the labor of generations
has built up to confine him within bounds, and rushed over the low-lying
country beyond, carrying death and desolation with him. In Arkansas City
every house was flooded, and families retreated to the upper stories of
their homes. Many families whose houses were but of one story were
forced to abandon their homes, and trust themselves to small boats or
rafts hastily put together.

A sad fate befell one such family. They were a gentleman and his wife
and six children, four of whom were between the ages of six and
fourteen. The floods had risen around them until not even the roof
afforded a safe refuge. Their only hope was a small boat--a
"dug-out"--and in it they all embarked. But what chance had they in such
a tiny craft and in such a storm? The story is short. The boat capsized,
and the father saved his wife, only to realize that they two were left
childless.

In another place two brothers were alone in their father's house on the
bank of a creek. The water rose so rapidly that before they could
realize it the house was surrounded, and they saw no hope but to trust
themselves to the water, and endeavor to reach higher ground, where they
would be safe. They were brave, strong lads, but all too weak to battle
against the raging torrent into which they plunged. One of them was not
seen more. The other reached a haven of refuge in a tree, and had help
been at hand he might have lived to tell the fearful tale. But no aid
was near. It was twenty-four hours before he was found, and then cold
and exposure had done their work. The two brothers had perished within a
few hours of one another.

Many of you will remember the story of Rupert of Ware, which was told in
these pages last Halloween. It is such noble acts as that of his that
light up the gloomy narratives of great calamities. This story also has
its bright side. Doubtless it has many heroes. We can tell of only one.

It was at Paducah, a river-side town in Kentucky, that a young hero, a
boy named "Dad" Little, pushed off in his skiff to rescue some men in a
flat-bottomed boat, whom the fierce river was hurrying to destruction on
its angry tide. As soon as the boy reached them, they seized his boat
and scrambled into it, so that it capsized. Two of them were drowned,
and the others, with "Dad" Little, saved themselves by holding on to the
overturned boat. As the boat floated near the shore, the brave boy swam
to a tree, and climbed up into it, and was not rescued from his cruel
position until six hours later.




PERIL AND PRIVATION.

BY JAMES PAYN.

II.--ON THE KEYS OF HONDURAS.


Ashton's first task was to range the island. It proved to be thirty
miles or so in length, but its only inhabitants were birds and beasts;
it was well watered, and full of hills and deep valleys.

In the latter were many fruit trees, and also vines and currant bushes.
There was one tree which bore a fruit larger than an orange, oval
shaped, and brown without and red within. This he dared not touch until
he saw the wild hogs eating it, lest it should be poisonous. Fruit was
his only food. He had no weapon to kill any animal, or the means of
cooking it when killed. One often reads of producing fire by friction,
but unless one has flint and steel this is very difficult. Some savages
only know the secret of it, and it is doubtful whether any white man has
ever succeeded in it. In Philip Ashton's island there were no matches.

He found tortoise eggs in the sand, which he dug up with a stick,
"sometimes a hundred and fifty of them at a time." These he ate, or
strung on a strip of palmetto and hung them in the sun. They were very
hard and tough, but he was glad to get them. Enormous serpents, twelve
and fourteen feet long, were numerous. When they were lying at full
length he often took them for "old trunks of trees covered with short
moss," and was much astonished when they opened their mouths and hissed
at him.

What annoyed him much more, however, were the "small black flies," which
harassed him in myriads. To escape them he longed to swim over to a
small "key," which, being without trees, and exposed to the wind, was
probably free from those pests. He was, however, a very indifferent
swimmer, and had no canoe nor the means of making one.

At last he hit on the idea of putting a piece of bamboo, which is as
hollow as a reed and light as a cork, under his chest and arms, and so
trusted himself to the sea.

Once the bamboo slipped from under him, and he was nearly drowned. At
another time a shovel-nosed shark struck him on the thigh, and but for
the shallowness of the water, "which prevented its mouth getting round"
at him, he would have perished miserably. Practice, however, soon made
him a good swimmer, and in spite of the sharks he swam over to the
little island daily to escape the flies.

He had built a hut, if it could be called such, by taking fallen
branches and fastening them by means of split palmetto leaves to the
hanging boughs. This sheltered him from the noonday sun and the heavy
night dews. The entrance of this hut "was made to look toward the sea,"
in hopes of rescue.

"I had had the approbation of my father and mother," he piously
reflects, "in going to sea, and I trusted it would please God in His
own time and manner to provide for my return to my father's house."

But in the mean time he endured frightful sufferings. His feet became
very sore from walking on "the hot beach, with its sharp, broken
shells," and sometimes, "though treading with all possible caution," a
shell on the beach or a stick in the woods would open an old wound,
inflicting such agony that he would fall down suddenly as if he had been
shot. Rather than risk any more such misery, he would sometimes sit for
a whole day, with his back against a tree, looking with tearful eyes for
the vessel that never came.

[Illustration: ASHTON PROTECTING HIMSELF FROM THE WILD-BOAR.]

Once, when faint from such injuries, a wild-boar ran at him. He could
not stand, but caught at the bough of the tree above him, and hung
suspended while the beast made his charge. "He tore away a portion of my
ragged trousers, and then went on his way, which I considered to have
been a very great deliverance."

These hardships, and the living almost entirely on fruit, brought him to
great extremities. He "often fell to the ground insensible," and thought
every night would be his last. He lost count of the days of the week,
and then of the month. The rainy season came on, and he grew worse.

At one time--as he judged in November--he saw a sight which, had he been
himself, would have filled him with joy. He beheld a small canoe
approaching the shore, with a single man in it. The spectacle excited
little emotion. "I kept my seat on the beach, thinking that I could not
expect a friend, and being in no condition to resist an enemy."

The stranger called out to him in English, and Ashton replied that he
might safely land, for that he was the only inhabitant of the island,
and as good as dead.

The whole incident is most curious, but the strangest fact of all is the
unenthusiastic terms in which our hero describes the matter. It is clear
he must have been almost at death's door. This stranger proved to be a
native of North Britain; Scotchmen were then so called. "He was well
advanced in years, and of a spare and venerable aspect, and of a
reserved temper.... He informed me he had lived two-and-twenty years
with the Spaniards, who now threatened to burn him, for what crime I did
not know. He had fled to the 'key' as an asylum, bringing with him his
dog, gun, ammunition, and also a small quantity of pork." Ashton goes on
to say that the stranger showed him much kindness, and gave him "some of
his pork."

On the third day after his arrival, the new-comer prepared to make an
excursion in his canoe to some of the neighboring islands for the
purpose of killing deer. Our hero, though much cheered by his society,
and especially by the fire, the means of kindling which the other had
brought with him, and by eating cooked food, was too weak and
sore-footed to accompany him. The sky was cloudless, and the man had
already come six-and-thirty miles in safety, so that their parting
seemed only a "good-day."

But it was final. A storm arose within the hour, in which his visitor
doubtless perished.

What is very singular, Ashton never had the curiosity to ask him his
name; and though our hero found himself so suddenly deprived of his
companion, and reduced to his former lonely state, he consoled himself
with the reflection that he was in far better circumstances than before.
He had "pork, a knife, a bottle of gunpowder, tobacco, tongs, and a
flint." He could now cut up a turtle and boil it.

Three months afterward another canoe came on shore, but without a
tenant. The possession of this vessel was a somewhat doubtful boon to
him. He rowed in it to another "key" miles away, where, having landed,
he lay down to sleep, with his face to the sea, as usual, and his back
to a tree.

"I was awakened by a noise of firing, and starting up beheld nine
piraguas [large canoes] full of men, all firing at me. I ran among the
bushes as fast as my sore feet would allow, while they called after me,
'Surrender yourself, O Englishman, and we will give you good quarter.'"
By their firing at an inoffensive man Ashton knew that they were
Spaniards, and guessed what was their idea of "good quarter." After
hiding in the woods for that night he returned to his little island the
next day, and to the hut of boughs, "which now seemed a royal palace to
me."

After nineteen months' residence alone on this spot, save for that
three days' visit from the stranger, Ashton was joined by seventeen
Englishmen, fugitives from Spanish cruelty. They were accustomed to
hardships and miseries, but "they started back in horror at the sight of
so wild, ragged, and wretched an object."

A spoonful of rum which they administered to him almost took away his
life, owing to his long disuse of strong liquors. They clothed and fed
him, and were very good to him, though "in their common conversation,"
as he naïvely remarks, "there was very little difference between them
and pirates."

Considering what he had gone through, one is inclined to wonder how Mr.
Philip Ashton could have been so very particular. He seems to have been
an honest, good man, and did not forget to express his earnest gratitude
to Providence when rescued at last by a British sloop driven near his
"key" by stress of weather. He arrived home at Salem in March, 1725,
having spent eight months on board a pirate ship, and nineteen on the
"key." "That same evening," he says, "I went to my father's house, where
I was received as one risen from the dead."




[Illustration: IN GRANDMAMMA'S CHAIR.]




[Illustration: "DIT UP, G'AN'PA!"]




SOMETHING ABOUT SONATAS.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.


It was once my good fortune to stay in an Italian country house, where
among many treasures there were some old music-books.

These books were in manuscript, and they had been written in the
fourteenth or the fifteenth century. They seemed to have existed as long
as the old house. They were kept in a little black ebony cabinet in a
long room full of soft old colors.

There was a grand piano in the room, for the young ladies of the house
played beautifully, and there was an organ for the use of the master of
the house. The old music-books seemed suited to the room and to the
organ.

I did not play any of the music. It would have been very difficult
indeed to have done so, as the notation was not like ours, but it
suggested many grave sweeping chords. Taking the chord of G major, for
instance, I tried to see just how much the writer of this old music knew
about it. Not a great deal; yet the Gregorian chant had been
established, and in this music were various ideas which we have since
developed.

Now the most interesting part of it all to me was certain queer little
marks in the music. Here and there was a tiny _f_, which, as you know,
meant what we now write as _forte_. There was a little _t_, or _bt_,
meaning _teneatur_, or _ben tenuto_; a little _c_, meaning _celeriter_,
or _con moto_, and so on.

I think the beginning of any art is interesting. All sorts of little
shadowy suggestions of things that we have now in perfection seemed to
me to lurk in those faded pages. As I put the books back in the ebony
cabinet, and sat down by the wood fire, while B---- was drumming on the
piano, I thought a great deal of the earnest, hopeful, patient old monk
who had written it. And now, taking these little marks for my text, I
want to tell you something about musical terms and signs.

Before you try to understand any great work like a symphony or sonata,
you ought to thoroughly acquaint yourself with its very first
principles. A great deal of hidden meaning lies in these simple little
signs and terms.

That little _f_ in the old music meant, as I say, _forte_, that is,
loud, strong, as you know by its connection with the piano. The Italians
called it _fragor_, and when you see it _Fp_, or _fp_, it means a quick,
loud sound, suddenly subsiding into a _piano_ or soft sound. Try the
chord of A flat; it is a beautiful one, and you can best practice on it
the _fp_.

The old _teneatur_, or _tenuto_, means that the note or chord should be
sustained or held on to. I think this is best practiced at first in
duets, for as you play you will see the effect of the _tenuto_ on the
notes your companion is playing, without having to worry yourself over
holding the note properly, and playing with the other hand at the same
time.

_Con moto_ means with celerity or rapidity. Any gavotte music practices
this.

These are only a few signs, but I have explained them just to show you
how very necessary they can be both to practice and performance, and I
think it well for all beginners in music to study certain bits just for
the purpose of learning how to interpret such signs quickly at sight. An
interesting half-hour's practice might be expended any day, I think, in
this direction. I once knew a very ardent little student who always gave
twenty minutes a day to what she called "rules." They were the study of
sight reading, the learning of signs and reading music accordingly, the
formation of chords, and the practice of making harmonic changes. I
think it was a very useful part of her practicing. She often looks back
to it now, thankful that she then accustomed herself to _thinking_ in
her music.

Now, as I suppose you know, besides these dynamic signs, there are many
terms used to indicate both the time and the character of the music to
be played. You see them on every piece of music. Many of these are
necessarily parts of long works like symphonies and sonatas; but of
them, when so used, I hope I may tell you at some other time. I speak of
them now in their general significance. Take the constantly used
_allegro_. It always looks to me just what it means--brightness and
gayety. Literally, it means _cheerful_. Now, as a matter of _time_, when
you see _allegro_, you may know that you ought to play it between
_andante_ time and _presto_ time.

Sometimes composers have simply called a piece an "allegro," just as
Milton called his famous poem "L'Allegro." You will find it often
modified by some other word, like _allegro assai_ or _con brio_, meaning
a quick allegro; and if you go to a large concert, and have some
knowledge of the music to be played, you may be surprised to find that
the orchestra will take the _allegro_ rather more slowly than you would
if you were playing at home. But this is a sort of unwritten rule which
governs performers in a large hall. To me the word written beside my
music as I turn the page seems to mean some fair and smiling country,
peace and plenty, joyful content, the gay look of youth, and the
sweetness of a gentle life. Try to play some _allegro_ movement,
thinking of these happy things, and see if your fingers do not move more
readily.

The term _andante_ used only to be employed in its most literal sense,
which means _going_, and they then put other words with it, but now it
is only used to mean _going slowly_. Beethoven has written many pieces
just known as _andantes_. The word is constantly used to express a slow
and solemn movement, but _adagio_ means something even more stately and
pathetic. _Presto_ means a quick, sudden movement; it comes in often as
a change from a richer, fuller sound. _Scherzo_, a term you will
constantly see, literally means a _jest_, but it is employed to
designate a humorous or lively movement.

These are, as you must know, only a few of the many terms employed in
music, but I have given you their significations chiefly because they
have to do with the arrangement of the sonata and the symphony.

Some day I shall hope to tell you a great deal about famous sonatas and
symphonies, and concertos also, but here I can only give you some of the
rules which have to be employed in their composition. All this, I am
sure, ought to be very thoroughly understood by any one who plays a
sonata or wishes to fully enjoy listening to one.

Originally the sonata consisted of slow, solemn movements when it was
for church music, and of one or two only when it was for secular music,
but the form in which we have it now is called the modern sonata, and
_must_ consist of four movements.

First comes an _allegro_. This has two of what are called _themes_, or
subjects, one in the _tonic_ or key-note, the other in what is called
the _dominant_. This is the fifth note above the key-note. For example,
should the first theme of an allegro be written in C, the second would
have to be in G. It is called _dominant_, because the key of any passage
can not be accurately known unless it has this note for root. Should the
first theme of the sonata be written in the _minor_ key, then the second
would have to be in the relative major.

The second movement of the sonata is the _andante_. This has usually one
theme or subject, and it is in a key which _relates_ in some way to the
tonic or leading key. I give you these rules simply, but they are worth
remembering as first steps to much deeper study.

The third movement is a _minuet_ or _scherzo_ (this was introduced by
Beethoven). The fourth movement is again an _allegro_, or _presto_, or
_rondo_. Here we go back to the original key, but there is only one
theme, and this is often gone over and over in various ways. Now, then,
with these rules to govern them, musicians are allowed certain licenses,
so that occasionally you will find a sonata written not quite in this
form. Schubert, a wonderful composer, often disregarded rules in his
sonatas, and occasionally Beethoven did the same. To Haydn, Mozart, and
Beethoven we owe the sonata as we have it now, and for beginners I
should recommend Haydn and Mozart as the simplest reading and best music
to begin upon.

A _symphony_, properly speaking, is an elaborate work like the _sonata_,
divided into movements, but arranged chiefly with a view to
orchestration. Any number of instruments may be used, and solos for
different instruments are introduced. Sometimes voices are added, as in
the famous Ninth Symphony of Beethoven. This is often called the Choral
Symphony. The first writer of genuine symphonies was Boccherini, and
Haydn brought them nearer to the form in which we have them. Mozart did
a little more, and Beethoven perfected them.

Boccherini's music is often very dull, yet someway I like to think of
him, and to hear his symphonies. He must have been a very interesting
man to know. He was kindly, good-humored, and generous, and in the last
century he played divinely on the 'cello. Often he was very poor; he led
a wandering life, and wrote some delicious bits of music to pay for his
dinner. In those days musical opportunities were rare, and yet good
musicians often lived and died unappreciated. We of to-day owe poor,
gentle Boccherini a great deal. I well remember a dull day in London,
when at the house of a famous artist I heard some of his music rehearsed
by the greatest musicians in the world. They were preparing for a
concert, and asked a few friends to hear this impromptu practice. I
thought how glad poor Boccherini (who died in 1805, fairly tired of his
cruel life) would have been to hear such musicians render his work.
Somehow it seemed to shut out all the fog and cheerlessness of the
square below the window in which I sat.




THE LAST OF THE ICE.


"That's the end of the skating for this winter," said Jerry McDonald,
mournfully.

"It'd have lasted three weeks longer," growled Put Giddings, "if it
hadn't been for Captain Myers and his old steamer." And Pat Farrel
added:

"What for did he come alongshore and smash the best ice there was left?
It's foine big pieces he made of it, but they're no good for skatin'."

Either old Captain Myers was a man with no heart for fun of that kind,
or he thought there had been enough of it that winter, for he had driven
the hard nose of his steamer right through the smooth surface of the
cove below toward the spot where he made his landings in the summer, and
there was no such thing as saying too much for the style in which he had
smashed the ice. There was just a narrow strip left right close to the
beach, and there was no good skating to be had on that.

"There's lots of it," said Jerry, "but it won't freeze to bear again.
It'd be rougher'n ploughed ground if it did."

"Some of the chunks are big ones," remarked Put. "That's the way the
icebergs get away from the north pole. They break away in the spring,
and they float down south and melt."

"'Dade," exclaimed Pat Farrel, "an' don't I wish owld Myers was on wan
of thim icebergs!" But Put went right along in spite of the
interruption:

"And if a white bear gets caught on an iceberg, he gets floated away
with and drowned, unless the menagerie men send out an expedition and
save him."

"Those icebergs out there wouldn't float a dog," said Bill Thatcher. But
Pat Farrel came to Put's help:

"Wouldn't they, now? That big wan, close inshore, would carry any wan of
us."

"No, it wouldn't."

"Yes, it would."

They were right in the middle of the argument about that cake of ice,
when Put Giddings, who had gone to the edge of the solid strip to study
the matter, gave a little run and a sliding jump. He hardly knew why he
did it, but it landed him right in the middle of that cake of ice, and
the shove he gave it sent it several feet away from its moorings.

"Here I am, boys! What do you think of this for an iceberg?"

"Wid a young bear on it," said Pat.

"Keep your balance," shouted Bill Thatcher. "How'll you ever get
ashore?" And Mum Robbins remarked:

"It's just like Put. He's always doing something."

"Don't she rock, though!" said Put, bravely. "Wish I had something to
steer with."

"What for?" asked Pat. "Did you ever see an iceberg wid a rudder?"

"Put," said Mum Robbins, "you're a-floating. There'll have to be an
expedition sent after you."

"And save him, and put him in a menaygerie," said Pat. "It's a foine
bear he'd make."

"If he doesn't stand still in the middle of it, he'll tip it over,"
began Bill Thatcher. But Put had been studying his own chances, and he
shouted:

"Boys, just one of you go and get a fence rail. I'll come ashore and let
some of you try it. It's the biggest cake around here."

"Are you getting scared?"

"Does it teter much?"

There were a good many remarks made, but quite a squad of boys set off
after a fence rail, while Bill Thatcher called out:

"Stand still right there in the middle. It wouldn't take much to tip her
over."

"Rock her," said Pat Farrel. "Mebbe you kud rock her right back to the
shore."

"When an iceberg gets loose," said Bill Thatcher, "it just floats away.
It doesn't go back to the pole and freeze on again."

"Boys," exclaimed Put, "they'll have to bring a good long rail. The
water's getting wider and wider."

So it was, and somehow it had a look of being colder and colder, and it
looked both wider and colder to the boy on the iceberg than it did to
any of the other young bears alongshore.

The cake was a wide one, and it was floating pretty well, but Put
Griddings should not have taken Pat Farrel's advice about rocking it.

There was a sudden dull cracking sound right under the unsteady feet of
Put Giddings. In a second or so more there were four or five small cakes
of ice on that spot of water instead of one big piece, and right in
among them was the cap of an unlucky boy, and from under the cap there
came a loud and astonished yell.

"The iceberg's busted!"

"Put's broke in!"

"Hurry up that rail!"

There were shouts enough, and there would have been a panic if it had
not been for Jerry McDonald.

"Swim, Put," he shouted. "Catch the end of my tippet. It's the longest
kind of a tippet. Catch."

[Illustration]

Put himself was quite cool about the matter, now he had yelled. In fact,
almost anybody can keep cool in such ice-water as that was. The distance
was not great, but the tippet was thrown out three times before the
swimmer caught the end of it.

"Now, Bill," said Jerry, "we've got him. Grab me round the waist, and
look out you don't slip. He's a-coming!"

So he was, for all the world as if he was a big fish and they had hooked
him; but just as he came near the solid ice, and Bill and Jerry began to
strain harder than ever, the rescued "bear" suddenly arose in the water
until he stood half out of it.

"Pull!" shouted Jerry, with his nose in the air, and an anxious look on
his face. "We've 'most got him."

"They've got him, boys!" yelled a youngster who was hurrying up with a
fence rail twice as long as himself, but Put Giddings was as cool as
ever.

It was easy enough to get out and start for home; but it was very mean
of Pat Farrel to remark, "Put, me b'y, ye'd betther dance all the way."

"B-b-boys," replied Put, "if you w-w-want to know how a b-b-bear feels
on an iceberg, just try one of those other c-c-cakes."

He started on what was as near a run as it was to a dance, but it was
plain he had received no worse harm than a wetting, and that crowd of
boys was by no means satisfied.

"Look how the ice is packed in the cove," said Bill Thatcher, "and the
pieces are big ones too."

"They wouldn't hold a fellow up."

"Yes, they would."

"See how Put's chunk carried him until he danced through it."

"Boys," said Jerry, "don't you know? There's seven times as much of a
chunk of ice under the water as there is above it? Maybe it's eight
times."

"Well," replied Mum Robbins, "if you should try to cross the cove on
that pack of cakes, there'd be seven times as much of you in the water
as there would be anywhere else."

"Now I guess not. If a fellow ran fast enough, and if he didn't stop two
seconds on any one cake, he could get across."

"S'posing he should slip up?"

"He'd have to look out for that, and he'd have to jump pretty lively;
but he could do it."

The excitement over Put Giddings and his iceberg had left that lot of
lake-shore boys in a bad state of mind, and they were drifting toward
the cove all the while they were talking. The ice there was indeed
packed pretty well. Not as closely as in an ice-house, perhaps, but
still it had a very substantial appearance, considering what it really
was. It seemed a great pity, too, not to get a little more fun out of
what had been the best skating ground on all that end of the lake.
Still, the remaining mischief was really done by Pat Farrel, small as he
was, for he broke in on the talk of the larger boys with:

"Crass that ice, is it? I kud do it in a minute if me fut was well. Yer
afraid to thry it. That's all."

There was always some place or other lame or bruised about Pat Farrel,
for the good reason that he could not see or think of any rash
undertaking he was not at once ready to try.

Pat kept on talking, and the more he said about it, the more the taller
boys began to feel that it was their duty to try it.

Mum Robbins was a little the best runner, but it was well known that
Bill Thatcher could outjump him, and the other boys were quite contented
to let those two make the experiment.

They went back three or four rods from the edge of the "pack" to get a
good start, and then Pat Farrel shouted, "Now, b'ys, jump!"

[Illustration: "EVERY CAKE THEY TROD UPON DANCED AND WOBBLED."]

They started, and they were almost surprised, as were all the
lookers-on, to find how easy a piece of work it was at first. Their
footfalls hardly stirred the cakes of ice from their places, and the
small boys began to hurrah. All that, however, was near shore, where the
cakes were wedged and jammed together in a sort of close raft that
helped support itself, but there was something not quite so nice a
little further out toward the middle of the cove. Everything grew looser
and looser the further the two young adventurers went, and in a few
seconds more they were actually forced to jump a wide crack. Then all
the "race track" under them became full of cracks, and every cake they
trod upon danced and wobbled, and they were not half so sure of their
footing.

Mum Robbins was winning the race, for he was three-quarters of the way
over, when he heard a loud cry behind him, and a great chorus of louder
cries on the shore. He did not dare to pause an instant, for he was
getting out of breath, and it would not do to use any cake for more than
one footstep. It was an awful half-minute, but the moment he reached
solid ice he turned and looked. "Where's Bill Thatcher?"

Not running or jumping, and yet there he was, every inch of him. Bill
had alighted on the edge of a cake which was still tetering from the
effects of being trodden upon by Mum Robbins, and it had at once slipped
from under him. His foot went through into the water, and before he knew
it he was lying flat on his back. The next thing he was really sure of
was that he was also lying on three separate cakes of ice, and that they
wobbled dreadfully with every movement he made.

Bill yelled in spite of himself when the water rose above the cracks,
and crept through to his skin. Here was a second panic among the
many-sized mob alongshore. One shouted one thing and one another, and
two small boys began to cry, but Pat Farrel was equal to the occasion.

"What for did he do that? Now, b'ys, we've got to go for some boords.
There's a hape of 'em in front of owld Van Meter's fence. 'Tisn't far to
bring 'em. We'll have him out o' that."

The work of transporting the best half of Deacon Van Meter's fencing
boards was done in a sort of frenzy, and Aunt Hannah Van Meter came
rushing out of the house to see about it.

"Drowning? Mum Robbins, did you say Bill Thatcher was drowning? I'll run
down to the village and tell his mother."

"Ye'd betther take howld and kerry a big boord wid us," replied Pat
Farrel, sturdily, and Aunt Hannah exclaimed:

"Me? Carry a board? That's what I'll do, then."

"Don't let his mother know he's dhrowned till afther we've saved him,"
said Pat. "Then she won't care."

All that time, short as it was, poor Bill lay there on his unsteady
raft, and felt more and more sorry he had been such a fool, while every
ten seconds somebody on the shore shouted to him: "Lie still, Bill.
They're a-coming."

The boards did come, and three of them, side by side, on the ice, made a
bridge over which it would have been almost entirely safe to walk.

"Roll over, Bill," called the crowd on shore, and Bill did roll. Any
part of it that was not rolled over was passed in a very cautious kind
of creeping.

The shore was reached at last, but the first thing Bill heard, when he
stood upon his feet, was from Pat Farrel.

"You've baten Mum Robbins entirely. He just run right acrass. You're the
ownly wan that dared to shtop and lie down."

"He'll catch his death of cold," said Aunt Hannah. "Hurry home, William.
Your mother'll give you something warm."

Bill took Aunt Hannah's advice. There were two boys who were glad to
spend that afternoon by the fire getting the chill out of their bones.
But who says there wasn't any fun the day Captain Myers's steamboat
broke up the ice on Long Lake?




THE CANDY PULL.


[Illustration]

  Such lots of fun
    The other day,
  When Tom, and Jack,
    And Maud, and May,

  And children, till
    The house was full,
  Came trooping to
    Our candy pull.

  The tiny tots,
    Who looked so sweet,
  Did nothing much
    Except to eat.

  But we worked hard
    The other day,
  We older ones,
    And thought it play.

For a frolic what can be pleasanter than a candy pull? Have you had one
yet this winter? No? Well, children, do fly to mamma, and tell her that
your Aunt Marjorie Precept has just given you the nicest bit of advice
you've ever heard from her, and that is that you shall have the fun and
uproar of a good old-fashioned time making molasses candy.

If any of you have such a splendid kitchen as the one in the picture,
and can swing your kettle of New Orleans molasses over a beautiful open
fire, you will enjoy it. But you may make very nice candy indeed upon
the stove or range. Aunt Marjorie made some the other day, and how she
would have liked to send you all a bit! She took two cups of molasses
and one of brown sugar, a tea-spoonful of butter, and a table-spoonful
of vinegar. After this mixture had boiled twenty minutes, she took it
off, and poured it on a wide platter to cool. As soon as it was cool
enough to be handled, she began to pull it, first buttering her hands
that the candy might not stick to them. The more she pulled it, the
whiter it grew.

How can you tell when the candy is done, do you ask? Why, just get a
saucerful of cold water and drop some into it. If the candy sets itself
into shape when dropped, it is done. The old nurse who is helping these
boys and girls has made so much candy in her time that she is quite a
veteran. She feels like smiling at Rose and Patty, who are afraid of
their hands, and she praises Master Arthur, who is pulling his piece
with such energy. People who play with their might usually work with
their might too.

Sly little Hughie, who is trying with his toy cane to pull off poor
nurse's cap, does not deserve a taste of candy. As for the little boy
who is drinking out of the pitcher, and the kitties that wait so
patiently to find out whether they are to have any milk after all the
fuss, we hardly know what to think. Some cats love candy, and some boys
think a drink is much more delicious if taken in a troublesome way.

If you should have a candy pull, be sure that you let everybody have a
share of the work, and when the frolic is over, think whether there is
not some little sick boy or girl, or some poor family, who have not many
pleasures, and send away a boxful of candy to these friends the next
day. I wouldn't be surprised if you should write to me in this fashion:
"Dear Aunt Marjorie,--The best part of our candy pull was the
postscript." See if you don't.




[Illustration: THE GOSSIPS.]




OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.


A little Breeze crept slyly out the other day from under the wing of his
mother, the great North Wind. To his surprise he found a crowd of
Breezes and Zephyrs who had wakened an hour or two earlier than he. They
were rushing here and there, and frolicking with everything they saw. A
very pompous old gentleman with a gold-headed cane was walking down the
street, and a naughty Breeze whisked off his hat and wig. "Take care of
yourself!" said the Wind to the Breeze; "such behavior is very wrong." A
boy was carrying a kitten in a basket. He was taking it away to give it
to his aunt Mary. Presto! a Breeze whirled away his cap, and another one
peered into the basket, and out flew Miss Kittykins, and ran home as
fast as four velvet paws could carry her. The Breezes blew against the
shutters and broke the windows, and dashed around the corners, and had
the merriest time; and they are having it still. The Postmistress says
she is glad of it, for March is a jolly month, and all the while that he
is tearing about with his troop of whistling Winds and his crew of
rioting Gales he is preparing the way for the gentle maiden Spring to
come in earnest.

And kite-time's here too, isn't it, boys?

       *       *       *       *       *

  CHELSEA, MASSACHUSETTS.

     We live on the bank of the Mystic River, and have a view of Bunker
     Hill Monument, which is just opposite to us, on the Charlestown
     side of the river. There is also on Bunker Hill a beautiful bronze
     statue of Colonel Prescott. Our home is very pretty, and in the
     summer we row in our boat on the river. The tide rises and falls
     twice a day five or six feet. When it is low, and the rocks and
     beach are bare, we find a great many star-fish. They have five
     points, just like a star. The eye is in the middle. We dry them on
     a board, and keep them as curiosities.

     We have a pair of goats. When the weather is good, they draw us in
     a wagon, but now they draw a sled, which they do not like as well.
     Our cow has a great deal of sense; the goats stay in the stable
     with her, and when we take them out, she misses them, and moos
     until they go back. Papa takes an apple to the goats, cow, and
     horse nearly every morning. Sometimes when he has only one, he
     gives it to the horse, for we all love that best; then you ought to
     hear the old cow scold. When the weather was warm, she learned to
     know that she always got an apple when she came to the library
     window, so she came for one every day. When it got too cold for the
     window to be raised, she stood rubbing her nose on the window
     glass, and would not leave until she received her apple. One day
     she came with five other cows; I think she wanted all of them to
     get an apple. She would not go away until mamma threw some to a
     distance, and then the procession went after them. Nelly, our
     horse, eats out of our hands, and we are sure no other horse was
     ever so gentle.

     We have twelve canaries. Mamma raised them all, besides a great
     many others she has given away. Some are light, some dark; some
     have crests, or top-knots. One of them looks as if her feathers
     were "banged" like a little girl's hair, they fall so prettily over
     her eyes. She flies to us to eat sugar from our fingers. There are
     five females, who live together in one cage. We also have on the
     place four dogs; two of them belong to us, the others to the
     farmer. One of ours is a setter named Ring. He is very fond of the
     farmer's dogs, especially of the puppy. A few days ago we called
     him to the house. He brought all the other dogs with him. The older
     ones followed him up the stairs, but the little pup did not know
     what to make of the steps; he stood in the lower hall whining. Ring
     went back to him, licked him on the face, ran up the steps again,
     the little pup still whining. Ring went back to him several times.
     At last he got out of patience; he made mamma open the door and let
     the puppy out. The way he tells mamma he wants the door opened is
     by biting the toes of her slippers, and he will not stop until she
     lets him out.

     There is a very high hill back of our house, where we have a fine
     coasting place. We have also built a snow fort, with port-holes
     through which we can see our enemies coming, and pelt them with
     snow-balls.

  WILLIE H.

       *       *       *       *       *

We are much obliged to the lady who sent us this pleasant letter from an
absent niece, and we regret that the Wiggles arrived too late for
publication in YOUNG PEOPLE:

  MILAN, ITALY.

     The HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE containing the new Wiggle arrived safely,
     dear Aunt L., and created quite a sensation. I think it is meant
     for a monkey's head, and would have tried to make it so, but my
     animals do not, as a general thing, succeed very well. I showed the
     paper to Ida Borzino, and she drew a Wiggle, which I inclose; and
     which she signed "Roland." I don't suppose it makes much difference
     what it is signed, but I signed mine with my own initials. I hope
     we will not be too late.

     The other day I came across an Italian coin, a mezzo-soldo, worth
     two centimes and a half, and bearing the date of 1777. As soon as I
     have an opportunity I mean to send it to Lulu for her collection,
     which, I am very glad to hear, is progressing.

     Ellie says that in the HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE she noticed that one
     of the correspondents writes that his cat will eat pea-nuts, and
     she would like you to be told that our cat will not only eat them,
     but is fonder of them than of anything else; but as they are rather
     a delicacy in this part of the globe, he does not often get an
     opportunity of indulging his fancy.

     The Borzinos' first party comes off to-morrow, and we are looking
     forward to it very much. This year they have very few, only about
     six. However, I suppose that is enough dissipation for one year.
     Their parties are so nice, because they are so informal, and we all
     know each other so well that we always enjoy ourselves.

     Our drawing-class has commenced its winter season. We have called
     our studio the "Temple of Art," and all the members have taken the
     names of celebrated Italian painters, and we have painted our cards
     with our names on to put on the studio door, and we receive on
     Thursday, other days being devoted to work, and not to amusement.

  JULIET L. T.

       *       *       *       *       *

  FORGE, NEW YORK.

     I have a kind friend who sends me YOUNG PEOPLE, and I take much
     pleasure in reading it, and love to read the letters as well as any
     part of the paper. I live among the Catskills, and have few
     pastimes during the winter except coasting, and thus far this
     winter we have not had much snow.

     This is a very pleasant village, and during the summer months is
     crowded with boarders. If Mr. Editor or any of the young people
     should come here, I would be glad to show them a very nice cat. We
     call him Chub, and he will roll over when I tell him to, and knock
     at the door to come in.

     I have a pet canary that is very tame. Mamma thinks my letter is
     not worth your notice, but I hope you will have some room for it. I
     think "Work for Little Fingers" will be a help for something new
     for me to make for our country fair, which is held near us every
     year. I have had the first premium on everything I have taken there
     since I was five years old, and I am now ten.

  EL. LOUISE. D.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA.

     I am a little boy eight years old. I have one little sister named
     Grace. We live in Philadelphia, and we often wish it was the
     country which some of the little girls and boys write about, so
     that we could have pets as they do.

     We take HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, and love the stories and letters. My
     mamma don't know I am writing this letter. I want to surprise her
     by showing it to her in the Post-office Box of the book. Don't you
     think it would be splendid for me to have a little horse? Then I
     could ride to our beautiful Park every day. My fingers are so tired
     I must say good-by.

  HORACE P. F.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NEW YORK CITY.

     I am going to tell you about a little bird which my sister found
     one day she was coming from a visit. It was a very snowy day, and
     the snow was very deep. My sister Elvira found it in front of a
     large gray house. The bird was nearly covered with snow, and Elvira
     could just see its little wing, which was a little above the snow.
     Elvira took it up in her arms very fondly, and put it under her
     warm cloak. When she brought it home to me, I was very happy to see
     the little bird safe in a home. We gave it crumbs of bread to eat.
     But oh! it would not eat nor drink, and it did not look happy.
     Mamma told Elvira to let the bird fly out, and it would be much
     happier. As soon as it was out in the free, fresh air, it clapped
     its wings together with joy, and flew to a large maple-tree.

     I took two days to make this letter. I do not know English very
     beautifully, but I can speak Spanish, and read nicely. I will soon
     learn English.

  ALFREDO U.

       *       *       *       *       *

  EAST BETHLEHEM, WASHINGTON COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA.

     I live in the country, and have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE for two
     or three months, and I like it ever so much, and always read the
     letters in it every week. I walk a mile and a quarter to school
     every morning, and back home again in the evening. We have a large
     shepherd dog named Romeo. He is real playful, and he always goes
     out in the fields with me to take walks; and one time when I was
     out playing I found three dandelions out in bloom, on the 8th of
     January, 1882, and just as bright and fresh-looking as if it were
     spring. I have two dolls, named Bertha and Gertrude. I think Jimmy
     Brown's stories are real funny, and I hope he will write some more
     soon.

     This is the first time I have written to HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, so
     please publish it, and oblige

  CORA C. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

  GOLD HILL, COLORADO.

     I am a little girl twelve years old. I live in the Rocky Mountains,
     and weigh 115 pounds. I have taken HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE from the
     first number, and like it very much. I began eight years ago to
     save the pennies and dimes that were given me by the miners, and
     bought a heifer with them, and now I have a cow, a two-year-old,
     and a yearling. I call my cow Lillie, my two-year-old Minnie, and
     my yearling Duke. I also have a pet cat and hen. I call the cat
     Tiger, and the hen Daisy. If this letter is printed, I will write
     again, and tell you about a four-footed thief who stole the fried
     cakes in our cellar.

  MIRA S.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE STORY OF A RABBIT.

     I am going to relate a true story of a boy and his rabbit. It was
     on Staten Island, in the year 1879.

     I once had a middle-sized rabbit, and one day I saw a boy that I
     knew passing by my house. I asked him to come and see what a nice
     rabbit I had. He liked it so much that he offered me twenty-six
     cents; so I sold the rabbit to him, and some bran too. The next
     time that I saw him I asked him how his rabbit was, and he told me
     that the very day he bought the rabbit a dog saw it, and bit its
     throat so that it died instantly.

  JOSEPH FRANCIS W.

What a shame!

       *       *       *       *       *

We think our wee readers will like this story of two little girls who
gave up something they loved, to please their mamma. Of course they had
a reward:

BIRDIE AND JENNIE.

     Birdie and Jennie are two sweet little children.

     Birdie has long light curls and soft hazel eyes, pale oval face,
     and slender form. She is seven years old. Jennie, the little
     sister, is chubby in face and form, has dark curls, and dark bright
     eyes. Her cheeks are almost always red. She is five years old.

     These two little sisters are very sweet singers, and once, when
     they sang to entertain company, they were presented with a pair of
     white mice.

     These pets delighted the children, and for a time they enjoyed them
     to their hearts' content; but mamma did not like white mice, and
     longed to have them out of the house. Accordingly she talked to the
     children, and urged them to let the treasures be sold.

     This was a hard request, and the little ones were reluctant to
     comply.

     Mamma understood this, and to help them make the sacrifice she
     promised to try to procure them something else in their place.

     Birdie and Jennie loved their mice, but they loved mamma better,
     and to please her they consented to let the mice go, and tried to
     do it cheerfully.

     It was on a Friday that the mice were taken away, and when Saturday
     night came round, what should pop into the house but a cunning
     little gray squirrel? This visitor made himself quite at home.

     The delighted children knew not how to express their joy, and
     firmly believed that God sent the squirrel to them so soon, because
     they had parted pleasantly with their mice.

     It was found that the squirrel belonged to a gentleman who lived
     near by, and who said he was glad to be rid of the charge, and the
     children were equally glad to have it. It is still living--a dear
     little interesting pet.

     As Birdie and Jennie live in the city, the squirrel's coming to
     them so unexpectedly was even more strange than if their home had
     been in the country.

  ANNA D. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MASON, TEXAS.

     "Well, well, what a great thing for the children of America, and of
     other countries too, is HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE!" Such was the
     exclamation uppermost in my mind after spending two or three days
     in reading back numbers of this gem of a paper. Yes, two or three
     days, and up some nights till twelve o'clock, reading YOUNG PEOPLE,
     and here I will soon be a quarter of a century old! I dropped
     Carlyle, Dickens, Macaulay, and Goethe, to read this juvenile
     paper, and read it not only with pleasure but _profit_. I enjoy
     Jimmy Brown's letters, which are the most mirth-provoking articles
     I have ever read. And here I want to give my thanks to "Jimmy" for
     the many hearty laughs he has afforded me. The "Autocrat of the
     Breakfast-Table" says that he "purrs very loud over a good honest
     letter that says pretty things" to him; so Jimmy may "purr very
     loud" now. Then, too, I like the war stories of Dr. Lossing, and
     the scientific articles of Mrs. Herrick, whom I remember in
     _Southern Review_ times, and the good advice of Aunt Marjorie, who
     gives it so wisely and kindly. And the pictures--my! Every number
     is just full of good things, like a shop window. How blest are the
     boys and girls of to-day! Are we grateful, boys? are you thankful,
     girls? I can hear you all say, "Yes, yes."

     I am going to get up a collection of rare curiosities from this
     Western country, and when they are ready, I will mention them among
     the Exchanges. I have a little friend here, Josie B., who takes
     YOUNG PEOPLE, and I will invite her to help me. Mason is away out
     in Western Texas, and is a little frontier town. It has a
     delightful climate, and the weather Christmas week was as beautiful
     as any that ever graced summer. On this January day I have had the
     door open and window up, while the day without has been full of
     spring. Just to show you what a charming country this is for health
     and climate, I will quote from the Meteorological Report of the
     United States Signal Officer of this place for the past year: "The
     highest temperature during the year was on June 22, July 1, and
     August 10--100° each day; the lowest temperature was on January 9,
     1881--9°; yearly range of temperature, 91°. The highest wind
     occurred on September 6, blowing thirty-four miles per hour from
     the southeast. The total rain-fall of the year was 22.08 inches;
     the greatest monthly rain-fall was during May--5.29 inches; the
     least monthly rain-fall was during June--none. The prevailing wind
     was from the south. There were 195 clear days, 77 fair, and 90
     cloudy. There were only twenty days when the temperature was below
     freezing, and no days when it remained below all day. There were
     ninety days when the temperature was above 90°. Only one bad storm
     occurred during the year, on September 30, when rain fell in
     torrents for thirty minutes, flooding the town." I doubt whether
     any other portion of the whole country can make a better showing in
     the weather record than that.

  DAN M.

The beginning of this sprightly letter from our Texas correspondent was
so very complimentary that we half hesitated about publishing it. Still,
it is only fair to the authors whose graceful pens are making YOUNG
PEOPLE so attractive, to let them know what a generous measure of
appreciation they are winning from some "grown-ups" as well as from a
host of little folks. So, hoping to do still better in future, we let
the world see how much one of our friends thinks of our paper, including
the Post-office Box, to which he has contributed so agreeably.

       *       *       *       *       *

C. Y. P. R. U.

ROBERT, A. C. F., AND OTHERS.--The common white pigeon is the offspring
of the common pigeon, which is of various colors and markings. By
selecting only the pure white birds for breeding, and rejecting those of
other colors, a strain of blood is established in course of time, so
that the birds will breed true to color.

All taxidermists make use of white pigeons, and the demand is often
greater than the supply. They are used, when set up in various
positions, as emblems of purity and hope at church fairs, Sunday-school
festivals, and by florists. For a large handler of white pigeons,
address Taxidermist, No. 199 William Street, New York city. White
pigeons are obtainable of all dealers in fancy poultry throughout the
country.

Dealers complain about careless packing, and state that much higher
prices might be obtained if the game, fish, animals, and birds were
taken better care of after being caught, and not over-crowded in the
boxes, so that when exposed for sale they would look clean, fresh, and
smooth, as if just caught. Some of the largest dealers in dead game are
at Washington Market, New York city. A very excellent book on breeding
and taking care of pet stock is published by Cassell, Petter, & Galpin,
No. 596 Broadway, New York city. Much interesting and valuable
information can be found in Gibson's _Camp Life in the Woods; and the
Tricks of Trapping and Trap Making_. By W. HAMILTON GIBSON, Author of
_Pastoral Days_. Illustrated by the Author. 12mo, cloth, $1. Published
by Harper & Brothers. This is a perfect manual for youthful hunters, and
contains hints on life out-doors in all its aspects. Shelter, food,
trapping, boat-building, bait, and, in fact, everything a boy needs to
know about the woods and their inhabitants, are considered in this book.

For information about purchasing and disposing of live rabbits,
squirrels, and all cage birds, etc., etc., address Aquarium Stock, 76
Fulton Street, New York city.

       *       *       *       *       *

The topaz occupies some distinction among gems. The finest varieties are
found in the Brazils, Ceylon, and the Ural Mountains, either
crystallized or in small rolled masses in the alluvium of granitic
rocks, about the size of a large nut. In color they are commonly white,
bluish or yellowish white, much water-worn, and perfect crystals are
rare. The common kinds are found in many parts of the world. A crystal
nineteen ounces in weight was discovered in the Cairngorm Mountains, in
Aberdeenshire, and some have been obtained in Cornwall and Ireland. The
topaz is rendered very electric by heat and friction; and by this
property it may be readily distinguished from a diamond or ruby, for
which otherwise, when cut and set, it might easily be mistaken.

The topaz of the ancients had a green color, and is supposed to have
been our chrysolite. It was found in the island of Topazios, in the Red
Sea. "This place," says Diodorus Siculus, "was ten miles long, and
called the Island of Serpents, from the number of reptiles formerly
infesting it. The topazion here found was a transparent gem, agreeable
in aspect, resembling glass. No one was allowed to land there under pain
of death, and no boat was allowed to be kept on the island. Provisions
for the few soldiers on guard there were brought at intervals from the
continent. The gem was not discernible by day, its lustre being then
overpowered by the sun's rays, but at night it was conspicuous by its
brightness. The guards who divided the island among their patrols then
ran up, and covered the luminous spot with a vase of equal size. Next
day they would go their rounds, cut out the patch of rock thus
indicated, and deliver it to the proper person to be polished."

       *       *       *       *       *

We have five articles in this number to recommend to the attention of
the C. Y. P. R. U. Every little pair of hands that opens YOUNG PEOPLE,
the Postmistress hopes and fancies, has two corresponding little feet
nicely incased in woven stockings without the suspicion of a hole in
them. How did the world ever come to have woven stockings? Look at the
article on our fourth page and see. Three centuries ago William Lee's
observation of the labor performed by four knitting-needles in the hands
of his patient, hard-working wife resulted in the invention of the
stocking-loom. There is no use in telling the boys to read the rest of
Mr. Payn's story. We know they have been waiting breathlessly for a week
to find out what became of Philip Ashton. They are going to take a great
interest, too, in the boy hero of the great floods, "Dad" Little. After
these good things have been read and digested, we want them to pay
particular attention to "Something about Sonatas," by Mrs. John Lillie,
and see how much it will help them in the study and appreciation of
music.

       *       *       *       *       *

YOUNG PEOPLE'S COT.

Contributions received for Young People's Cot, in Holy Innocent's Ward,
St. Mary's Free Hospital for Children, 407 West Thirty-fourth Street:

Lizzie Champion, Warrenville, 25c.; Amelia Frink, Marshall, Mich., 25c.;
Dudley A. Williams, Hackensack, N. J., 50c.; John Wilson, Still Pond,
Md., 25c.; Lizzie Treadway, Cleveland, Ohio, 50c.; H. L. Ireland,
Coventryville, N. Y., 50c.; Louie Bryant, Schuyler, Neb., 25c.; Eric
Holt, New York, $1; Lillie Bahten, Piute Mountain, Cal., $1; Fannie K.
Sowall, San Antonio, Texas, 50c.; A. N. P., 25c.; Raymond Buck, 152d
St., N. Y., $1; Madge Vail, Sag Harbor, L. I., 50c.; Marshall and Harold
Wawick, Plainwell, Mich., 30c.; Louis A., Howard B., and Baby Boy,
Madison, N. J., 30c.; Bertie and Rex Dalmolen, Verona, Italy, $2:
Florence and Frankie Ward, New York, $1; Willie S., Elizabeth, N. J.,
$1; total, $11.35. Previously acknowledged, $246.69; grand-total,
$258.04.

  E. AUGUSTA FANSHAWE, Treasurer, 43 New St.
  _February 15_.

Can our little folks do no better than this for Young People's Cot? The
sum needed to endow the cot is $3000. There are many little suffering
children who need to be cared for in St. Mary's Free Hospital. The
subscription, you see, is growing very, very slowly. We wonder whether
some of you will not try to send an Easter offering to be reported in
this list? Could not you have a little box in the sitting-room or
nursery, and drop your pennies in it from time to time? You see, dears,
we must raise almost fifteen times what we now have before we shall
really have Young People's Cot, in St. Mary's Hospital.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

TWO DROP-LETTER PUZZLES.

1. --t-- --n--l-- -- --n--t-- --t-- --o--s-- --b-- --y-- -- --d.

2. -- --n-- --a-- --s--a--e-- -- --h-- --o-- --.

  NELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 2.

GEOGRAPHICAL PUZZLE.

One morning I was awakened by the (county of Illinois) telling me that
my cousin (a river of Virginia) was waiting for me at the gate. I rose,
dressed, went out, and met my cousin with a (city of Arkansas) in his
hand, which he was about to hurl at what he thought was a (lake in North
America). Just as he threw it I saw Mr. (a city in Indiana) with a
(river in Dakota) gun. The (lake in North America) turned out to be a
(river in Dakota) cow. After this adventure we went to our homes, which
are on (a celebrated philosopher) street, in (a small town of Illinois).

  L. WHITLOCK.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 3.

A CONCEALED WORD SQUARE.

We were striving to believe Robert when he said the Muse refused to hold
forth her sceptre every time.

  WILLIAM A. LEWIS.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 4.

A RIDDLE.

  In height and depth, in heaven and hell,
  In ocean, and in earth I dwell;
  The first of each, and the last of one,
  And yet I can be found in none.
  Though evil with me must begin,
  I am in error, and not in sin.
  The first in enterprise to lead,
  I never fail in strength and speed.
  Yet always found in bed and weak,
  I can not stand alone. I speak
  The end at once of peace and strife,
  Am present both in death and life.
  My common help to foe and friend
  In silence and in speech I lend,
  And still an equal place I have
  In both the cradle and the grave.
  In short, where time is I must be,
  And space will terminate with me.

  INDIE.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 120.

No. 1.

          T
        C O B
      P A L E D
    C A T E R E R
  T O L E R A T E D
    B E R A T E S
      D E T E R
        R E S
          D

No. 2.

Powder.

No. 3.

  B uyin G
  R obbe R
  I ndig O
  D omin O
  E stee M

No. 4.

  P A R I S
  A S I D E
  R I F L E
  I D L E R
  S E E R S

No. 5.

  F O R B E A R
  O R I E N T
  R I G I D
  B E I N
  E N D
  A T
  R

       *       *       *       *       *

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from George and Bud, W. B.
Gordon, Ella Chirney, Kittie Lewis, Willie Volckhausen, Cliff Woodruff,
William Lewis, Milton D. Close, Edwin S. Hippey, Laura G., Harry W.
Davis, Blanche P. Heywood, L. E. Williams, Agnes G. Fletcher, John C.
Myers, "_Alma_," A. H. Nevins, _Hattie Lehman_, Alice O. Quackenbos,
_Charles B. Semple_, Mamie Cunningham, Annie I. Brown, G. W., Malcolm
Gates, Alfred G. Dale, Ernest R. Smith, Fred Niver, C. Alexina
Delafolie, Giles Dow, Carrie W. Rappold, "Askelon," _Laura Gibbs_, Henry
Berlan, Jun., and "Lady Clare."

       *       *       *       *       *

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




[Illustration: "WE AIN'T AFRAID, 'CAUSE WE CAN SWIM."]




BOUQUETAIRE--A NEW GAME.

BY G. B. BARTLETT.


This new and interesting game requires a little preparation, which forms
part of the fun. It is either made up of contributions from all the
players, each of whom brings three presents, or all the gifts are
furnished by the lady of the house. These gifts should consist of a
great variety of useful, ornamental, graceful, and funny articles, such
as toys, fans, dolls of small size, boxes of candy of odd shapes, books,
small articles of jewelry, china, and bric-a-brac.

The smaller articles should be inclosed in boxes, or many wraps of
paper, so that all may be nearly alike in size. They are all done up
separately, each in a floral envelope, and are tastefully arranged in an
open flat box or basket, which, when full, presents the appearance of a
pyramid of flowers.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

[Illustration: FIG. 3.]

[Illustration: FIG. 4.]

Great taste may be displayed in making these petals, as the envelopes
are called, for which these simple directions may be followed, with such
variations as practice may suggest: Take a dozen sheets of tissue-paper,
comprising as many colors as possible, fold them together in the middle,
fold in each corner in the shape of a pyramid (see Fig. 1); then double
it twice (see Figs. 2 and 3); cut a piece out of the top of this in the
shape of the letter V (see Fig. 4), and crimp up each sheet in the hand
as fine as possible. Mix up these colors according to taste, as the
petals may be of several shades or all of one color. Place the presents
inside of these papers, and twist them twice around, and spread the
petals in various ways.

A very little practice will enable children to make successful
imitations of gay flowers. The number of these gifts depends upon the
number of players, and there should be at least three times as many
presents as persons. For each gift there should be one white and one red
card, the latter being distributed equally among the players, and the
former placed in a box on the table. The white cards are then
distributed among the players equally. Each one writes one question on
each, or some quotation which refers in some way to a plant, vegetable,
tree, or flower, the name of which is at the same time written on the
red card. The lines on the white card may be botanical, humorous, or
sentimental, and, if possible, should end in rhyme with the name on the
red card; and to prevent mistakes, a number is affixed to the white and
red cards in case there should happen to be two rhyming, one only being
the correct answer. The red cards are then shaken up in a hat, and each
player takes out his proportion.

The white cards are then piled one on another, so that only the upper
one is visible, and a player is selected to read them. All listen to the
reading, each intent to see if he has the correct answer on his card,
and if so, he is entitled to the present, which is selected at random by
a little girl, who takes it from the pyramid, and holds it above her
head during the reading, and carries it to the successful one when
directed by the reader.

If any player gives the wrong answer, he is obliged to give up all his
presents already taken to the one who holds the correct one, which is
determined by the number in case of doubt.

No one, therefore, is allowed to open the gift until the reading is
over.

If played at a club or sociable, it is well to have a ring or some
valuable gift, the penalty of finding which is that its lucky owner
shall be compelled to give the next party, and prepare the presents.

A few specimens are given of the rhymes, which are wholly impromptu, and
of the simplest kind, such as can be written in a minute by young
people:

  Sweet and lovely, blushing cause
  Of the cruelest of wars;
  In spite of thorns, no flower that grows
  Excels the fair and fragrant [rose].

  In purity and peace I climb
  From dankest depths of mud and slime,
  To show that it is always silly
  From whence it comes to judge a [lily].

  My first is Hansom, next is old.
  My whole is good when boiled or cold.
  To solve this you must be a Babbage,
  And your head must not be a [cabbage].

If preferred, in order to give variety, the botanical classification or
description may be given, either in prose or verse, or any curious fact
or habit of the plant.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CAMEL-RACE.

A strange race took place not long ago in Australia. A troop of eighteen
camels, laden with merchandise, arrived at Thargomindah. Some of the
enterprising townsmen arranged for a race between five of the fleetest
of the "ships of the desert." It cost a great deal of trouble to get an
even start, but it was finally done. The camel ridden by a man named
Bond made all the running, and won in "a canter." One of the "ships" is
reported to have lain down at the back of the course, and "his steering
gear getting out of order," he could not be piloted straight afterward.




[Illustration: INGENIOUS BUT AWE-INSPIRING DEVICE OF THE BOYS TO MAKE
THE HEAD OF THEIR SNOW MAN NOD, WHICH ALMOST DROVE BRIDGET INTO A FIT.]





End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Young People, March 7, 1882, by Various



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