The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Young People, March 7, 1882, by Various.

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[Pg 290] 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?"

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:

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!"

"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."

"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."

"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[Pg 291] 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."

"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.

"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."

"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—"

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

"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?"

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Chapter XXII.

nly 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:

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.

"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[Pg 294] 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.

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

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

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

[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[Pg 296] 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.

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[Pg 297] 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."

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.

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:

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.

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

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

"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."

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

"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.

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."

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."

"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."

"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[Pg 300] 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!"

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:

"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.

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.

or 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.

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.

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:

THE STORY OF A RABBIT.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

No. 2.

No. 3.

No. 4.

No. 5.

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."

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.

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.

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Begun in No. 101, Harper's Young People.

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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.

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