[Pg 465]

UNCLE DANIEL RECEIVING HIS GUESTS.

MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]

BY JAMES OTIS,

Author of "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," etc.

Chapter VIII.

THE DINNER PARTY.

But the time was passing rapidly, and as there were many persons outside waiting for an opportunity to pay their money to see the various[Pg 466] attractions of the show, Mrs. Treat gave the signal for the snake-charmer to begin. The entertainment, the skeleton explained, was given as a mark of respect to their friend Toby Tyler.

This private exhibition lasted about fifteen minutes; and when, at its close, the doors were thrown open to the public, the boys were not at all anxious to leave.

"Let them stay as long as they want to, Toby," said the skeleton, indulgently.

The boys were only too glad to avail themselves of this permission, and Toby said to Abner:

"I want to see if I can find Ella, an' you stay here till I come back."

"I'll keep him right here by me," said Mrs. Treat, "and he'll he safe enough."

Remembering how she had served Job Lord, Toby had no fears for the safety of his friend. He went at once, therefore, to deliver the invitation to the last of Aunt Olive's expected guests.

When, after some little time, Toby returned, the boys had satisfied their curiosity so far as the side show was concerned, and all except Abner had left the tent.

That Toby had found Ella was evident, as that young lady herself skipped along by his side in the greatest possible delight at having met her former riding companion; and that she had accepted his invitation to dinner was shown by the scrupulous care with which she was dressed.

"It's time to go up to Uncle Dan'l's," Toby whispered to Mrs. Treat, "an' Ben's harnessin' the hosses into your wagon, so you won't have to go to the trouble of puttin' on your other clothes."

"I don't know as we ought to go up there in this rig," said Mrs. Treat, doubtfully, as she looked down at her "show dress," made to display her arms and neck to the greatest advantage, and then at her husband's costume, which was as scanty as his body. "I wanted to dress up when we went there, but I don't see how I'll get the chance to do it."

"I wouldn't bother, 'cause Uncle Dan'l will like you jest as well that way, an' it will take you too long," said Toby, impatiently.

The skeleton, on being consulted as to the matter, decided to do as Toby wished, because by adopting that course they would the sooner get the dinner about which he had been thinking ever since he had received the invitation.

But while Mrs. Treat was ready to believe that her costume might be reasonably fit to wear to a dinner party, she was certain that something more than tights and a pair of short red velvet trousers was necessary for her husband.

Mr. Treat tried to argue with his much larger half, insisting that Uncle Daniel would understand the matter; but his wife insisted so strongly, and with such determination to have her own way, that he compromised by adding to his scanty wardrobe a black frock-coat and a tall silk hat, which gave him a rather more comical than distinguished appearance.

The audience were dismissed as soon as possible; Abner was helped into the wagon, perfectly delighted at being allowed to ride in a circus van, and the party started for Uncle Daniel's.

Toby sat on the box with Ben, to show him the way; and when the gaudily painted cart stopped in front of the farm-house, it was much as if a peacock had suddenly alighted amid a flock of demure hens.

Uncle Daniel was out in the yard to receive his strangely assorted guests, and the greeting they received from both him and Aunt Olive was as hearty as if they had been old acquaintances.

There was a look of calm satisfaction on the skeleton's face as the odor of roast lamb mingled itself with Uncle Daniel's welcome when he descended from the wagon; and as the company were ushered into the "fore-room," the air of which was pungent with the odors of herbs used to keep the moths from carpet and furniture, a restful feeling came over them such as only those whose lives are dreary rounds of travelling can feel.

Uncle Daniel insisted on taking care of the horses himself, for his idea of the duties of host would not allow that Ben should help him, and almost as soon as he had finished this work dinner was ready.

When all the guests were at the table, and Uncle Daniel bowed his head to invoke a blessing on those who had befriended the fatherless, the look of general discomfort old Ben had worn from the time he reached the house passed away, and in its place came the peaceful look Toby had seen on Sundays after the old driver had come from church.

It seemed to Toby that he had never really known Uncle Daniel before, so jolly was he in his efforts to entertain his guests; and the manner in which he portioned out the food, keeping the plates well filled all the time, was in the highest degree pleasing to Mr. Treat.

Of course very much was said about the time when Toby was an unwilling member of the circus, and Mrs. Treat and Ben told of the boy's experiences in a way that brought many a blush to his cheeks. Mr. Treat was too busy with Aunt Olive's lamb, as he affectionately spoke of it, to be able to say anything. He was also wonderfully fortunate in not choking himself but once, and that was such a trifling matter that it was all over in a moment.

Old Ben told Toby that night, however, that Treat would not have got on so well if his wife had not trodden on his toes frequently, as a hint to eat more slowly.

Although Abner had spent several hours in the side show, it seemed as if he would never tire of gazing at Mrs. Treat's enormous frame, and so intently did he look at her that he missed a good chance of getting a second piece of custard pie, though Toby nudged him several times to intimate that he could have more as well as not.

Ben told a number of stories of circus life; Mrs. Treat related some of her experiences in trying to prevent her husband from eating too fast; Ella told Aunt Olive of the home she and her mother lived in during winter; and the hour which had been devoted to this visit passed so pleasantly that every one was sorry when it was ended.

"You've got a trim little farm here," said Ben to Uncle Daniel, when the two went out to harness the horses; "an' I reckon that a man who has got land enough to support him is fixed jest about as well as he can be. I don't know of anything I'd rather be than a farmer, if I could only get away from circus life."

"Whenever you want to leave that business," said Uncle Daniel, solemnly and earnestly, "you come right here, and I'll show you the chance to become a farmer."

"I'd like to," said Ben, with a sigh of regret that the matter seemed so impossible; "but I've been with a circus now, man an' boy, goin' on forty-one years, an' I s'pose I shall always be with one."

Then he changed the conversation, making an arrangement with Uncle Daniel, for pasturing the ponies that were to be left behind, and by the time the bargain was completed the horses were at the door.

While Uncle Daniel and old Ben had been at the stables, Mr. Treat had been showing his liberality by giving Aunt Olive tickets for the side show and circus, and inducing her to promise that she and Uncle Daniel would see both shows. He had also given Toby fully a dozen circus tickets for distribution among his friends; and then, as Uncle Daniel entered, he said:

"I wish to express thanks—both for myself and my wife Lilly—for the very kind manner in which you have entertained us to-day."

Before he could say anything more, the others came to say good-by, and he was disappointed again. Aunt Olive[Pg 467] kissed Ella several times, while the parting with the others was almost as between old friends. Then the guests started for the tent again, more than satisfied with their visit.

"Now, Toby, you look me up jest after the show is out this afternoon, an' we'll fix it so's you shall have a chance to talk with Mr. Stubbs's brother," said Ben, as they were driving along.

As a matter of course Toby promised to be there, and to bring Abner with him.

"You said that little cripple had to live at the poor-farm, didn't you?" asked Ben, after quite a long pause.

"Yes, an' it's cause he hain't got no father or mother, nor no Uncle Dan'l like I've got," said Toby, sadly.

"Hain't he got any relations anywhere?"

"No; Uncle Dan'l said he didn't have a soul that he could go to."

"It must be kinder hard for him to live there alone, an' I don't s'pose he'll ever be able to walk."

Toby was not at all certain whether or not Abner could ever be cured; but he told the old driver what he knew of the lonely life the boy led. Ben did not appear to hear what was said, for he was in one of his deep studies, and seemed unconscious of everything except the fact that his horses were going in the proper direction.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Toby," he said, after remaining silent until they were nearly at the tent. "I hain't got a child or a chick in the world, an' I'll take care of that boy."

Toby looked up in surprise, as he repeated, in a puzzled way,

"You'll take care of him?"

"I don't mean that I'll take hold an' tote him round, but he shall have as much as he needs out of every dollar I get. I'll see your uncle Dan'l, an' fix it somehow so he'll be taken out of the poor-house."

"Why, Ben, how good you are!" and Toby looked up at his friend with sincere admiration imprinted on his face.

"It hain't 'cause I'm good, my lad; but if I didn't help that poor fellow in some way, I'd see them big eyes an' that pale face of hisn every night I rode on this box alone; so you see I only do it for the sake of havin' peace," said Ben, with a forced laugh; and then he stopped the horses at the rear of Mr. Treat's tent. "Now you jump down, Toby, so's to see the skeleton don't break himself all to pieces gettin' out, for I'm kinder 'fraid he will some day. I'd rather drive a hundred monkeys than one sich slim man as him."

Then Ben had a fit of internal laughter, caused by his own remark, and Uncle Daniel's guests were ready to resume their duties at the circus.

[to be continued.]

SOME DIAMOND STORIES.

BY ELLA RODMAN CHURCH.

Every one knows that the diamond is the hardest and most valuable of all precious stones; but every one does not know why it is always said to weigh so many carats. The kirut is a small Indian seed, used in India for weighing diamonds, and it weighs itself about four grains, so that six carats are equal to a pennyweight.

The diamond mines of Golconda have been known all over the world for hundreds of years; and the largest stone ever found in them is the famous Koh-i-noor, or Mountain of Light, so called from its great size and brilliancy, for it weighed nine hundred carats. A Venetian diamond-cutter chipped away at it as though he had been sharpening a pencil, because it was not even in shape—the idiot!—until he left only two hundred and eighty carats of it. After being worn, it is said, for thousands of years, by the monarchs of India, it came into the possession of Queen Victoria; and it was again cut and polished, at an expense of about forty thousand dollars. There are only one hundred and twenty-three carats left of it now, but it is said to be worth seven hundred thousand dollars.

A great many stories are told about this wonderful diamond; and if it could only write its own history, the account would certainly be worth reading. It belonged to many different princes of India, one of whom would often take it by cheating, and even murder, from another; and this happened among the rest:

"The King of Lahore having heard that the King of Cabool possessed a diamond that had belonged to the Great Mogul, the largest and purest known, he invited the fortunate owner to his court; and there, having him in his power, demanded the diamond. The guest, however, had provided himself against such a contingency with a perfect imitation of the coveted jewel. After some show of resistance, he reluctantly acceded to the wishes of his powerful host. The delight of Runjeet was extreme, but of short duration, the lapidary to whom he gave orders to mount his new acquisition pronouncing it to be merely a bit of crystal. The mortification and rage of the despot were unbounded. He immediately caused the palace of the King of Cabool to be invested and ransacked from top to bottom. But for a long while all search was vain; at last a slave betrayed the secret—the diamond was found concealed beneath a heap of ashes."

The largest diamond now to be seen in the world belongs to a Rajah of Borneo, and weighs three hundred and sixty-seven carats. It is shaped like an egg, and is very pure and beautiful. For this three ounces of diamond the owner once refused to take in exchange two large war vessels completely equipped, and one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in money!

The next largest is the Orloff, or Grand Russian, of one hundred and ninety-three carats, which also has quite a history. It belonged first to the Great Mogul, and then to Nadir, the Shah of Persia, who was assassinated in 1747. At his death the great diamond disappeared, and no one could tell what had become of it, until many years afterward it was offered for sale in the city of Amsterdam. No one there could afford such an expensive ornament, which was fit only for royalty, and the English and Russian governments both tried to get possession of it. The Empress Catherine came off conqueror, her agent, Count Orloff, paying for it four hundred and fifty thousand rubles in cash, and a grant of Russian nobility. This diamond, although not perfect in shape, is of wonderful clearness and lustre, and as large as a pigeon's egg.

A Frenchman named Tavernier visited the mines of Golconda as long ago as 1677, and was much interested in watching the finding and sale of diamonds. The laborers who search for them have to be closely watched, as they will secrete valuable ones in the most ingenious ways, even swallowing them, and one miner hid a stone of two carats in the corner of his eye.

This traveller describes a group of boy traders who assembled every morning under a large tree in the middle of a village near the mines to wait for people with diamonds to sell. The boys were from ten to sixteen years old, and each one had his diamond weight in a bag on one side of his girdle, and a purse with considerable money in it on the other. When a diamond is offered, it is handed to the eldest boy, who examines it carefully, and passes it to his neighbor, who does the same, and hands it to the next, and so on through the group. It then returns to the head of the little band, who makes the bargain for it. If the others think he has given too much for it, he has to keep the stone on his own account.

In the evening the diamonds bought during the day are classed according to their size and purity, and the prices affixed which they are thought to be worth; the children return with them to their masters, and receive a good share of the profits, the head boy getting one-fourth more than the others.

[Pg 468]

SOMEBODY IS COMING.

THE MOUNTAIN DWARF.

BY ANNIE L. BELCHER.

You all know the old proverb, "Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones"? Well, I am going to tell you a story about it.

Years ago there stood a beautiful castle on the summit of a mountain. It had many towers and many wings, and was built entirely of glass. It stood in the midst of a garden brilliant with unknown flowers, and filled with trees weighted down with strange delicious fruits.

People from various parts of the world came to see this wonderful garden, with its glass palace, and strange birds and fruits and flowers; and not the least strange part about it was its master, christened, by order of the Mountain King, the Mountain Dwarf. He was an odd, grotesque little creature, with thin, crooked legs, and a sharp shrewd face set in a mass of yellow hair. He wore costly satins and velvets, and all his garments were trimmed with wee silver bells that kept up a perpetual jingling that seemed impertinently to assert their master's supremacy over all the world. It pleased this curious little man to build himself a glass castle. He liked that men should watch him dine from golden plates, and drink rare wine from diamond goblets. Admiration was to him the breath of life, and he was most happy when his neighbors were most envious. He laughed aloud when strangers, toiling up the hill, were forced to shield their eyes from the dazzling glare of the sun shining on his palace.

Half-way between the summit of this mountain and the pretty village at its foot stood a miner's settlement—a pitiful collection of log-huts so rudely put together that they kept out neither snow nor rain. In these huts lived the families of the men who toiled night and day in the mine underneath the hill. It was these half-starved, hard-worked men that made the money that enabled the Mountain Dwarf to live like a Mountain King. But little thought he of the poor wretches underneath his feet, save that their settlement was an eyesore, and must be destroyed. He denied their right to homes and families. Those uneducated machines, men! They were lower than the brutes, and but fit to live in mines. He had no thought of helping them to a higher life; he only wished to push them lower.

Every evening after sunset the Mountain Dwarf would wrap himself in his sable cloak, and walk down to the miners' homes, followed by a retinue of servants. At the first sound of the tinkling bells, women and children would rush from the huts and hide themselves in the forest.

One night he stood alternately gazing on the wretched hovels beside him and the castle on the hill. As he looked, his rage escaped all bounds.

"Down with that rubbish!" he shrieked, pointing to the settlement. "They have disgraced me enough. Strangers have to pass this to see my palace. Down with these huts!"

"But the miners and their wives and children!" ventured the boldest of the servants.

The Mountain Dwarf looked at the man with his small cruel eyes. "Ha! ha!" he yelled. "You dare defend them. Good! We will send you to the mines and work you hard. Now let every man take a stone and let him aim it well."

All the servants trembled, and the poor fellow who had pleaded for the miners fell on his knees with loud sobs. But not one man stooped to raise a stone.

"What!" thundered the Dwarf. "You dare defy me! Then I'll stone them down myself. Their ugly huts have stood in sight of my castle long enough."

With fiendish glee he danced from hut to hut, hurling stones that giants could barely move as though they were but pebbles, until not one log was left upon another. Then he clapped his hands and snapped his fingers in the air, and led the servants home. The Mountain Dwarf was in an ecstasy of delight, and roared with laughter, when the women and children crept timidly from the woods and sobbed over their ruined homes.

When the moon was at its full, and the castle lay shimmering in its yellow light with the pale soft tints of an opal, a long still line of men crept up the hill and through the beautiful gardens, close up to the castle walls. Their faces were fierce yet quiet, as though some great purpose was controlling their actions, and behind them some little distance came the women and children that had wept over the fallen settlement. They could see the Mountain Dwarf on his silver bed with its silken draperies, and even in sleep his lips wore the sneering smile of triumph they had worn a few hours earlier. The men looked from the bed to the stones in their hands, and then at one another.

"It is time," said a low voice, and every right arm stretched itself up and backward and flung a stone. There was a terrible crash.

"Again!" said the same low voice, and again with military precision the right hands went up and back, and the stones flew, and again came that terrible crash.

The Mountain Dwarf, stunned and bruised and bleeding, raised himself in his bed.

"Who is it?" he moaned feebly.

"The miners," came back in a terrible shout.

"Ah me!" he gasped. "Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones." They were his last words, and they have grown into a proverb.

[Pg 469]

"PETER."

BY EDWARD I. STEVENSON.

American boys and girls whose delight in looking at Jumbo and his celebrated legs may have been clouded by remembering how many of the little English cousins across the sea were lamenting the tall old elephant's absence will be glad to know that a new pet has already been found to take Jumbo's place.

PETER, THE BABOON, AT THE "ZOO."

They are flocking by hundreds daily to the Zoological Gardens, where once Jumbo reigned and carried them trumpeting upon his broad back, to be introduced to Peter—a splendid specimen of the "Chacma" baboon, whose sparkling countenance and symmetrical shape our artist has here pictured for the benefit of the readers of the Young People.

Peter came originally from South Africa on a war ship with his master, a British officer, who lately turned his monkeyship over to the "Zoo." It is disagreeable to state that his owner did so to get rid of him—he was fast growing too mischievous to be endured on shipboard. I fear Peter is, in truth, no model for the other monkeys in the Gardens. He steals; he bites; he loves to tear up anything he can once fasten his fingers upon. All this is very sad to learn. Possibly Mr. Barnum will see that he ought to be taught to be a good and happy monkey, and feel bound to buy him for America next year. Travel is so improving to the manners.

Peter has recently had a curious experience. Did any of you ever hear of a monkey who had the toothache, and who took chloroform to get rid of it? Such was Peter's fortune. Day after day the poor fellow sat in one corner of his roomy cage holding his paw close to his cheek. His friends, the children with their mothers and fathers and nurses, stood around pitying him and longing to help him, but in vain.

Peter's jaw began to swell terribly. At length his sufferings came to the point where his keepers said that the cause of all his woe, an aching molar tooth, must be drawn, or the poor fellow would die, for he refused to eat, and seemed to become each day weaker and more dejected. Suddenly a London gentleman, Mr. Hammond, came to the conclusion that he could extract the ailing tooth and save the pet's life.

Peter's illness had made him exceedingly afraid of any strangers—quite as cross, in fact, as a good many of my small readers are when they have the toothache. Mr. Hammond and his assistants, however, entered the cage and politely presented Peter with a nice linen handkerchief well soaked in chloroform.

Peter warily took it, examined it attentively, and presently proceeded—not to smell of it at all, but to calmly lick off all the chloroform with much pleasure. Chloroform must be smelled to best take effect, not swallowed. The handkerchief was prepared again, and again offered. A second time did the red tongue make its appearance and spoil Mr. Hammond's kind designs, and indeed for nearly half an hour did Peter cunningly get the best of his friends by licking up the chloroform.

Finally, however, the liquid began to take effect upon him. Peter's bright eyes grew dim, his head drooped. The handkerchief was held tightly to his nose, and suddenly he tumbled over sound asleep, able to undergo any operation without feeling it.

Now was the time for Mr. Hammond. The forceps (ugh!) were produced, and after some quick but careful work the tooth was drawn from the unconscious sleeper's jaw, safely, and without rousing him. By-and-by its owner awoke. He seemed wonderfully relieved immediately, but also somewhat dazed and puzzled to find out what had been done to him. At length he settled down comfortably in a corner of his cage to think about it, and recover his spirits. He was quite too proud to ask questions. I doubt if he has discovered yet just what was done to him, although with that broad forehead of his he must be a monkey with a good deal of mind.

And really is he not a striking-looking stranger. Just notice his bold glance and the dignified position, which at once show him to be a monkey of great force of character,[Pg 470] as well as easy manners. And how modest and retiring too, to judge from the graceful way in which he has tucked his handsome tail away in the straw.

Poor Peter, exiled from his hot South African jungles and woods, what strange scenes he might describe could he only succeed in acquiring a proper English accent!—of dense boundless forests, lashed into a sea of waving boughs at night by hurricanes and tornadoes; of calm moonlight evenings by blue lakes rippled with silver, where the lion comes down like a great stealthy cat to drink and meet a friend for a hunting excursion; and of Mrs. Peter (only that is not her married name), who may be wondering all this time why her husband ran away and left her. But there he is, safe in the great London Zoological Gardens, and there he is likely to remain as long as he lives, unless, as I have already suggested, Mr. Barnum buys him and brings him over to America.

THE CHILDREN'S JOURNEY.

A REMINISCENCE OF SOUTHERN AUSTRIA.

BY DAVID KER.

There are few stranger places in the world than the hilly region around the head of the Gulf of Venice, and few stranger people than the Slovaks who inhabit it. Almost within sight of busy, bustling, populous Trieste, with its bristling masts, and crowded quays, and rattling carriages, and smart modern hotels, you come suddenly upon a district dotted with quaint little antique villages that seem to have been dropped by Santa Claus out of his basket of toys—villages which might well have Rip Van Winkle for chief magistrate, and the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus for tenants.

Up here on these warm dreary hill-sides, far from the busy world below, no one ever seems to be in a hurry, to get angry, or to excite himself in any way. The heavy wagons that creep along the broad white dusty road seem to go or not as they please, their "drivers" being usually fast asleep inside them. These four or five sallow, bearded, low-browed peasants in gray frocks and high boots, who are munching their black bread and garlic in the shade of yonder tree, instead of chattering and laughing like their Italian neighbors of the valley, are silent as statues. This meek little church of crumbling stone was built before the Turks entered Constantinople, and the language of its builders is spoken here still.

So completely, indeed, does the whole of this strange region reproduce what the world was centuries ago that I feel quite out of place as I look out at it through the window of a modern railway car, and hear a call for "tickets" in the midst of the enchanted ground. But even the railway itself seems to have borrowed something of the character of its surroundings. For a whole hour we zig-zag at a creeping pace up a seemingly endless succession of terraced ridges crowned with dark clumps of thicket. Suddenly two or three beautiful little patches of green sunny vineyard peep out at us from between two huge black cliffs, down one of which, like a fly walking on a wall, comes a sturdy peasant, brown and shapely as a bronze statue, showing all his splendid teeth in a grin of indulgent contempt at sight of the crawling train. The faint tinkle of a bell makes me look up to see a herd of goats feeding high above my head, while the next moment I catch sight of a little red-tiled cottage tucked away in the cleft of a rock as if playing hide-and-seek.

At length our train struggles up to the summit of the mountain with a shrill whistle of triumph. We thrust our heads out of the window to see where we have got to, when, lo! right under our feet lie the clustering white houses, and shining church domes, and countless masts, and bright blue waters of Trieste which we left behind more than an hour ago, as if bound by the same spell which kept poor Christoval tramping round and round the church all night, thinking he was going straight home.

But at this point a new turn is given to my thoughts by the sudden entrance of a group as picturesque as any painter could wish: three children—a bright-eyed little fairy of eight, with cheeks as round and rosy as the apple which she is eating, a sturdy boy of eleven, whose sunburned face is browner than his flat leather cap, and a tall, slim, golden-haired girl about a year older, taking charge of the other two in a protecting, motherly way which is simply irresistible.

But the first glance shows me that their journey, whatever its object may be, is one of no ordinary importance to themselves. All three have a grave, preoccupied look, the elder girl especially. Instead of prattling merrily, laughing, shouting, and pointing out passing objects to each other, as children usually do on a railway journey, they sit close together in a corner, and talk in whispers.

Even the grand scenery through which we pass, new as it evidently is to them, seems quite unheeded. Frowning precipices; sombre pine woods; black, tomb-like gorges; rock ledges just wide enough for the train itself; over-hanging water-falls which go leaping and foaming from crag to crag down a seemingly endless descent; queer little painted wooden station-houses, placarded with regulations in Italian, German, and Slovak; brawny peasant women, with their hard sallow faces framed in scarlet kerchiefs, waving signal flags on the very verge of the precipice—go by without remark.

The illustrated journal which I contrive to let fall as if by accident on the seat nearest to them remains equally unnoticed for awhile. But at length I see the younger girl's eyes beginning to turn that way. Presently she slips off her seat, and sidles up to the tempting paper; and then, having satisfied herself that I was not looking at her, she seizes it in her plump little hands, and is soon deep in one of the greatest enjoyments of childhood—"looking over a whole lot of pictures."

But as we approach St. Peter's the other two children become visibly restless and excited, looking constantly out of the window as if watching for something which they are eager to see. Even the little student of my paper, with whom I have struck up a conversation in German, soon forsakes me to join the watch; and I hear the boy mutter disconsolately:

"Why don't the train go quicker? We shall never get there!"

Can they be bound on a picnic? think I; but they look far too grave and troubled for that. Are they going home from school? but who would think of living in a desolate place like this? I am still puzzling over the riddle, when my little rosy-cheeked friend, after looking doubtfully at me once or twice, as if uncertain whether to speak or not, startles me with a very unexpected question:

"Please, when anybody grows blind, not from a blow or anything like that, but just with something growing over their eyes, can they be made well again?"

"Very often they can, when they have a good doctor; but why do you ask?"

And then the whole story comes out. Their father, a retired Austrian officer, has become blind from cataract; and a famous German oculist, an old friend of his, has taken him away to a country house among the hills between St. Peter's and Adelsberg, in the hope of restoring his sight by an operation.

"And it was to be done last night," says Theresa, the elder girl, "and papa was to start home this morning. But we couldn't wait until he came, and he wouldn't be able to send us a message; so we got leave from aunt to come and meet him ourselves, as she wasn't well enough to go with us. He's sure to be at St. Peter's station, when we get there."

[Pg 471]

"And his eyes will be quite well again—I'm sure they will!" cries little Katrina, eagerly. "Dr. Ulrich is so clever, and he's cured so many people, and papa's such a friend of his. I'm sure he'll cure him too."

"I hope he will, indeed," says her brother, earnestly. "Poor papa! it's so horrid to see a great strong man like him led about just like a baby, and not able to read any stories, or watch his flowers coming up so nicely, after taking all that trouble with them! I will give a shout if he's really cured."

"There's the station!" cried Theresa, almost throwing herself through the window in her eagerness, "and there's a man standing on the platform all by himself. Can that be papa?"

A whistle, a clank, a long creaking groan, and the train comes to a stand-still. But almost before it has stopped, the door flies open, and the next moment I see the children banging in a cluster upon a tall, fine-looking man with a thick gray mustache, while three voices shout, joyfully,

"Papa! papa! you see?"

"Yes, dears, I see, thank God!" says the old soldier, fervently; "and when the doctor was going to begin, I laid your portraits beside my chair, that they might be the first thing I saw."

There were not four happier people, I will answer for it, in all Austria that day; and the remembrance of that meeting is still among the brightest of my travelling recollections.

THE VICTIMS OF THE ARCTIC SEAS.

BY SHERWOOD RYSE.

On the evening of the 9th of May, thirty graduates of the school-ship St. Marys, and one hundred of the present pupils, were gathered together on the gun-deck of that vessel. Finely built, robust-looking lads were these last, of the stuff that good sailors are made of; and as they lounged in easy and careless attitudes upon and about the guns, they made a picture that gave assurance that the rising generation of our sailors will be no disgrace to those who have gone before them. It was easy to see from the manner of the boys and their expectant looks that they had been called together for no ordinary purpose. They had met to do honor to a noble officer, who is among the latest and most lamented victims of those dread arctic seas, the mysteries of which so many gallant men have striven to solve.

During the years 1876, 1877, and 1878 Commander De Long had been executive officer of the school-ship, and his memory was revered as the memory of noble men always is. What wonder, then, that when the news, so long expected, yet so lovingly dreaded, reached them, his former pupils were anxious to do him such honor as their regard and affection suggested?

And who was this noble Commander, and what were his services?

George Washington De Long entered the navy in the year 1865, when he was twenty-one years old. In 1873 he was second in command on the Juniata, a ship that accompanied the Polaris arctic expedition, in which he performed distinguished services. When, therefore, the liberality of a private citizen fitted out another expedition for arctic exploration, this young officer was chosen to take the command of the perilous undertaking.

The Jeannette—a name that will never be forgotten while history records the deeds of brave men—sailed from San Francisco on July 8, 1879, with a crew of thirty-three men all told. About the end of September the party had really entered upon the dangers and difficulties of arctic exploration. They were in the midst of great fields of ice, which drifted with the varying winds and currents, so that, although the ship was itself inactive, it was carried over great distances. On November 10, daylight disappeared, and a long night—a night that was to last for nearly three months—set in. In spite of their desolate situation, the gallant crew kept up their spirits, engaging in theatrical performances, and trying to brighten the gloom of an arctic winter by their cheerfulness.

In January, however, the ship sprang a leak, and all hands were kept busy at the pumps to keep the water down, and for eighteen months the pumps never ceased working. At last, however, the fight could be kept up no longer. On June 13, the Jeannette sank, and the crew were left encamped upon the ice, with no other hope of return than that which their three boats afforded.

Thus left almost destitute, Commander De Long had no other course open to him than to retreat. And what a gallant movement that was!

The three boats were two cutters and a whale-boat. The first, commanded by De Long, was twenty feet in length, and carried fourteen persons; the second, under Lieutenant Chipp, measured sixteen feet, and carried eight persons, and the whale-boat, which was larger than either of the others, being twenty-five feet long, was accompanied by eleven persons, under command of Engineer Melville. But though they had the boats, the gallant party could not launch them. They were in the midst of a sea, indeed, but it was a sea of solid ice, and for weeks the boats did not touch water, except for a short ferriage here and there where a break in the ice left a narrow strip of open sea. The boats were placed upon rudely built sleds, and for fifty-three weary days the resolute men dragged them over the ice. Some days they would make a mile; on others scarcely more than half that distance. Great hillocks of ice were to be surmounted, and cracks to be crossed, nearly every one of these being so wide that the sleds had to be let down into them and then hauled up on the other side.

Nor were these the only hardships that the retreating band had to encounter. The cold was intense, as may be imagined. Short rations and their fearful labor had reduced the strength of the men, so that one-quarter of the whole party had to be carried helpless on sleds, while almost all were suffering either from frost-bite or from the effect of the glare of the ice upon their eyes.

At last the retreating company reached comparatively open water. The boats were launched, and the party set sail for what they hoped would be a milder climate and a more hospitable shore.

Now, however, the perils by which they had been beset were increased. The cold was still as great as that which they had previously encountered, and it made itself more intensely felt now that the men were confined within the limits of small boats, and deprived of the active exercise which alone had kept the warmth in their bodies. The food supply was running so short that but scanty fare could be allowed, and the danger of drowning was added to that of perishing by cold and hunger.

For a few days all went fairly well, but during a gale that arose in the night the boats became separated, and in the morning the company on board the whale-boat scanned the dreary waters in vain for the sails of the boats manned by the crews of Commander De Long and Lieutenant Chipp. Engineer Melville's boat touched land on the delta of the Lena—a river which, flowing northward through Siberia, discharges itself into the arctic seas. Here the boat's crew met with hospitable treatment by the natives of those bleak and barren shores, and were all saved.

Not so, however, the occupants of the two cutters. Lieutenant Chipp's boat has not since been heard of. It was a smaller boat than either of the others, and though commanded by a young officer who enjoyed in an unusual degree the confidence and love of his men, it is not probable that he was able to bring his crew to a place of safety, even though he succeeded in making the land.

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THE BOYS OF THE "ST. MARYS" LISTENING TO THE STORY OF THEIR OLD COMMANDER'S DEATH.

The sad story of the fate of De Long and his companions was told several months later by two seamen, named Noros and Ninderman, both of whom had served on board the St. Marys school-ship.

On September 13, Captain De Long's boat, although its mast had been carried away, got within two miles of the Siberian coast, when it struck ground, and the Captain ordered the men to get into the water so as to lighten the load, and tow the boat ashore. Only half of the distance, however, had been traversed when it was found to be impossible to bring the boat nearer, and so they collected the food, arms, ammunition, and papers, and waded ashore.

Having rested for two days, the party started southward, each man carrying heavy burdens, though all but the most important articles had been abandoned. In the first ten days' march the travellers made no more than twenty miles, so difficult was the country; but during those days they enjoyed the luxury of a meal of deer's flesh, which, but for the crippled condition of several of the men, would have put new life into the whole party.

Then Captain De Long determined to send Ninderman and Noros ahead, for they were in better condition than any others of the party, and when they left on their perilous mission they bade a sad farewell to a gallant yet almost hopeless band of men, whom no one ever saw again until, nearly six months later, Mr. Melville found their dead bodies.

"The Captain," says Noros, "read divine service before we left. All the men shook hands with us, and Collins, as if knowing that their doom was sealed, said, simply, 'Noros, when you get to New York, remember me.' They seemed to have lost hope, but as we left, they gave us three cheers. That was the last we saw of them."

Wholly without food, for the supply they had saved from the boat was exhausted, and the fresh meat which had been procured was soon consumed, the two brave seamen pushed on. They supported life by chewing their leather moccasins and breeches, and after a few days they came upon two deserted huts, in which they found some mouldy fish, which they ate with relish. Here in these huts they rested for three days, when a native found them; but they were unable to make him understand that they had left eleven starving comrades behind.

At length the Governor of the Province, who lived at a town called Bulun, arrived, but he did not understand their sign-language, and so he sent no aid. He cared for the two seamen, however, and sent them to Bulun, and there it was that they fell in with Engineer Melville, whose boat's crew were by this time in safety. Melville at once started out in search of the ill-fated crew, and the result of his search was told briefly in a dispatch, dated March 24, and received in New York on May 6: "I have found De Long and his party: all dead."

Thus ends the first chapter of this melancholy story of arctic peril. The last chapter may never be told, and the fate of Lieutenant Chipp and his crew never revealed.

The names of De Long and his brave associates will live in history, and generations of sailors will be incited by the memorial tablet which is to be erected on board the St. Marys school-ship to follow in the path that these gallant men followed to their death; for that path, though stern and rugged, was the path of duty.

[Pg 473]

"IN A THOUSAND TERRORS."—From the Painting by L. Knaus.

[Pg 474]

APPLE BLOSSOMS.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

Out in the orchard dwell wee little fairies,
Busy with bud and with blossom at last.
See how they work with their palettes and brushes,
Tinting the apple-trees brightly and fast.

Pink and white blossoms, so dainty and fragrant,
Laden with promise of good things to come,
Softly the breezes are stealing their perfume,
While o'er their beauty the busy bees hum.

Fair are the treasures which come with the spring-time,
Fields full of daisies, and grasses so green,
Sweet are the zephyrs from rose gardens blowing,
Lovely the earth in the sun's golden sheen.

But out in the orchard amid the white blossoms,
The pink and white blossoms that garland the trees,
We find the best charm of the beautiful spring-time,
And welcome the touch of the sweet-scented breeze.

THE BOYS' TEA PARTY.

BY S. C. MORRISON.

When ten boys and girls live in one house, they can have a great deal of fun. This was the case at Mr. Stanley's, where there were six girls and four boys; only the boys sometimes felt a little injured that the girls should have the majority.

But next door, at Mr. Fleming's, there were seven boys and only one girl; so when the Stanley boys wanted a refuge from feminine oppression, they had only to climb the fence, and join forces with the Flemings, and at once they had a majority in their favor.

Not that they had any real cause of complaint. Everything that could make them comfortable and happy was provided for them by their father and Aunt Sue. Aunt Sue!—that name suggests their grievances. For two years before Aunt Sue came to take charge of the Stanley boys and girls they had had a housekeeper who let them do pretty much as they pleased. She allowed them to eat pies, puddings, cakes, and sweetmeats until they cared for nothing else.

Aunt Sue instituted a new state of affairs. They must learn to eat vegetables for the sake of their health.

Now don't suppose that they never had cake, or that Aunt Sue was at all unreasonable. But when boys make no distinction between cake and bread except to give the former the preference, it is difficult to fill their orders.

It is remarkable how boys always know when cake-baking is going on. They seem to scent it in the air. At first Aunt Sue tried to escape by springing baking day at odd times. But it was no use. One or other of them was sure to happen in, and then in some miraculous way the other boys would come trooping in like the Northern barbarians at a Roman harvest-time.

Then Aunt Sue tried a new plan. Wednesdays and Saturdays were announced as regular baking days, and each boy was to be entitled on the spot to one cake out of every pan of ginger-snaps or other small cakes that were baked. Four cakes to a panful was no light tax to levy, but the boys were rigorously exacting, and woe to the boy who failed to be present; His cake was confiscated, immediately, and gobbled up by the reigning powers, after the manner of the partition of Poland.

When a soft cake was to be cut at table it was an understood thing that those rapacious boys should have the "corner pieces." The only wonder was that no amount of cake ever seemed to make these boys sick. The fact was so amazing that Aunt Sue pronounced it "just miraculous."

It so happened that during the spring, just about house-cleaning time, the boys had been two weeks without cake. They had been out one day playing base-ball, and were coming home to supper cold and hungry. They discussed the afternoon's fun until there seemed nothing more to say about it, and after a little silence one of them revealed the subject of his thoughts by the grumbling remark:

"I hope Aunt Sue will manage to have some cake for supper. It is an age since we had any."

"She is getting awfully stingy with it, anyhow," said Bob. "The piece I had last night was hardly big enough to taste."

"I never get more than a taste except at Christmas," said John.

"See here, boys," cried Tom Fleming, "I have thought of something. Let's have a party, and bake the cake ourselves."

This brilliant idea was so new as to be somewhat startling; but after the first shock was over, most of them entered into the plan eagerly.

The older boys were dubious. "How can we? Aunt Sue would never consent, and your mother never lets us come near the kitchen."

"Have it in my room," said Tom, hospitably, "and keep dark about it."

That seemed feasible; for his out-of-the-way room in the top story had often been the scene of their revels.

"But the cooking?"

"I will make a fire in the fire-place. I have often done a little in the cooking line there; made bullets, and boiled paste, you know."

It was then arranged that the Flemings, being hosts, should provide fuel, lights, and utensils; and the Stanleys, who were posted in pastry, should provide materials for the cake.

"All right," said Tom. "We will do our share. But if we engage to get the milk and eggs, don't you think you fellows might scare up the flour and molasses?"

The Stanleys thought they could; and the time was set for the next night but one, to allow ample time for preparation.

"I tell you what, Dick," said Bob, suddenly sitting up in bed that night, "if I could only get a chance to speak to the milkman, I could order an extra lot of milk."

"Well, get up in time to take the milk to-morrow. It won't be any colder than sitting up in bed now, and there is no use in cooling us both off."

It seemed an important though painful step to take, so it was determined on. But, alas! the morning the milk was to be delivered, the boys both overslept the hour. Some one else took the milk, and refused to take the double quantity.

Dick waited until after tea to go up the street for his eggs, so as to carry them directly to the rendezvous. As the party was to be kept a profound secret from everybody, he thought best to put the eggs in his pockets. He did this very carefully, knowing the frail nature of eggs as well as any one.

But soon one of his school-mates spied him, and announced the fact by a stinging slap on the shoulder. Of course Dick returned fire, and the action soon became so lively that the forgotten eggs suffered considerable damage.

"Here I am, boys!" he shouted, as he dashed into Tom Fleming's room; "and here are the eggs."

Dick dived his hand into his pocket, and withdrew it in dismay. "I do believe every one of the old things is broken."

The boys all gathered round, and a dish was produced to receive the contents of Dick's pockets.

Dick regarded his possessions ruefully. It was not only the loss of the eggs, but there was his new Russia-leather pocket-book, a present only last Christmas. The knife and other things might be cleaned up, but the pocket-book was ruined. The thought of what Aunt Sue would say when she came to clean his pockets decided him to do what he could in that way himself.

The milk was now inquired for, and, to the consternation of several of the boys, was reported missing.

[Pg 475]

"Whew!" said Tom, "you Stanleys are getting off cheap. However, it is my treat, so I will say nothing. Can't you make a cake without milk, Bob?"

"Yes, just as easy. You can use water, but you ought to have had your kettle boiling."

Tom hastily emptied his bedroom pitcher into the kettle, and set it among the blazing logs.

"Now, Bob, fire away. Let us see what kind of a baker you will make."

Bob pulled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and pinned a towel round his waist. He then looked around for the flour, of which a large bowlful had been procured.

"I guess," he said, "since so many eggs are gone, I had better not venture on so much flour. Give me the bowl, Tom."

"Do you boil the eggs first, Bob?"

"I—guess—not. They mix up better raw;" and he began to break the eggs into the flour.

"Don't forget the molasses," said Tom, proudly displaying a heavy jug. "It was cheap; so I got a plenty."

"That is lucky. Cake can't be too sweet for me." And Bob stopped breaking eggs to pour a generous stream of strong black molasses into the bowl.

"I tell you what, boys," he added, "all our trouble would have gone for nothing if I hadn't just happened to remember the soda at the last minute, and bought a quarter of a pound. I think I will put it all in, to make up for the milk, you know."

"I've got something for the cake," said John Stanley, and he produced from his pocket a handful of raisins.

"Magnificent!" said all the boys, their mouths watering at this unexpected addition to the feast.

"Dash them in, John. Now where is the spoon to stir with?"

"A spoon! I did not think of that," said Tom. "You ought to have given me a list of all the things you would want, Bob."

"Well, we have got to have something to stir it with. A stick would be better than nothing." And he began to look among the logs.

"How would the handle of my tooth-brush do?" asked Tom, resolved to go to every length which hospitality demanded of him.

"Why don't you try your jackknife?" suggested Dick.

"Well, here goes," said Bob, and he began stirring vigorously; but it was stiff work, and made little impression.

"There is something wrong," said Bob, standing back to view his work, and think. "What else was I to put in? Oh! the water, of course."

Half a kettleful was put in, and the stirring now went on swimmingly, and Bob's mind became sufficiently free from present anxiety to strike forward into the future far enough to wonder what the cake was to be baked in. He asked Tom.

"A skillet," returned Tom, waving that article over his head triumphantly.

"All right."

In a few minutes the process of mixing was pronounced complete, the batter was poured in, the skillet set upon a bed of glowing coals, and its lid covered with another supply of them. But after the table was all arranged, and the boys had time to look about and think, it seemed as if they were going to have a very poor party after all. "Nothing but that cake! And it is not a large cake either."

"Why couldn't we make molasses candy?" suggested John.

The boys gave three cheers for John. "You are the fellow, John, to think of things."

So the kettle of boiling water was emptied back into the pitcher, and the molasses poured into the kettle and set over the roaring fire.

"How long is it going to take that cake to bake, Bob? I am as hungry as a bear," said Fred.

Bob cleared the coals off the skillet lid and peeped in. "It has puffed up beautifully, boys. I guess it is about done."

"Dish up, then. We are all ready."

The cake was turned out into a large plate in the centre of the table, and the boys seated themselves to enjoy their well-earned feast.

"What kind of a cake do you call it, Bob? It looks more like a plum-pudding than anything else. It rounds up so, and is stuck all over with raisins."

Bob plunged his knife in. Whew! It went in like the knife into the pie of which Tom Thumb had eaten out the contents. The beautifully rounded surface fell flat.

The boys were astonished.

"What makes it so hard to cut?"

"I don't know," said Bob, desperately, stopping to whet his knife on his shoe. "There, taste it;" and he pulled off some pieces of the leathery stuff.

"Ugh!" "Horrible!" "What stuff!" "Shoe-leather is nothing to it!" "It is as bitter as rhubarb!" "Why, he said he knew how to make cake!" "Where did you take your diploma?" were the exclamations that went round the table.

Then there was silence. Bob seemed particularly moody, and the others cast black looks at him as they pushed their chairs back from the Barmecide feast.

At that moment a loud hissing sound was heard from the fire. The molasses was boiling over.

Tom flew to the rescue; but too late. The kettle had tilted over on the unstable logs, and the molasses was pouring into the flames and rolling over the carpet like lava from a volcano. The room was filled with flying soot, ashes, smoke, and a horrible smell of burned molasses. The boys stood looking on in helpless consternation.

"Hi—yi!" screamed Dick, suddenly leaping upon a chair.

"What is the matter?" asked the frightened boys in chorus.

"My feet are burned with that boiling hot molasses."

Sure enough. A stream of molasses had found its way to Dick's shoeless feet.

"Open the windows, and let out this horrid smoke," cried Tom.

It was soon done, and the cold air came rushing in. The smoke began to clear; but a terrific roaring was heard in the chimney.

"Boys, I do believe the chimney is on fire," said Fred, in a hoarse whisper.

It was too true. The boys ran wildly about the room, picking up chairs and anything they could lay hold of to put the fire out with, and then discarding them as useless.

Just then the door opened, and Edward Fleming, the eldest of the ten, said, sternly, "Boys, what does all this mean?"

There was no need of answer. He comprehended the case at once. "Shut the door and windows," he cried. Then seizing a loose piece of carpet from the floor, he threw it upon the flames, and the danger was over in a moment.

The boys expected a first-class scolding after this, but they were agreeably surprised. Edward solemnly told the Stanleys that their aunt Sue had sent for them, and the boys slunk away to bed. But they spent all their play-time for the next week in cleaning up Tom's room and their own clothes, and in getting things to rights again.

"I never knew before how much trouble it is to make cake," said Bob. "It must be pretty hard on Aunt Sue and the girls to bake so much for us."

"Yes," said Dick, "and we are getting too big, anyhow, to care for such things."

And it was remarked in the family that the boys' old attachment to cake waned about the time of the private tea party in Tom Fleming's room.

[Pg 476]

Here is a puzzle that will interest the boys and girls that are far enough advanced to know something of astronomy. The wee tots will not be able to make much out of it, for the stars and the astronomers seem to have been given hard names from the time of Tycho Brahe down to Sir John Herschel. There will be a large number of bright minds among the readers of Young People, however, whose exploits on examination days will make it an easy matter for them to transpose the "pi" into the right word every time. "Pi," it may be stated for the benefit of those who are not familiar with the term, is the name that printers give to type that somebody has knocked into complete disorder after it was all nicely set up and ready for printing.

To begin with, we have a little story in verse, containing twenty-two names. The stars in each line must be replaced by appropriate letters. When these letters are mixed together they will form the "pi." Then by transposing them we obtain the required name of planet, astronomer, or cluster. No other letters can be used. Each verse has but one large initial, every line of a verse beginning with the same letter. The small stars around the acrostic initials have no bearing on the puzzle whatever.

PROLOGUE.

First line, a planet; second line, two planets; third line, a term used in connection with the moon; fourth line, another term used in connection with the movements of the moon.

FIRST VERSE.

First line, a term used in speaking of an eclipse; second, third, and fourth lines combined, three planets, and the name of a foreign astronomer.

SECOND VERSE.

First line, a part of the moon; second line, a form of eclipse; third and fourth lines combined, a man who made a discovery of great value to astronomers, and secondly, a foreign astronomer.

THIRD VERSE.

First line, a cluster of stars; second line, an English discoverer of a satellite; third and fourth lines combined, a term applied to uncertain stars, a titled astronomer, and a planet.

FOURTH VERSE.

First line, the birth-place of a great astronomer; second and third lines combined, an astronomical phenomena; fourth line, a cluster of stars.

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SCHOOL IS OUT!

BITS OF ADVICE.

BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.

PICNICS.

The first thing necessary to a successful picnic is a plan. You must know who are to compose the party, where you intend to go, and what you can do to amuse yourselves when you get there. Then, too, you must have what in armies is called a commissary department, which shall see about the provisions. A picnic without a dinner would be very dull.

Two or three days before the event, the boys and girls who wish to spend some long bright summer hours together in the woods or park should ask their parents' advice about a good place.

A place to be good should be safe, beautiful, and not too far from home. If not within walking distance, it is well to know whether it can be easily reached by boat or cars, or by stage or carriage. You should find out beforehand precisely how much it will cost to convey the party to the spot. Then select a treasurer, who shall pay all expenses, buy tickets, and take charge of the funds. The treasurer must keep an exact account of everything he or she may spend, putting it down in writing, that a report may be given at the proper time.

Your fathers or teachers will usually be able to warn you against dangerous places, or those which are too public to be pleasant for a little picnic party.

As a rule, you should not admit strangers or acquaintances picked up on the way to share your frolic. It is always best to keep the party strictly to its original numbers.

There are two ways of providing the luncheon. One is to decide in advance what each shall bring as his or her contribution, so that there may not be too large a quantity of one article, and too little of another. John may be told to bring lemons, Janie may furnish pound-cake, Alice biscuits and butter, Louis sugar, and Mabel sandwiches. Or each of the company may provide a nice basket of food, and when the time comes for the meal everything may be shared, and the table spread for the general feast. I think I like the latter way quite as well as the former.

Hard-boiled eggs, potted meats, thin slices of ham or tongue, cold chicken, and plenty of good bread and sweet butter, are among the must-haves. Picnic appetites are famous, and you need plenty of the "substantial." Jelly in little glasses, fruit, cake, and, if mother says so, a few of her delicious pickles or an apple-pie do not prove as indigestible when eaten out-doors as they do under other circumstances.

Do not forget the salt. Nor the pepper. Bottles of milk wrapped in cabbage leaves or set into a pan of ice for coolness are not to be overlooked.

Be sure there is a spring near your picnic ground, or an old well on some kind man's farm. If it have a long sweep and a deep moss-grown bucket, so much the better.

Do not trespass on anybody's private grounds. Always send a committee to the house to ask permission to help yourselves to water from the well, or to pass through fields and lanes not open to the public.

The girls must remember that so far as possible all picnic preparations should be made the day before. It is not well to leave cooking for the morning of the day when you are to go.

The boys, too, should have their fishing-tackle in readiness overnight. If swings are to be put up, a man should be engaged to see about them, or at least the oldest and most trustworthy boys of the party should see that the ropes are firm, and the tree branches stout. Nothing is more terrible in its consequences than a fall from a swing.

Always leave the grounds in time to reach home before dark. Take wraps for the cool of the day.

Be polite, unselfish, and very good-natured and kind.

I hope your picnic parties may be very delightful, and that nobody may do as I once did on such an occasion.

Five of us, Henry, Belle, Jennie, Nellie, and I, went to spend the day at a lovely spot a little way from the city. As the eldest of the number, the luncheon basket was committed to my care. I kept it by me, and with a charming book sat and read until the little steamboat stopped at its landing. Then we all rushed off, and the boat puffed away up the river. Presently said one of the group:

"Why, Marjorie Precept, what have you done with the basket?"

Sure enough! I had left it on the boat.

There is no use of trying to tell you what the rest of the party said to me. Imagine for yourselves five hungry boys and girls, with the appetites that are gained by a sail on a steamboat, defrauded of the delicious luncheon prepared for them by my carelessness.

We did not get that basket again for three days. Well, what I suffered has been a good lesson to me. Nowadays I know how to go picnicking, as I hope you will agree from the directions I have tried to give.

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Robins in the tree-top,
Blossoms in the grass,
Green things a-growing
Everywhere you pass;
Sudden little breezes,
Showers of silver dew,
Black bough and bent twig
Budding out anew.
Pine-tree and willow-tree,
Fringed elm and larch—
Don't you think that May-time's
Pleasanter than March?

South Norwalk, Connecticut.

I want to tell you how to make a little winter garden next fall. Fill a small box with earth, and in it plant ferns and mosses, put a small looking-glass in it for a lake, get your brother to make a glass frame to fit over the top, and you will have a lovely garden when the ground is covered with snow.

These warm sunny days make me think the wild flowers will soon be here. First the violets, blue and white, sweet-scented—the fields back of the school-house will be covered with them; then adder's-tongue, dandelions, anemones, and many others, with the bees humming among them. You ought to see what nice salads we make of the leaves of adder's-tongue and dandelions. How often I wish that I could send flowers to the sick children in the hospitals, if the express would only carry them free on the railroad!

Dear Young People, I have a brook near my school-house; it widens and narrows, and makes a great noise. By-and-by it will be full of tadpoles, or young frogs, and the apple-trees near it loaded with blossoms. I am glad I live in the country. It is all very well for you city people to have nice parks and picture-galleries; but I have the nicest pictures, a different one each way I look.

Jessie B.

Lowell, Massachusetts.

I am a boy eight years old. When I was up at Greenville, N. H., I was out in the meadow, and they were cutting the grass, and I had lots of rides on the team. The man that was mowing told me that there were some moles under a tree on a large rock, and I went and looked under every tree in the field, and I asked him again, and he went with me, and they were all around in the grass, and the man had to pick them out of the grass, and they were no bigger than my thumb. I put them in a little pail, and I filled the pail with soft thistle blows, and I kept the moles three days, and then I put them under a stone wall, and the next day my father and I took a walk, and I asked him to come and see if they were under it, and so we went down, and the bed that I fixed for them was all torn to pieces, and I suppose the mother did it.

Ralph P.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Perhaps some of the little girls who read the Young People would like to know something about a Cooking Club which seven little Harrisburg girls had last winter.

Two weeks before Christmas we met, and decided that we would have a lunch every two weeks, on Saturday afternoon, at the house of each in turn. Every girl was to bring some dish which she herself had cooked at home. Of course a great many of the dishes had to be superintended by the mammas or cooks.

The President always sat at the head of the table, and carved the meat, while two of the girls waited on the table. We wore large white aprons and muslin kerchiefs, and made our badges of red ribbon, with "R. S. C.," the initials of the club, worked on it.

We had seven lunches, but now that the pleasant spring weather has come, we have given up the club until next year.

I have taken Young People since it began, and I read it always with great pleasure. I think "Talking Leaves" was splendid, and I wish Mr. Stoddard would write some more stories.

Emma D. B.

Your little club not only gave you some happy hours, but I am sure you learned useful lessons while playing at cooking. If you resume the meetings next winter, you must write and tell us some of your bills of fare.

Utica, New York.

We take Harper's Young People, and read the stories in it every week. We are much interested in "Mr. Stubbs's Brother." We like the letters very much, and like to read about every one's pets. I will tell you about a cat I once had; his name was Nimpo Ganges. He was a very large gray and white cat. One day my sister had a little kitten given to her. At the sight of a strange kitten Nimpo was very indignant, and left his comfortable home here for another! One day I went to see my aunt, who lives a few doors above us, and she told me of such a beautiful cat that had come to live with her. On seeing it, imagine my surprise to find it Nimpo Ganges! He never came home again to live, for after calling on us two or three times, and finding the kitten still here, he went to live with auntie. He is a great pet with every one up there except the neighboring cats and dogs.

Laura J.

A very remarkable cat. He would not share his home with a stranger. Cats are said to be very strongly attached to places, and less fond of people than dogs are, but Sir Nimpo had a mind of his own, and chose his home for himself, did he not?

Bowling Green, Ohio.

In a recent number of Harper's Young People there was an article on "Marbles," and this week I am going to write about them. Almost every boy knows how to play marbles by making a trench about an inch deep and a foot long. The distance for the marble to roll should be nine or ten feet. As many boys as choose to can play at this game, and the one whose marble goes in the trench, or the nearest to it, takes the others' marbles. If there is a tie, of course they have to begin over again.

Span is another very interesting game. Only two can play this. The one who plays first throws his marble against something, like a wall, so that it bounds back again; then the other boy follows him, and if the marble falls near enough to the first one to span the difference, or distance between the two, both marbles are his; if he can not span the distance, each boy keeps his own marble, and they reverse the order in which they played before.

I am a little boy ten years old, and have taken Young People almost two years. I liked "Toby Tyler" very much, also almost all of the other stories, but I think Jimmy Brown's letters are best of all; it seems to me every boy must sympathize with him.

Eddy F.

I wish I could persuade Eddy and all the other boys to return whatever marbles they may win as soon as their games are finished. Then nobody's feelings will be hurt.

Brunswick, Mississippi.

We have only three pets, a dog named Cricket, a cat named Maxie, and a pigeon; I have not named the latter yet, for I want to ask some of the readers of this paper to please tell me some pretty name.

I want to tell you about the high water in the Mississippi Valley. It was not quite over our gallery, and it is nearly all gone out of our yard now. I felt so sorry for the poor people who were suffering so in the raging billows of our beautiful river. We have all been so thankful to God for saving us from a watery grave. There has been but one life lost here, and that was that of a man in a tricky dug-out. We have several boats, or dug-outs. I will tell you the names of them—the Arkansas Toothpick, the Box-toed Slipper, and the Bob Lee. We have a flat, but we do not think it requires a name. I can paddle a dug-out. The boys get many a "ducking."

Maggie Lela H.

Beech Island, South Carolina.

I am a little boy eight years old. I do not go to school, but I am taught at home. I can read, spell, and cipher very nicely. My mamma and nurse read Young People to me. When nurse read Georgie B.'s letter to me, in the Easter number, I could not keep still. I was thinking of him scrambling through Coral Cave. He must write again. Mamma is going to have all the numbers bound at the end of the year. I have three sisters and two brothers, and a father and mother, who love to read your paper. I have no pets. I have two vegetable gardens, one here and one at the plantation, eight miles off, and they keep me busy. Nurse is writing this for me. I love the poetry in Young People, and want to hear it all read. My sister reads it for herself, and soon I expect to do so too.

Edward E.

Killegney Parsonage, Enniscorthy, Ireland.

I like the paper very much. Our dog Quiz has three pups; we are going to give them away. My pony is being trained; it will soon be tame enough to ride. We are busy at our gardens. I put some primroses in mine yesterday. I am to get a larger garden soon. I like "Talking Leaves." Pappy reads it out to mother and us. Uncle William sends it to me, and St. Nicholas to Godfrey; he is my brother. I have three sisters—May, Ida, and Ella.

Ivan M.

Warrenton, Virginia.

There are a good many mocking-birds that sing around our house, and imitate all kinds of sounds. One time we thought one of our dogs had taken our play reins, and was shaking them about, making the bells ring. Another time we thought we heard a little chicken peeping, so I ran all over the yard looking for it, until I saw the mocking-bird up in a tree, and he was making the sound, and I believe he did it just for fun, to see me hunt for the little chick. I give names to all our little chickens. I named one Harper's because it was weakly; but it has grown strong now, and I hope next year it will have some little chicks of its own, and then we will call them Harper's Young People. I wish Mrs. California would tell some more about Carlie; he must be so cute.

Margie.

Washington, D. C.

I have four little brothers, named John, Billy, Harry, and Tom.

We have a dog which is very smart. He will turn a somersault backward, and stand on his head. We also have a little donkey three feet high, which we ride; but she will not let anybody else ride her, as she will stand up on her behind legs and jump, really. We have a pigeon that will eat meat and sweet-potatoes, and can sing. Don't you think that is queer?

I am seven years old, and I wrote this all by my own self. Please put it in the letter-box.

Your loving little reader,

Hic H. T.

You write so plainly and make such beautiful capital letters that you deserve ten good marks, dear.

Hammer away,
Blithe and gay.
Work whilst you work,
Play whilst you play:
And the rust must be moved
And the shield kept bright,
For the battle of life which we
All have to fight.

Lockport, New York.

I have never seen any letters from this city, so I thought that I would write to you. I like the stories very much, especially "The Little Dolls' Dressmaker." Last evening we tried the game of Anagrams, and found it very amusing. My pet is a great big Newfoundland shepherd dog, and his name is Rob Roy. One day some one rang the front-door bell, and on going to the door we found it to be Rob. He does it quite often now. I am almost thirteen years of age. I send a puzzle to you. Good-by.

Ada M. F.

The puzzle is a clever one, and will duly appear. Thank you.

North Adams, Massachusetts.

I live in a small town two miles from North Adams; it is a nice place to live. The north branch of the Hoosac River runs behind my house, and in summer we fish there, and it is fine fun to catch trout and suckers. My father and uncle run a woollen mill, and sometimes I go down to the mill and pack the goods in boxes to be sent off. My sister Amy and I ride to school every morning, and home again every night. We have a nice place to slide in winter, but not a very nice place to skate. I go down on the south branch of the Hoosac, where all the boys of North Adams go.

Keller B.

The next time you catch a splendid big trout, you must send the Postmistress word. I am glad you work as well as play.

Reynoldsville, Pennsylvania.

I am a little girl nine years old. I have two sisters—Bessie the oldest, Tirzah the youngest. We used to live in Philadelphia, but we came to Reynoldsville last summer. We had no pets in the city, but we have a good many here. Bessie has a canary, Tirzah a cat, and I have a dog. I had a dove, but it flew away. There was a beautiful Maltese cat here when we came, and she has a darling little kitten. My papa is superintendent of a saw-mill, and he often takes us to the mill. We have ten horses, which we ride from the watering-trough to the stable almost every evening. A swing is put up for us in the barn. The other day we went to the woods for wild flowers, and we found violets, anemones, wild phlox, and a flower that looked just like mamma's dyletra, only it was white.

M. Louise N.

I think the three little sisters have a merry life. I hope they will study botany, and learn to what classes of plants the beautiful wild flowers they gather belong.

Oswego, New York.

I live in Oswego, which is on Lake Ontario, and in summer I go fishing on the Oswego River, and catch lots of fish. My papa has a yacht and row-boats, and is teaching me to row. I have a stamp album with over two thousand stamps. Last summer I went to the Thousand Islands, and had a lovely time. We reached Cape Vincent about six o'clock; there took a steamer to Alexandria Bay. The islands were beautifully illuminated. I went to the Indian camp, and saw them make canoes and baskets. I have two canary-birds, and a dog named Fritz. I have a large[Pg 479] garden, with all kinds of flowers. I liked "Toby Tyler" and "Tim and Tip," and am glad Mr. Otis is going to write another story. I have been to New York twice, and like to ride on the elevated railroad.

L. W. M.

I do not wonder you enjoy riding on the elevated railroad. Sometimes, as I sit in one of the cars, and am whisked along so fast past the windows and over the roofs, I think of the old fairy stories. The enchanted carpet used to transport its owner from place to place in a moment; and these railroads, so high in the air, are very much like enchanted carpets in their effect; only the power which moves them is steam, and we might never have known the wonderful things steam can do if a bright-eyed boy named James Watt had not long ago sat and watched the spout of his mother's tea-kettle.

South Scitgate, Rhode Island.

I am a little girl nine years old. I live with my grandpa and grandma in the country. They are over seventy years old. I try and help grandma about the house. My papa and mamma live in Providence, which is thirteen miles from here. My papa is a photographer. I had a great many pretty things Christmas, but I think the most of my doll. Her name is Flossie. She has very light hair, and her eyes will shut. She is dressed in baby clothes, like a real live baby. I have six other dolls, but they are old ones. I had a canary-bird named Topsy, but the cat killed it one day. I put it in a box, and buried it in the yard. I have a stone at the head of the grave, and I keep it decorated with flowers.

Mamma has come out to see me, and is writing this letter for me. I can write some, but I live a mile from school, and only go in the summer. I have no brothers or sisters, so I have to get along with pets. I have two bantam hens; they lay little eggs, and I eat them all. Grandpa has a large farm, and we have hens, geese, cows, and a horse named Dan. I have been out to-day, and got a large bunch of trailing arbutus for mamma to take to the city with her. Mamma has sent me Harper's Young People over a year. I think "Toby Tyler," "Tim and Tip," and "Cruise of the 'Ghost'" are splendid, but the letters in Our Post-office Box from the little boys and girls I do love so much! I don't see many from Rhode Island, and I do hope our dear Postmistress will publish mine. I hope it is not too long. Good-by.

Eva T. P.

How glad I am that the dear old people have a bright little granddaughter to live with them, and be their sunbeam!

Rochelle, Illinois.

I am a little girl ten years old. I have a piano, and I take music lessons. I like "Mr. Stubbs's Brother." I always read the Post-office Box, and enjoy it. I have a large box full of advertising cards. I see that some of the children tell about their pets, so I will tell you about my cat. I keep his catnip in the table drawer, and when he wants it he goes on top of the table and smells in the drawer, so some one opens it for him, and he gets in, takes the catnip in his paws, jumps out, and goes over on the lounge and eats it.

I hope you will publish this, because I wrote one before, and it was not published. I have been in the grove, and I found some bloodroots and other flowers.

Grace G.

What a sensible cat! Do you take medicine as willingly as he does? But then a little girl who goes to the grove and gathers wild flowers, and lives out-doors in the fresh air as much as she can, does not often need catnip or any other herb.

I am a little girl eleven years old. I live in the city of Buffalo, which is on Lake Erie. There is a fort near the lake, and sometimes in summer I go out there and to the parks with some of my playmates, and have a nice time. There is a large hill at the fort too, and I think it is fun to run down it. I go to school, and am in the Third Reader, and study intellectual and practical arithmetic, spelling, geography, language lessons, and German. Can the editor speak German? If he can, and will write me a letter, I will answer it. My grandma sends me Harper's Young People, and I think it is a very nice paper for children, and my mamma and papa think so too. For pets we have a dog, a cat, and three little kittens, which are now trying to get out of the basket and run around. I am collecting picture cards, and have over nine hundred. If any little boy or girl would like to exchange with me, please address,

Helen M. Sisson,
183 Maryland St., Buffalo, N. Y.

Helen has so much more time than the editor of Young People, that the better way will be for her to send her German letter, and let us see how well she can write in that language, which we are very glad she is studying. What a number of lessons our little nine, ten, and eleven year old friends have to learn, to be sure! And the queerest thing about it, dears, is that, no matter how old we may grow, we shall still have lessons to learn, and some of them harder than those you find in your Third Readers and language lessons.

Away from Home.—Children, how would you like to have been passengers on the British steamer Glamorgan, which arrived in Boston Harbor on the morning of the 1st of May? She reported that on April 25, latitude 46° 20', longitude 42° 30', she passed an iceberg fully five hundred feet high. On the iceberg were a number of polar bears. Now please take your maps, and trace the route by which these travellers must have come from the arctic seas to reach the part of the Atlantic where the Glamorgan's passengers saw them. Where is latitude 46° 20', and longitude 42° 30'? Whose little finger will point to it first? But the Glamorgan's adventures were not ended. On April 26 she ran into a field of ice, and steaming along its southern edge, she passed one hundred large icebergs, on which were polar bears and seals, taking their ease quite comfortably. I wonder what the polar bears thought of the strange world into which they were drifting southward, poor things?

C. Y. P. R. U.

Our Little Poets' Corner.—We group together several bits of verse received from little poets. The first is written by a dear child who has only seen eight summers:

SUMMER.

Summer is near, O summer is near;
Winter leaves with a good-by cheer;
The grasses sprout,
And the trees bloom out—
Summer is near, O summer is near.

The birdies do sing, O the birdies do sing!
And so loud the merry bells ring!
For summer brings
Such beautiful things;
Summer is near, O summer is near!

Daisy Severance, Middlebury, Vt.

The author of "Thistle-Down" is only eleven, and her little poem is very sweet too:

THISTLE-DOWN.

Over the fields of waving corn,
Over the hill-tops brown.
Sailing along in fairy grace,
Floateth the thistle-down.

Flying past the meadows bare,
Catching on grasses brown,
Like airy films from cobwebs torn,
Floateth the thistle-down.

Drifting past the old oak-tree,
Drifting past the town;
Further than any eye can see,
Floateth the thistle-down.

On the blue of the sky afloat,
A dainty craft is this seedling brown,
Manned by the loveliest fairy crew,
Guiding the thistle-down.

Fairy forms in sunbeams dressed,
With rainbow hues caught down.
Sailing away in their elfin glee.
They guide the thistle-down.

Elizabeth Morton Boyce, Chicago, Ill.

Dora, whose rhyme about the streamlet is quite merry and musical, is also eleven:

THE STREAMLET.

How lovely is the little stream
That babbles on and on
Through many a field and woodland too
This little stream has gone.

There by the stream the sun looks down,
And the many sunbeams play,
Oh, happy are the breezy woods
On that sweet summer day!

And just before it joins the lake—
Nor does it miss it ever—
This little stream another meets,
And they go on together.

In its mossy bed the streamlet
Glides on through valleys low,
In sweet contentment flowing
Where the lovely flowers blow.

The glowing sun fades out of sight,
The moon and stars appear,
All is silent now, and quiet,
For the shades of night are near.

But the stream is onward gliding,
Never does it pause to rest,
Gliding onward, onward swiftly,
To seek the lake's deep breast.

Dora Cumming, Newport, Ky.

Who would like to perform this amusing trick, which is called Water Bewitched?

Take an ordinary dinner plate, and fill it with water; then produce a small empty phial, and assure the company that you are wizard enough to pour water through the solid bottom. Having declared that the phial must be perfectly dry when the experiment is performed (if you are asked why, you may say to open the pores of the glass), thrust a stick into it, and hold it to the fire until it is very hot—too hot to hold. Then stand it, without delay, mouth downward in the plate of water. Then pour a tea-spoonful of water on the bottom of the phial, as if you meant to fill it that way, and every time you do this the phial will become more and more filled with water; and as this apparently takes place every time you pour water on the bottom, it will have every appearance of having passed through the solid glass. Of course the water really rises from the plate by what is called capillary attraction.

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to "Some Diamond Stories," and to the account of Commander De Long and his terrible death among the ice-fields of the North, as told by Sherwood Ryse under the title of "The Victims of the Arctic Seas." Then Aunt Marjorie Precept has some wise advice to give about "Picnics."

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

CONUNDRUMS.

No. 2.

CHARADE.

When sharp and blustering is my first,
And all are under cover,
Before the cheerful fireside sit
My second and her lover.

Empire City.

No. 3.

FOUR DIAMONDS.

1.—1. A letter. 2. Fiery. 3. Virtuous. 4. To brown. 5. A letter.

2.—1. A letter. 2. Evening. 3. A happening. 4. Conclusion. 5. A letter.

3.—1. In pitch. 2. An adverb. 3. Ability. 4. A number. 5. In run.

Xyz.

4.—1. In salt. 2. To rise above. 3. Strength-giving. 4. A hollow. 5. In custard.

Helen S. H.

No. 4.

TWO WORD SQUARES.

1.—1. An arrow. 2. To respect. 3. A part of the body. 4. Sheep-pens. 5. A ringlet.

Empire City.

2.—1. A bird. 2. A bird. 3. To turn from. 4. Part of the body. 5. To come in.

Helen S. H.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 131.

No. 1.

No. 2.

Boston. Rhododendron. Nightingale.

No. 3.

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Annie J. Thomas, "Columbia," "American," Helen S. Herzig, Walter Morell, W. C., Frank Smith, Rogers Campe, Elsie O., Lulu Beck, Emily Dean, Maggie Walker, Florence Meserole, Jennie Strong, Claude Ramsay, McVey Grove, Kitty and Josie, E. H. D., Charles Morrison, Nelson Metcalf, Bessie T., "Lodestar," George P. Taggart, Florence H. Chambers, Florence, Mabel, and Annie, B. J. Lautz, Florence Cox, Willie Jones, Mary H. Hobart, William A. Lewis, and Edgar Seeman.

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

[Pg 480]

THE PLAYMATES.

CHARACTERS; OR, WHO AM I?

Somebody once said, "There is no royal road to knowledge." We will admit the fact as a general proposition, but now and then affairs can be so arranged that a bit of information can be fixed in the mind, and a fair amount of fun be had through the same means.

The following game is admirably adapted to a party of school-fellows who have been reading and studying from the same books. It could be made to answer all the purposes of the review of certain branches, and it is not at all impossible that teachers of good judgment could be found who would approve of giving a little time to it during school-hours.

One of the party is sent out of the room; some well-known hero, or equally well-known character from a book, like Dickens's novels or Shakspeare's plays, is selected, and when the absentee returns to the assembly, he or she is greeted as the person fixed upon, and he must reply in such a manner as to bring out more information as to the character he has unconsciously assumed.

Suppose the game has commenced, and when the player enters the room he is thus accosted:

"Your military ardor must have been very great, and you had a very adventurous spirit, when you left your home in England, and set out with a determination of fighting the Turks."

"Yes, I was always very fond of adventures."

"Well, you had plenty of them; and when you were taken prisoner, and sold to the Bashaw, your mistress, to whom he presented you, felt so much sympathy and affection for you that you were sent to her brother, but he not being so well pleased with you, treated you cruelly."

"He did; and although I suffered much from his treatment, I suffered more in the idea of being a slave."

"The thought must have been terrible to you," remarks another of the players, "or you would not have killed your master, hid his body, clothed yourself in his attire, mounted his horse, and galloped to the desert, where you wandered about for many days, until at last you reached the Russian garrison, where you were safe."

"And well pleased was I to reach there in safety; but was I then content with my travels?"

"For a while; but the spirit of enterprise, so great within you, caused you to set sail for the English colony of Virginia, when you were taken a prisoner again, this time by the Indians, and your head placed upon a large stone, in order to have your brains beaten out with clubs."

"What a dreadful situation I was in, with only enemies around me!"

"But there was one who proved a friend. A young and beautiful princess, finding that her entreaties for your life were useless, rushed forward, laid her head upon yours, and thus resolved to share your fate or save your life."

"I am deeply grateful to Pocahontas for her noble act, and I am also glad to find myself so renowned a person as Captain John Smith."

ENIGMA.

My first is black, or brown, or white;
Of mechanism exquisite;
Our earliest help, our latest need;
The first to greet, the last to speed;
Our constant help in daily tasks;
The gift th' impatient lover asks;
The forger's bane; the poor man's good,
Procuring him his children's food.

My next is often seen in fur,
Yet oft as light as gossamer;
Sometimes the school-boy gets his share,
And lamentation fills the air.
My whole are polished, hard, and strong,
To hardened natures they belong;
And when my first my next bestows,
'Tis time my whole should interpose.

HOUSE-HUNTING.

"Not a handsome residence, but suited to our means. I hope the children will like it."

She. "It is so much out of repair, Robin, that I think we had better build ourselves."