The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Young People, July 18, 1882, by Various.

Of all the lovely things we do, my sister Maud and I,
In summer days, at grandpa's farm, where hills are green and high,
There's nothing that we like so well as being sent to keep,
All through the shady afternoon, a flock of milk-white sheep.
You see, each lambkin knows its name; and when we call aloud,
From every corner of the field the fleecy darlings crowd.

At twilight when the sun goes down, to let the stars outshine,
We bend for them some willow boughs, or dainty budding vine.
And grandma bids us give them salt; they think it quite a treat,
Just as we think of sugar-plums, or bonbons nice and sweet.
But when the frisky little ones eat quick and run away,
"Excuse them, please, they're very young," their mothers seem to say.

I wonder people think them dumb. I'm sure the wise old ewes
Could tell some things to giddy girls who have no wit to lose.
How patiently they pace along, and let the lambkins play,
And chase their shadows on the grass, and skip about all day.
One never sees them looking cross; and that's what grandpa meant—
That "silly" once, in older days, was pure and innocent.

And in the Good Book Maud and I together love to read
Of pastures green and waters still, where happy flocks may feed.
We know the Shepherd loves the lambs, and oft we pray to Him
At eve low kneeling by our beds, when all the earth is dim;
And when we wake and laugh and play, and when we go to sleep,
We trust that He will keep us safe, as we have kept the sheep.

DARE'S CRUISE;

OR, THE DORY THAT FOUND ITS WAY HOME.

BY ELIOT McCORMICK.

Dare laughed and blushed as she jammed down the tiller of her little dory to let the larger boat, from which the remark had come, pass by.

"That ain't a boy," she heard a rude voice reply; "that's that Peters girl from Star Island."

Dare's laugh died out, and the flush turned into an angry red. The first speaker she did not know. It was a girl—a little younger than herself, Dare thought—with a frank, pleasant face and winning voice. But the other was a familiar foe, who had tormented Dare for ten years. Tom Suydam, she verily believed, was the most hateful boy that ever lived. Because he was a rich man's son, and boarded at the hotel every summer, while she was a fisherman's daughter who lived on the beach, he seemed to feel at liberty to tease and annoy her in every possible way. When she was a little girl he had amused himself by destroying her castles in the sand; and now that she was thirteen years old, and did not build sand castles, he would make uncomplimentary remarks loud enough for her to overhear. Dare almost hated Tom Suydam.

It was not surprising that she should be mistaken for a boy. Her short clustering hair, firm mouth, and ruddy complexion gave her face a boyish look, while the sailor hat, and blue flannel waist open sailorwise at the throat, added to the illusion. The costume was nothing more than a girl's bathing suit; but Dare found it convenient for boating, and not in the way when the boat capsized, as had once or twice happened, notwithstanding her good seamanship, and she had to swim. She could sail a boat, Captain Peters proudly declared, better than any boy around the Shoals, and there wasn't a trick of the wind she did not know. In this respect, at any rate, Dare felt a sense of superiority over Tom Suydam. He might be richer, and know more, but he couldn't manage even a row-boat. Dare wondered, as she looked back over her shoulder, and saw the little skiff driving ahead under the fresh southeasterly breeze, how the sweet-faced, gentle-voiced girl who was his companion would trust herself to his care, and how, indeed, she could go with him at all. Dare knew that Tom had no sisters. "She must be his cousin," the girl concluded, as she hauled over the sail on the other tack.

Dare was going back to the Island, having taken her father over to Portsmouth on his way to Boston. The wind was against her, and she had had to beat down the river, and was now going on a long tack to the north. It was not a steady wind, but a fitful gusty blow that warned Dare to keep her hand on the tiller and her eye on the sail. She knew precisely how much wind the boat would take, and she knew too that one's calculations might be upset by an unexpected puff. She looked up at the sky critically, and decided that the wind was shifting. There were clouds in the west indicating a thunder-storm. "It will blow me straight to the Shoals," Dare reflected, bringing the boat a little closer to the wind. The slight change of direction brought into view Tom Suydam's skiff, which, as she looked, seemed to have put about, and to be running on the same tack as herself. Tom had no doubt seen the clouds, and was making for home. It was now a race between the two boats, at a distance of perhaps half a mile apart.

Meanwhile, with every instant the sky darkened and the wind grew fresh. Dare took a reef in the sail, and kept the halyards free, so that she could drop it at the slightest warning. The other boat, however, kept on under a full head of canvas. Was Tom Suydam crazy? Dare wondered. She had hardly framed the thought before a gust struck his boat, and laid it so far over on its side that the mast seemed to touch the water. It righted, however, while Tom, evidently uncertain what to do, hauled the sail over, and attempted to run on the opposite tack. For an instant the sail napped in the wind; then it suddenly filled, and for a second time careened until Dare never expected to see it come up again.

"They'll surely be drowned!" she cried, letting out her own sail another point, while she steered the dory so as to intercept the other's course. The skiff had righted once more, but was lurching wildly, and threatening to capsize with every gust.

"Drop your sail!" she cried, excitedly; but at that instant the skiff lay over again, and Dare saw that this time it would not come up. Dare had already skillfully brought her boat up within a few yards of the skiff, and dropping her sail, she now steered it close enough to take in Tom and the girl, who, though, in the water, had succeeded in clinging to the wreck.

"Well!" she exclaimed, when the two were safely on board, "Tom Suydam, I should think you had lost all the little sense you ever had."

"Oh, I say, Dare," he cried, "don't hit a fellow when he's down. Just look after my cousin Mollie, won't you? She's all broke up. I'll sail the boat for you," he added.

Dare gave him a warning look. "You go sit in the bow," she said. "When I ask you to sail a boat for me, I guess you'll know it. There's nothing to be afraid of now," she said, re-assuringly, turning to Tom's cousin, who was shivering with fear and cold. "Only I wonder you ever went out with him. He doesn't even know how to row. Take my coat," she said, producing a heavy jacket from a locker underneath the seat. "I sha'n't need it, and you're just soaked through."

"You're a dear," she said. "I thought so the minute I laid eyes on you—only I supposed you were a boy."

"I heard what you said," she replied, softly. "Now if you will sit here with me at the stern, it will trim the boat, and we can make for home."

But the wind, with the uncertainty of a thunder-storm, had shifted further to the north, and it was apparent even to Mollie that they were being driven far away from the Shoals.

"Why don't you hoist your sail," cried Tom, from his seat in the bow, "and steer for the Island? You'll go to Boston if you keep on this way."

Just then a fresh squall drove the boat ahead with such force that the water broke over the bow, and Tom was for the time suppressed. Fortunately the dory was stanch and seaworthy. It rode the waves lightly, and so long as Dare could keep it before the wind she had no fears of its capsizing. But every breath of wind carried them further away from home. Presently the rain began to fall; and then Mollie, that Dare might not be wet, insisted upon covering her shoulders with the jacket also.

"But I never take cold," Dare protested. "I'm wet through half the time when I'm out in the dory, and don't know what it is to be sick."

"But I sha'n't feel right unless you take part of it," the other declared. "I'll sit close to you, dear, like this, and there'll be enough for both of us."

So Dare did not resist. It was a new experience for her to be affectionately treated, and she did not need the jacket to make her feel warm. As Mollie's arm crept round her waist, and the girl's little head rested on her shoulder, she felt that something had come to her which all her life had lacked. Leaning over, she kissed the upturned forehead.

Just then a sharp flash of lightning forked across the[Pg 595] sky, followed almost immediately by a deafening peal of thunder. Mollie hid her face in Dare's dress.

"Oh yes, I am," she cried; "I'm awfully frightened. Do you think the boat can stand it, Dare? Do you think we will ever get home?"

Dare looked out toward the horizon. The rain was falling even more heavily; the wind was blowing steadily from the north, and the darkness was shutting down. It was an angry-looking night, and Dare had to fight hard to shake off a thrill of terror from herself.

"There's no danger, dear," she said, bravely. "I've been out in a heavier blow than this, and so long as we can keep her before the wind we're all right. Only I'm afraid, Mollie, we'll have to spend the night out here. But you needn't mind that. You needn't even be hungry, for I've got some biscuit and a can of water in the locker; and in the morning we'll run in somewhere down the coast, or, if the wind has changed, come straight home. I wouldn't dare put up the sail until after the storm is over," she added.

They ate the biscuits and drank the water; and then, as the night grew darker and darker, and finally shut out all surrounding objects, Dare insisted that Tom and Mollie should go to sleep. Tom could lie down in the bow, using one of the seat cushions for a pillow, and Mollie in the stern, resting her head in Dare's lap. Dare would watch, she said. Tom, who was quite used up by exposure and fear, at once accepted the suggestion; and Mollie, after some persuasion, also consented to it, though she insisted that Dare should keep the jacket for herself. Before she lay down she hesitated a moment.

So Mollie said her prayers; and then, while the wind roared and the boat rocked and the rain fell, she went peacefully to sleep, covered by the jacket which, without her knowing it, Dare had taken off and transferred to Mollie's thinly clad shoulders. For a long time Dare watched the quiet little form, resting one hand protectingly on the child's wavy hair, while with the other she held the tiller and kept the boat still before the wind. By-and-by, however, the clouds broke and the wind veered. The water gradually calmed, the boat rocked less and less, and Dare too had fallen asleep.

Early the next morning Mrs. Peters came to the door of the little cottage on Star Island, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked out over the sea. It promised to be a fair day. The storm had cleared off in the night, and a fresh breeze was blowing from the southwest. Nothing, however, could be seen of the dory, and as the dory ought to have been home the afternoon before, Mrs. Peters began to be a little worried. She had not worried until now, because Dare could not be expected to come home in a storm. The child had no doubt put into Kittery Point, and staid all night with the Grays, as she had done before under like circumstances. But in that case she ought to be coming home now. Mrs. Peters looked toward the little cove where the dory was accustomed to lie; and to her great surprise discovered a mast-head rising above the intervening rocks. The mast was not rocking, as it would be if the dory were in the water. The boat must be drawn up on the beach. But who had done that? Had Dare come home in the night? With a quick beating at her heart, Mrs. Peters ran over the rocks down toward the beach. There was the dory sure enough. How had it got there, and who was in it?

Dare was in it for one. Her head, from which the hat had fallen off, rested on the gunwale; her eyes were closed in sleep; and though the position must have been very uncomfortable, her lips were parted in a half-smile. On her lap rested the head of another girl, whom Mrs. Peters did not know, but who was also sleeping, while a boy reposed in the bow. What did it all mean? With an unusual display of feeling, Mrs. Peters leaned over and kissed Dare.

"I should think it was," said Mrs. Peters, briskly. "And what I want to know is how you got here."

Dare looked around in bewildered surprise. "Why, we must have drifted," she exclaimed. "We were miles away from here last night. Mollie dear," she cried, leaning over and kissing the head that rested in her lap, "it's morning, and we've got home."

Mollie sprang up, rubbing her eyes. "Why did you let me sleep so long?" she cried, penitently. "I might have helped you with the sail."

Dare laughed. "I've been asleep myself all night," she confessed, "and the dory found its own way home."

Nobody could ever understand by what peculiar conjunction of wind and current the little boat had been carried on through the darkness to the strip of sandy beach that formed its haven. "It wouldn't happen once in a million times," Captain Peters exclaimed, when he was told the story; while Mrs. Peters declared, with equal emphasis, that no one could make her believe that it wasn't a providence. As for Mollie's father and mother, they didn't care how it happened, so long as Mollie was safe; and when they had satisfied themselves as to that, they began to look about for ways in which to express their gratitude to Dare. And though Dare declares that she does not want any thanks, and that it is pleasure enough for her to know Mollie, it is quite likely that something will be done for her benefit. For one thing, she is going to spend next winter with Mollie, and go to school in New York—a prospect which delights Mollie not less than it does Dare. "Only I'm afraid," Mollie remarks, apprehensively, when they are discussing the arrangement, "that Tom won't be civil."

And Dare, to whom Tom has already shown several awkward attentions, answers, with a smile and a blush: "Oh, Tom is such a goose! But I think he'll be civil, dear."

A BRAVE BOY.

Evvie Jerome is a little New York boy who is spending the summer at Bath, Long Island. There is a beautiful shelving beach at this place, and the children have good times there wading in the surf, digging in the sand, and building mimic bridges and forts with snowy clam shells.

On Friday, July 7, a merry group was playing on the shore as usual, when suddenly there was a scream of fright and horror. A great wave had come rolling in, and had caught and carried out of sight a sweet little girl.

There was not a man within reach. The ladies were paralyzed with fear. The bright head had gone down under the dark waters.

But there was a little boy there who had the heart and courage of a man, though he was only seven years old. He had what many men have not—the sense to see what ought to be done, and the will to do it quickly.

Evvie Jerome caught hold of the life-rope, and by wading and swimming reached the place where the little girl had gone under.

The spectators watching the young hero saw him dive. Up he came, dragging the child with him. Clinging to her with one hand, and to the friendly rope with the other, he brought her, half-drowned but safe, to her mother's arms.

HARRY MILLER'S STURGEON.

BY BENJAMIN KARR.

Thirty-four years ago, boys who lived on the shores of Lake Champlain were very fond of catching the big sturgeons that abounded in its clear waters. Not more so, perhaps, than boys would be now if fine fish were as plenty and as easily captured; but then other sports were not so common in that day, and fishing had much less competition. Often six or seven would go out together with long seines, and some famous catches they used to make.

One spring day several lads about eighteen years old hauled in a splendid sturgeon, whose good nature and intelligence won him quite a local fame, and whose story ought to have been written long ago.

He was such a fine handsome fellow that Harry Miller, a kind-hearted boy who was fond of pets, determined to take him home and try to tame him.

The rest of the party were all willing to give up their share in the prize, so the big captive's fate was settled then and there. Harry took him to his home at Cedar Point, near Port Henry, and put him in a box which he had sunk in the water, and fastened to a landing at the edge of the lake.

The box was about eight feet wide and thirteen feet long, so that a sturgeon could have plenty of room, even if he was over three and a half feet long, and weighed about one hundred and fifteen pounds, as this one did. Harry was careful that there should be plenty of chance for the fresh lake water to flow all through this novel aquarium, so that it was always fresh and pure. He also made a door which could be securely locked, so that he could take his pet out when he wished, and yet be sure that no one would steal him.

The next thing was a name, and commonplace Tom was chosen, just as it might be for a horse or a dog. It did not take Tom long to learn his name, and as he had all the worms, meat, and kitchen scraps he could eat, and was always treated kindly, he soon grew very tame and fat. He was ready whenever any one came to feed him, and when his master playfully patted his sides, he would roll over just as roguishly as a pet puss might.

A Frenchman who lived near Harry Miller's home was wonderfully skillful in training animals, and he persuaded Harry to let him see what he could do with Tom. He found a most docile pupil, and succeeded amazingly, to Harry's intense delight. After several weeks, he considered his task accomplished, and returned his charge to his young owner.

Tom was now ready to do something practical in return for his master's kindness; in fact, he had become a real "sea-horse," well broken to harness, or rather to rope, for that is all he needed to pull a boat.

A heavy ring was fastened through the thick cartilage just behind the dorsal or back fin, and a stout rope was snapped into this ring when Tom was "hitched up," just as a rein often is into a bit.

The other end of the rope was held or made fast in the boat, so that all one had to do to have a fine ride was to attend to the steering. A long pole did duty for reins, and a slap on the water either side of Tom would turn him in the opposite direction.

If he grew lazy, as he sometimes did, a sharp splash just behind would quicken him up. There was never any trouble about getting home after a ride. Just as soon as Tom had a chance to turn around, he would start straight for his box, and swim with all his might until he was once more snugly housed.

While Tom was being trained, he was allowed only about six feet of rope, but after Harry felt sure that he could trust his pet, he let him go twenty or thirty feet from the boat, and instead of short rides he used to stay out as long as three or four hours.

Just think, boys, of going fishing with a fish to do the sculling! Naturally Tom was kept quite busy towing fishing parties, and he worked all the better when he had plenty to do. A vacation of two or three days would make him behave like a colt the next time he went out.

At first he would rush off at a great rate, drawing two men in a good-sized boat nearly as fast as one could row, but he would soon cool down until he hardly wanted to stir at all.

Work every day was what Tom needed to make him willing and steady, and if he had it he was a model of good behavior.

Of course a great many other boys thought it would be fine to have a trained fish, and many sturgeons were caught and petted, but all in vain. None of them could be induced to work, and Harry Miller's Tom remained without a rival, the pride of his master, and the envy of other boys.

Most of the sturgeons which boys tried to train killed themselves by staying too long under water when they were taken out into the lake, and others pined away and died before any progress could be made.

For three years Tom did his young master good and faithful service, but at last he changed owners, and nothing is known of his history from the time he was sold. Harry was forced to part with his pet because the Millers moved away from the lake, but the twenty-five dollars he received was a poor recompense to him for the loss of such an accomplished fish.

Mr. Harry Miller is now a middle-aged gentleman, living in the town of Warren, Pennsylvania, where he often entertains his young friends with the story of his wonderful sturgeon Tom, every word of which is strictly true.

MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]

BY JAMES OTIS,

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

Chapter XVI.

A LOST MONKEY.

When they reached the kitchen, the sounds which came from the hen-house told plainly that the party they were in search of had not ceased his work because the household had been alarmed. The snapping of wood could be heard, and if Aunt Olive had not been thoroughly aroused before, she was then, for laths were being broken, and one of her choicest broods of ducks was secured only by such frail barrier against either two or four legged thieves.

"Stop them quick, or all the ducks will be out," she screamed; and, thus urged, Uncle Daniel made a bold stand.

"Get behind me, and hold your hand over the light," he whispered; and then he shouted, as he brought the gun up to his shoulder in a very threatening manner, "Come out here, and give yourselves up at once."

There was no answer made to this peremptory command, and, strangely enough, the work of destruction was continued as vigorously as if Uncle Daniel and his broken gun were a thousand miles away, instead of on the spot and ready for action.

"Come away from there instantly, and save yourself any further trouble," shouted Uncle Daniel, in a louder voice, stamping his foot, while Aunt Olive brandished the fire-shovel to give emphasis to his words.

There was silence for a moment, as if the burglar had stopped to consider the matter, and then the work was continued with greater energy than before.

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Uncle Daniel, as he brought the butt of his gun down on his own foot with such force that he was obliged to give immediate attention to the wounded member.

Toby had always had a wholesome dread of a gun; but his fear became greater than ever when he saw how much mischief could be done with one as near a total wreck as that was, for Uncle Daniel had seated himself on the grass, regardless of the dew, and was hugging his foot as if he feared he should lose it.

Even though her husband was wounded, Aunt Olive could not stop to offer any aid while her precious ducks were in such peril, as the breaking of the laths proved them to be; and she started forward alone and unarmed, save with the shovel, until a loud quacking indicated that the robber had made at least one prisoner. Dropping the shovel, but still clinging to the candle, Aunt Olive seized the gun, and dragging it along by the muzzle, she cried:

"I'll shoot you if you don't let them ducks alone, and go right straight away from here!"

The loud quacking of another duck proved that she had not alarmed the burglar; and as she was now quite near the bold robber, by holding her candle above her head she could discern in the darkness what looked like a boy, with a duck tightly clutched in each hand.

"It's only a boy," she cried to Uncle Daniel, who had given over attending to his foot, and was coming up; and then, as she ran toward the thief, she cried, "Put down them ducks, you little rascal, or I will whip you soundly!"

The boy did not put the ducks down, nor did he stay for the whipping; but, with both the noisy prizes held in one hand, he began to climb the hen-house in a manner surprising in one so small.

By this time both Toby and Uncle Daniel were on the spot, and the former saw that the supposed boy was using a long tail in his work of climbing the hen-house.

"It's Mr. Stubbs's brother; don't shoot him!" he cried, forgetting, in his excitement, that the gun was dangerous only when dropped on one's foot; and then he too tried to climb upon the hen-house.

"The monkey?" cried Uncle Daniel, as he felt on his forehead for his spectacles, to enable him to see better. Aunt Olive made use of almost the same words; but instead of feeling for her spectacles, she ran toward the building, as if she fancied it to be the easiest thing in the world to catch a mischievous monkey.

Toby knew, if Aunt Olive did not, that it would be the work of some time to catch Mr. Stubbs's brother, and that no threats would induce him to come down. Therefore he put forth all his energies in the vain hope of overtaking him.

Although the monkey was encumbered by the two ducks he had stolen, he could climb twice as fast as Toby could, and Aunt Olive realized the fact very soon.

"Scare him till he drops the ducks," she cried to Toby; and then, to do her portion of the "scaring," she brandished the fire-shovel, and cried "shoo!" in a very energetic manner.

Uncle Daniel waved his arms, and shouted, "Come down! come down!" as he ran from one side of the building[Pg 598] to the other; but the only reply to his shout was the quacking of the half-strangled ducks.

"Catch him, Toby, catch him, before he kills the ducks!" cried Aunt Olive, in an agony of fear lest these particular inmates of her poultry-yard should be killed.

"That's what I'm tryin' to do," panted Toby, as he chased Mr. Stubbs's brother from one end of the roof to the other, without even a chance of catching him.

The quacking of the ducks was growing fainter every moment, and knowing that something must be done at once, Uncle Daniel hunted around until he found a long pole, with which he struck at the monkey.

This had the desired effect, for Mr. Stubbs's brother was so nearly hit two or three times that he dropped the almost dead ducks, curled his tail over his back, and leaped to the ground. He alighted so near Aunt Olive that she uttered a loud shriek, nearly falling backward over the wood-pile; but the monkey was out of sight in an instant, going in the direction of the road.

As his pet disappeared in the darkness, Toby scrambled down from the roof of the building and started in pursuit; but before he had gone far he heard Uncle Daniel calling to him, while at the same time he realized that pursuit would be useless under the circumstances.

"He's run away, an' I won't ever find him again," he said, in so mournful a tone that Uncle Daniel knew the tears were very near his eyelids.

"He won't go very far, Toby boy," said Uncle Daniel, consolingly, "and you can soon find him after the sun rises."

"He'll be more'n seven miles off by that time," said Toby, as he choked back his sobs, and tried to speak firmly.

"I don't know much about the nature of monkeys," replied Uncle Daniel, speaking very slowly; "but I am inclined to the belief that he will remain near here, since he has come to consider this his home. But it will be daylight in less than an hour, and then you can start after him. I will drive the cows to the pasture, so that you will have nothing to delay you."

Aunt Olive had caught up the ducks as soon as Mr. Stubbs's brother had dropped them, and believing it was yet possible to save their lives, she had started toward the house for the purpose of applying some remedies.

"It's so near morning that I sha'n't go to bed again," she said; "and I'll get you something to eat, and put up a lunch for you, so you can stay out until you find him."

This offer on Aunt Olive's part seemed doubly kind, since the monkey had done so much mischief among her pets, and Toby realized that it would be ungrateful in him to complain, more especially as Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive were willing to do all in their power to enable him to catch the fugitive.

"I'll mend the cluck pen," he said, resolutely putting from his mind the thought of Mr. Stubbs's brother, who he firmly believed was trudging up the road in the direction taken by the circus when it left town.

Uncle Daniel thought it would be just as well to remain up also, and he dragged the wreck of the gun into the house, putting it carefully away lest some one should be injured by it, before he commenced to build the fire.

Mr. Stubbs's brother had labored industriously when he set about reducing the cluck pen to kindling-wood; and although Toby worked as fast as possible, it was nearly time for the sun to rise before he finished the job of repairing it.

By that time Aunt Olive had a nice breakfast ready for him, and a generous lunch done up neatly in paper.

Abner had not wakened, therefore Toby was obliged to go away without knowing whether he was better or worse; but Aunt Olive told him that she thought he need have no fear regarding the invalid, for she felt certain he would be much better when he awoke.

Toby ate his breakfast very hurriedly, and then started down the road in the direction of his partners' homes, for he thought there would be a better chance of capturing the runaway if four or five boys set out in pursuit than if he went out alone.

Fully two hours were spent in arousing his partners, explaining what had happened, and waiting for them to get their breakfast; but at the end of that time every one of the circus managers was ready for the search.

There was a decided difference of opinion among them as to which direction they should take, some believing the monkey had gone one way, and some another, and the only plan by which the matter could be settled was to divide the force into two parties.

Bob, Reddy, and Ben formed one division, and they started into the woods in a nearly straight line from Uncle Daniel's house. Toby, Joe, and Leander, making up the other party, went up the road. Toby insisted on this course because he was sure that Mr. Stubbs's brother would attempt to follow the circus of which he had once been a member, although so many weeks had elapsed since it had passed along there.

Leander was of the opinion that they ought to have borrowed a dog, with which to track the monkey more easily, and even offered to go back to get one; but Toby thought that would be a waste of valuable time, more especially as it was by no means certain that Leander could procure the dog if he did go back.

Joe thought each inch of the road should be examined with a view to finding traces of the monkey; but that plan was given up in a very few moments after it was tried, for the good reason that the boys could not distinguish even their own footprints, the road was beaten so hard. They could only walk straight ahead, hoping to come up with the fugitive, or to hear some news of him.

At each house on the road they stopped to ask if a stray monkey had been seen; but they could hear nothing encouraging until they had walked nearly three miles, and were just beginning to think it would have been wiser to remain with the party who went into the woods.

At last, however, a farmer told them that he had seen an animal come up the main road, just about sunrise, and that it had gone up through his field into an oak grove. He had had no idea at the time that it was a monkey, and had intended to take his gun and go in search of it as soon as he could spare the time.

Toby trembled as the man said this, for Mr. Stubbs's death was too vivid in his mind for him to think without a shudder of any one going in search of this monkey with a gun. He started for the grove at full speed, fearing that some one with more time at his disposal had seen his pet, and might even now be in pursuit of him.

Of course the boys did not know certainly that the animal the farmer had seen was Mr. Stubbs's brother, but all were quite sure it was; and before they had been in the oak grove ten minutes they saw the monkey himself, hanging by his tail and one paw from the branch of a tree.

Toby was so delighted at seeing his pet safe and alive that he set up a great shout; and the monkey, thus warned that boys who would chain him down to the drudgery of a circus ring were on his track, started off at full speed, scolding furiously as he went.

To catch a monkey in the woods was even a harder task than to "scrape" him from the tent, or to capture him on the roof of the hen-house; but he must be caught, and the three boys started after him, fully aware of the difficult task before them.

To Mr. Stubbs's brother this flight and pursuit was simply the wildest kind of a frolic, and he fairly screamed with delight as he leaped from one tree to another, sometimes allowing them to touch him, and then starting off, at full speed until nearly out of sight.

[to be continued.]

AMUSING "HIS HIGHNESS."

BY MARY D. BRINE.

His little Highness sits in state
Upon his rightful throne,
And from his kingly brow all sign
Of royal care has flown.
His little Highness smiles at us
Who kneel before him there,
The while we kiss his gracious hand
And bonny face so fair.

His little Highness, it is plain,
His subjects should amuse;
And of all entertainments, pray
Which will his Highness choose?
There's "This wee pig to market went,"
Played with his royal toes;
And "Trot, trot, trot, on mother's knee,
To Boston baby goes";

And "Patty-cake, O baker's man!"
Played with the dimpled hands;
And many another game like that
Which baby understands.
But best of all his Majesty
His mother's kiss prefers;
For though we dearly love our king,
There is no love like hers.

So in her arms she clasps him tight,
He and his dignity.
He's only baby, after all,
And sleepy as can be.
His throne into a cradle turns—
'Tis mother's knee, you know—
And presently to slumber-land
His Majesty will go.

CATCHING BUTTERFLIES.

BY HELEN S. CONANT.

The boy or girl who wishes to form a valuable and pretty collection of butterflies must set about it in the right way. The first thing is to prepare a net. The brass rings with handles sold by all dealers in sportsmen's goods for landing-nets for fish will answer the purpose, but any ingenious boy can make his own frame. Get a smooth, light hoop about fifteen inches in diameter. If you can not find one small enough, make it from a barrel hoop. Bind the hoop firmly to a rod about three feet long. Now go to mamma and ask her to cut out a round piece of mosquito netting about three-quarters of a yard in diameter, and fasten it to the hoop. Now the net is ready.

The permanent case for your specimens must be a neat shallow box of some pretty wood, with a glass cover. Thin pieces of cork should be glued on the bottom at intervals, according to the size of your butterflies, upon these the insects are mounted by a slender pin which runs through the body. When the case is full, it should be sealed air-tight, for if there is the finest crack, moths will get in and ruin your collection.

You can not take your case to the fields, so you must have some small paper boxes in which you can mount your specimens until the wings are dry, and they are ready to place in the case.

The best thing for a youthful naturalist to use to kill the butterfly is ether. As it evaporates very quickly, it does not injure the color or texture of the beautiful insect, and it ends the life of the butterfly instantly, and without giving pain. There are other things often used by naturalists, such as cyanide of potassium, but they are dangerous chemicals for little folks to handle, and we recommend ether as being safe, and sure to kill the butterfly.

Now swing your net over your shoulder, take the ether which should be in a bottle with a glass stopper to prevent evaporation, the box for mounting specimens, and some fine pins, and let us start out in search of butterflies. We will go first for some of the large ones that fly about the fields and by the road-side.

Down in the old lane by the stone wall is a great clump of milkweed (Asclepias syriaca), and in June there were some big black, white, and yellow caterpillars crawling about among the leaves. Two weeks ago they changed into green chrysalides spotted with black and gold, and it is time now to look for the great Danias archippus butterflies, which will come out of the chrysalides in these hot July days. Yes, there is one now perched on the Asclepias, its large wings opening and shutting in the sun. Go softly, for it is a shy fellow. A quick throw of the net, and—off goes the butterfly sailing away across the sunny field. Hurry over the wall and give chase after it. The boy who would intrap a butterfly must follow where it leads, and stop neither for walls, ditches, nor swamps, or the prize will be lost. There are few butterflies so strong on the wing as the Archippus. But it is worn out at last, and stops to rest for an instant on a field lily—a fatal instant for the butterfly, for now the net descends skillfully, and the great insect is fluttering in its meshes. Gather the net carefully in your hand so that the creature will have no room to flutter and break its wings. Now pour a very little ether on its head—two drops are enough—and it lies motionless. As the Archippus is a very strong fellow—you have already, perhaps, felt the tight grip of its tiny feet on your finger—it may be necessary to repeat the dose of ether, but for ordinary butterflies one dose is sufficient.

Take the dead insect in your hand, touching the wings as little as possible, as the delicate down is easily injured, and passing a pin through its body, fasten it in the bottom of your box. Open the wings carefully, and arrange them at once while they are soft and flexible. A pin fastened between the wings, not through them, will hold them in place until they are dry.

Examine the Archippus carefully, for it is a very beautiful creature. Its wings expand over four inches. They are tawny orange veined with black, and with a black border ornamented with rows of white dots. On the front border of the fore-wings are several yellow and white spots. The under side of the wings is deep yellow, veined and bordered the same as the upper side. Be very careful not to injure the antennas, or feelers, which project from the head; they are very delicate and easily broken. But do not be discouraged if your first attempt to mount and arrange a butterfly is unsuccessful. The first butterfly will no doubt be a forlorn-looking creature, its wings twisted and broken. Persevere, and your fingers will soon become skillful, and you will arrange the wings as neatly as an experienced naturalist could do it.

The dark butterfly in the background of the engraving is an Archippus, and the large one in front, with bands crossing its wings, and with little tails on its hind-wings, is the Papilio turnus—a brilliant yellow butterfly marked with black and blue. The latter is usually found in old apple orchards. It leaves the chrysalis early in June, which is the best time to capture it, as the specimens found fluttering about late in the season are too faded and dilapidated to be valuable in a collection. But there is another very beautiful member of this same family called Papilio asterias, which may be found in country gardens all through the month of July. It is usually[Pg 600] fluttering over sweet-scented phlox and parley beds, because it is on these plants that it deposits its eggs, from which the caterpillar, commonly known as the parley worm, is hatched. The papilio asterias is a large butterfly, with black velvety wings, dotted with yellow on the margin. The hind-wings are tailed like those of the Papilio turnus, and ornamented with seven blue spots between two rows of yellow spots, and at the hind angle with an orange-colored eye with a black centre.

There are two pretty butterflies of the genus Nymphalis, which are found all through the summer. The Nymphalis disippe is very similar in color and markings to the great Archippus, but it is much smaller, as its wings expand only about three inches. Look for it near willows and poplars, for it is on those trees that its caterpillar lives and forms its chrysalis.

Its sister, the Nymphalis ephestion, is a creature entirely different in appearance. The caterpillars and chrysalides of both are similar, but, except in size and form of the wings, the gorgeous orange and black Disippe bears no resemblance to the Ephestion in its suit of dark navy blue with black and white trimmings.

Another beautiful butterfly is the Argynnis idalia. Its hind-wings are blue-black, with two rows of cream-colored and orange spots, while the fore-wings, which expand over three inches, are tawny-orange spotted with black. The under side of its wings, like those of nearly all butterflies of the genus Argynnis, is ornamented with silvery spots in a black border. The Idalia loves grassy fields and way-side flowers, and is not difficult to capture.

The tiny butterfly with bluish-brown and copper-colored wings ornamented with black, which is found in great numbers all through the summer fluttering over the grass and white clover by the road-side, is the Lycæna americana; and the small yellow butterfly with black markings on its wings, which flies in such quantities over clover fields that a single throw of the net will often intrap a dozen, is the Colias philodice. These two are the most common of our small butterflies, although there are many more you will find in your rambles through woods and fields. There are the skippers (Hesperiadæ), of which there are said to be more than eighty varieties, that fly near the ground with a jerking motion, as if they were skipping instead of flying from flower to flower. A peculiarity of the skipper is that when at rest it erects only the fore-wings, the hind pair remaining horizontal like those of a moth.

During the latter part of summer a family of delicate brown butterflies may be seen in the shady woods fluttering about beds of fern and moss. They, are called Hipparchians, and are the only butterflies which love shade better than sunshine. Their wings are very fragile, and the net should be thrown over them as gently as possible, as they are broken and ruined by careless handling. The Hipparchia alope is one of the largest of this pretty family. Its brown wings expand a little over two inches. Near the margin of the fore-wings is a broad yellow band in which are two round black spots with a blue centre. The Hipparchia eurytris is a delicate little beauty. It is smaller than the Alope, and each of its little pale brown wings is ornamented with two black spots with a tiny lead-colored centre.

Through the summer and autumn there are so many butterflies fluttering away their short lives in the sunshine that a description of them all would fill many pages of Young People. But catch all the different kinds you can find, and preserve them carefully; and if you have no good illustrated text-book in the country, you can obtain one next winter, and spend many long evenings in classifying your collection, and studying the habits of these pretty inhabitants of the fields and woods.

TOM FAIRWEATHER GOES TO BASSORAH, THE HOME OF SINDBAD THE SAILOR.

BY LIEUTENANT E. W. STURDY.

Tom awoke late one morning, to his disappointment, because the night before his father had told him that the next day they would anchor off the Shat-el-Arab River. He sprang on deck eagerly. "Land! Land!" had an ever-fresh fascination for him.

But where was the land? He gazed about him in surprise. The ship was anchored, by all the signs, but anchored apparently in mid-ocean. Directly ahead of them, however, was a black buoy, which, as Tom knew, was not an ordinary feature of mid-ocean scenery.

Tom pointed out this buoy to his father. "What a queer place for a buoy, father!"

"Not at all. It is put there to mark the middle of the river channel. But I see what you mean. You don't realize that is the mouth of a river. Water, water everywhere, and no land in view, eh? Nevertheless this is the Shat-el-Arab River, which we now propose to ascend. Here comes the pilot."

Do you remember, Young People, that the Shat-el-Arab is at the head of the Persian Gulf? Tom realized this distinctly, as they had been steaming up this Gulf for the past week. But could that be indeed a river-mouth?

It was not until they were under way, and had been running along for an hour, that the river narrowed sufficiently for its banks to become visible. At this point it might fairly be termed a magnificent river, with a depth of from thirty to forty feet, whereas at its bar, off which they had first anchored, there was but eleven or twelve feet of water. Yes, a splendid river all the way along its splendid course of a hundred and fifty miles, to the place where the Euphrates and Tigris mingle their floods with its own.

But Tom's ship stops short of this point, at Bassorah, with which city Tom had most vivid associations, for was it not from here that Sindbad the Sailor had set forth on his wonderful voyages?

It was late in the afternoon when they neared the shore, but not too late to distinctly note the character of the place. It was very much better built, and with more of an air of civilization about it, than other Eastern towns Tom had seen lately. The buildings were, some of them, of brick, with glass windows facing the outer world. In short, Bassorah gave evidence on its face of being a prosperous city.

"It is a great grain dépôt," one of the officers said to another. "Those high buildings are grain warehouses."

"Yes, and they are almost always well stocked with grain," Captain Fairweather remarked. "A perpetual contest is going on between the grain merchants and the rats in consequence. The warehouses are in a constant state of siege by the rats trying to get in. Every now and then the rats win the day. They undermine the foundations, and over goes a warehouse."

The next morning Captain Fairweather made up a party, of which Tom was one, to visit the shore. He pulled to the creek leading to the town, and then embarked in a long narrow native boat. Tom inspected it curiously when he had taken his seat.

"They call this boat a bellem," said his father. "It is hewn out of a tree. Something like canoe-riding, isn't it?"

Two lithe, active Arabs shoved the bellem forward with long bamboos, which they thrust against the bottom or the banks of the creek—or perhaps I might better say canal.

When they left the bellem, one of the boatmen went with them as a guide through the town, and first of all through the bazars.

The bazars were well-built structures, vaulted over with brick. But they were dismally dark, being lighted only by very small windows at the top. A large trade in grain was in progress. They saw thousands of tons of wheat in open spaces, the heaps being covered over with mats.

"No, but the season for the grain trade comes first; then comes the wool trade, and later on the trade in dates. First one thing and then another."

As they walked out, Mr. Jollytarre said to the guide: "What dirty streets! Do you ever sweep them?"

"And they will go on smelling," said the Captain, "until some fine day the plague comes and makes a clean sweep of the town. The only clean sweep it ever gets, some one has said."

"Yes, the plague. All these filthy Oriental towns are scourged by it every now and then; Bassorah has had its share in the visitation. A long time ago Bassorah had a large population—as high as 800,000, they say, but that is an Oriental way of saying it was very populous. But pestilence, and war, and capture by the Persians, and recapture by the Imam of Muscat for the Sultan, have reduced it to very modest proportions indeed. The Turks founded it, to begin with. One of their early Caliphs gave it the first start 'way back—let me see—in the seventh century."

"Yes; the Turks wanted to keep the way open for trade to the Gulf. These Turks generally know what they are about. But of course the best business men in Bassorah are the Jews."

Here a curious coincidence occurred. A procession slowly approached, coming down the narrow street.

The officers and our Tom gave way, crowding themselves against the houses, as the procession advanced. In front of them it halted. The corpse about to be buried lay in an open coffin placed on a bier hung with black. The persons comprising the procession had been chanting doleful funeral songs, but when they halted they ceased singing, and instead repeated in a mournful monotone funeral prayers as they all marched around the coffin. On the corpse was placed an urn, and as each person passed it he threw into it a piece of money. Seven halts were made, the routine being the same in each instance. At the final one the priest who was conducting the ceremonies uplifted the urn and said, in solemn tones: "We know that no one in the world is free from the sin Sera Lebathalah. We therefore give to thee this money, in order that thou mayst let his body and his soul rest in peace. In the name of the Eternal and His Holy Word, and with the consent of the members of the congregation here present, we lay upon thee the Anathema, which shall compel thee to flee into wild and solitary regions, where thou canst no more persecute any one."

As a matter of course Tom was completely mystified. The Lieutenant had been studying his guide-book. "It's this way, Tom," he explained. "This Jewish community have this curious custom peculiar to themselves. That great long word Sera Lebathalah is the name of a mystic sin or spirit, who is said to be the father of countless dark fiends who torment a man after his death, under the pretext that they are his children and ought to have part of his inheritance. Anathema is a Greek word, signifying that a thing shall be condemned or devoted to destruction. So the friends of the dead buy off this spirit as you have seen, and get rid of him in that way."

The procession marched solemnly around the grave, and having placed the body in it returned to the town.

Tom and the Lieutenant had quite a walk to take before they again fell in with their companions. They discovered that the next feature on the programme was a further pull up the canal, in accordance with which arrangement they again embarked in the bellem. The canal was full of other boats, which passed them going and coming, the boatmen singing Arab ditties. Great loads of grain came down the stream.

"A good deal of that grain," said the Captain, "goes to Jeddah, and is sold to the pilgrims arriving at that port for Mecca."

In places remote from the Shat-el-Arab or the Tigris it is difficult and expensive to find means of transportation, so a large quantity of grain is used for fuel, and some rots away, or is consumed by rats in the granaries.

"Look at that," cried Mr. Jollytarre, pointing toward a warehouse close to the river-bank, tottering to its fall, as though an earthquake had suddenly overtaken it. "The rats have been having a fine time there."

"Pull ashore," cried the Captain. "We must see what all this means. Jollytarre, you must be dreaming. Rats, indeed!" Hastily running ashore, they came up against a sedate, imperturbable Turkish official, who re-assured them: "It is only one of the government grain stores that has fallen. It often happens. The rats undermine the walls to get at the grain, and from time to time a building gives way."

"Extraordinary!" cried Tom's father. "Well, I don't see that we can do anything here." So they re-embarked.

"These embankments are very well built," remarked some one, when they were again moving up the creek.

The boatman told them they were built by Nassir, a powerful Sheik; that he made a general levy of laborers for the purpose, without pay, although, to be sure, the villages around were compelled to provide food. The laborers made a strike for regular pay, whereupon Nassir built a few of the refractory men into the embankment, and declared he would construct it all of the bodies of the strikers if they did not at once go on with their work. There the strike ended. "As well it might, with such an employer," said the Captain. "And now," he added, "we'll turn around, for if you propose to start for Bagdad to-morrow, Tom, you'd better have a rest."

JOB'S TURKEY.

BY J. R. GALBRAITH.

"De ole speckle hane's done gone en keel ober, missus. Wot's we gwine ter do wid de young turkey?"

These words were addressed to me one fine spring morning by a small and very black boy, whose name was Job. Job always took a great interest in the poultry, and, indeed, was of no little assistance to me in its care. To be sure, he sometimes caused a great deal of trouble, when the chickens were hatching, by his great anxiety to know how they were getting on. He would lift up the hens to see if the little chicks were all out of their shells, and would even try to assist them in breaking the latter open, by which kind-hearted operation he invariably caused their death.

The speckled hen to which he referred that morning had been so unfortunate as to lose all her brood of young turkeys except one, and now she herself was dead. What to do with the young turkey was indeed a puzzling question. It was too young to take care of itself, and none of the other hens would take it, because their broods were not of the same age.

"Well, Job," I said, "I really do not know what we will do with the poor little thing: there is no mother for it."

"Dat's so," said Job; "but it make me feel moughty bad ter see dat leetle turkey a-cryin' roun' de dade hane. De ole rooster-cock he go er crowin' roun' jes ez big ez ef nuffin ain't done gone en happen. Oh, he's a precious vilyen, is dat same ole rooster-cock!"

I reflected a few moments, and then I said, "Job, you may have that little turkey, and when it gets big enough to sell, you can have the money all for your own."

Any one who is familiar with poultry knows what delicate little things young turkeys are, and how difficult they are to raise under the most favorable circumstances. What, then, were Job's chances? Not one in a thousand.

Job went at once and put the young turkey in a coop by itself. He then procured some soft grass, with which he covered the floor; and having placed some water and food where the little thing could get at them, he spent the remainder of the day in lying on the ground before the coop, looking in at his new possession.

That night when I went out to superintend the feeding of the young chickens, which duty had devolved upon Job, he informed me that it was necessary to be very careful in regard to the rooster, and from what he said I inferred that he believed that fowl entertained some wicked scheme against not only all the young of its own kind, but all young poultry in general.

"De ole rooster-cock," said Job, as we paused before the coop that held the young turkey, "he come up en look through de slats at dat ar turkey—he did, sho. I hez ter keep a moughty close watch out, I duz. 'Member de time w'en he picked de young goslin' en de leetle chicken ter def, kaze dey wanted ter foller him. He'd do jes dat ar way wid de turkey ef he had half a chance. Oh, he's a precious vilyen, is dat same ole rooster-cock!"

To the surprise of us all, Job's turkey lived to be a full-grown bird, and, unlike the traditional Job's turkey, grew as plump and fat as any turkey need wish to be.

Yes, it lived and grew fat, but perhaps, after all, it was an unenviable kind of life, for it lost that which is the pride of all young gobblers—its tail. There was not a single feather of it left. Job in catching it had so often pulled out so many tail feathers that at last they were all gone.

Nor was this the only trial it had to bear. Job was continually shutting it up, and then changing his mind and letting it out again. One morning, when his mother was picking geese, Job caught his turkey, and gave it to his grandmother to hold until he could fix a coop to put it in. His grandmother, who was entirely blind, thinking that it was a goose, picked almost every feather from its body.

One day Job's father invited a few friends to take dinner with him. The dinner was to be given on the Fourth of July, and Job was very much afraid that his turkey would be sacrificed to the occasion.

"I's moughty feerd dat pap is gwine ter kill dat turkey," he said. "Ef he do, I won't hab no way ter git no money, kaze I won't hab nuffin ter sell w'en de hux'er comes roun'. I hope you won't let him kill dat turkey, missus, he am sich a fine gobbler. Ef 'twas de ole rooster-cock I wo'dn't keer, kaze eberybody knows he ain't no 'count. All he duz is ter walk roun' en 'tend like he's foun' suthin, en scratch up de groun'. Ef he'd git inter de yard, he'd scratch up all de flowers—he wo'd, sho."

"Oh, I guess he'll hardly kill your turkey, Job," I said, trying to re-assure him.

"I don' know," said Job; "I's feerd he will. Yuther day Elder Sales wuz ter our house, en a-readin' outer de Bible 'bout Job. Pap he tole me ter lissen how de man wot I woz named after wuz 'flicted. Den presently he axed de elder whar wuz de passage wot tole 'bout 'Job's turkey.' De elder said he didn't know jes zactly, but he 'lowed he'd[Pg 604] soon fin' it. Dey look en dey look, but dey didn't fin' whar 'twas. 'Well,' sez pap atter a while, 'I knows a boy wot's got a turkey, ennyhow, en it's dat ar Job dar; en a moughty fine fat one too. It'll make a good ros' fer us some dese yere days.'"

From a remark that I overheard Old Dick make, I found that he actually did intend to kill Job's turkey. It was too bad, after the trouble the boy had taken to raise it. So that evening when I saw Old Dick, I told him not to kill Job's turkey, and that I would give him one. He bowed and made a great to-do thanking me.

"I'll kill de turkey to-morrow ebenin', so's ter hab it all ready in good season."

Job, who had been weeding a flower bed near by, came up just in time to hear this, and I noticed a peculiar expression on his face, but thought nothing of it at the time. Old Dick then made a low bow, and making Job do the same, the two departed in the direction of their cabin.

Everything went on as usual until about dusk the next day, when Old Dick made his appearance at the sitting-room window, and informed me that Job was missing.

"I's looked ebery whar, high en low, en I can't fin' de po' boy no'ers," he said.

"Oh, he will turn up before long; don't be frightened," I said. "Very likely he has climbed up into the haymow and fallen asleep. You remember we found him there once."

"I clar, missus, I's done look all fro de barn; but I'll go look agin ef yer say so. I 'members now I didn't look in de ole mangers in de wagon-house; but I don't reckon he'd git in dem hardly."

I went about my work, having little doubt but that Job would turn up all right, as he always had done before. But in a few minutes, happening to glance out of the window, I saw Old Dick running toward the house, having lost his hat, and making wild gestures with his arms. As soon as he caught sight of me he commenced to cry: "Oh, missus! Oh! oh! oh! Joby's done gone en fell in de barn well."

"Oh dear no, missus; I wisht I wuz. De bucket wuz hangin' down de well, en I jes let it down inter de water, thinkin' I'd draw up a leetle, w'en I heerd him a-splashin' roun' down dar."

"Oh no, 'twan't; I drawed de bucket up, en could atterwa'ds hear de po' boy. Can't nobody help me git him out? De po' boy is drownin' down dar—he is sho'. Whar is Mr. Williams? Oh, missus, whar is Mr. Williams?"

Great excitement ensued. Dinah, the cook, having seen Old Dick come running toward the house, had come out to see what was the matter. Now she ran back to my husband's study, and addressed him in these words. "De Lord help us, Marster Williams, Job's done gone en fell in de barn well."

He jumped up at once, and came running out in his dressing-gown, which, being of light material, was taken up by the wind and floated out behind him like a streamer. We three repaired to the well, where Old Dick had preceded us. Dinah was armed with the rolling-pin, my husband had the notes of a prospective sermon in his hands, which were scattered to the four winds, and I had some fancy-work, which, in my excitement, I had forgotten to lay aside. Truly we were well equipped for extricating a drowning boy from a well.

When we arrived at the well, it had begun to grow dark, and when we looked down into it, it appeared a deep black hole that might extend to the centre of the earth. Old Dick was leaning over the frame gazing into the dark depths below.

"Joby," he cried, "jes keep yo' hade 'bove water till we git down to yer. Hole onter de stones on de side, Joby. Does yer hear me, honey?"

"Oh, de po' boy!" cried Old Dick, wringing his hands; "he'll be drown', sho! Joby, o-o-oh, Joby, does yer hear me, honey?"

Here Old Dick leaned so far over the well frame that if Mr. Williams had not caught him he would have pitched headlong into the well.

Mr. Williams, having detached the rope from the bucket, fastened it around his waist, and telling Old Dick to hold on to the crank and let the rope unwind slowly, began to descend into the well, holding on to the sides with his hands and feet.

"Oh, dear me!" muttered Old Dick, as he unwound the rope; "ef he wuz ter lose his holt, en de cord wuz ter break, wot wo'd become ob po' Joby den?"

Old Dick slowly wound up the rope. We were leaning over the well frame, peering anxiously into its black depths, when Mr. Williams came in sight, bearing in his arms poor Job? No. What? Job's turkey.

Dinah and I shouted with laughter, but Old Dick looked more distressed than ever.

"Where's Joby?" he cried. "You ain't gone en lef him dade at de bottom ob de well?"

Old Dick could not seem to realize this at first. When he did, his features broadened into a smile. "Well, I thought," he said. Then he suddenly became grave again, as he remembered that, after all, we had not found Job.

We hunted all over the premises, and Old Dick went around to the neighbors and made inquiries, but it was all in vain. Job was nowhere to be found.

The next day, as I was passing through an unoccupied room at the back part of the house, I thought I heard a noise, like something falling, in a long disused closet. I opened the door to see what it was. All that I could see was a pair of bright eyes peering out from the cave-like blackness of the closet. I started back in fear.

"Well, yer see, missus, I heerd pap say he wuz gwine ter kill dat turkey las' night. I had tole him 'twa'n't no fittin' time ob year ter eat turkey, but he boun' ter kill it er bust. Well, I seed dat dar wuz water nuff drawd fer de hoss, en I jes cotch dat turkey, en chuck him in de well bucket tight, so he can't git out, en let him down de well."

When Old Dick was informed of Job's whereabouts it was with great difficulty that I prevailed upon him not to whip the boy. He, however, at length consented to let him off that time.

"But ef eber I heers ob sich cuttins up agin I'll larrop him sho. A pirty-lookin' creeter he is, a-skeerin' his mammy en me half outen our senses!"

Job's turkey lived without any more adventures until he sold it for a good price to the huxter. He took the money and bought himself a pair of red-top boots, and when he put them on and walked about the yard he was indeed a happy boy.

KITTY'S DREAM.

Little Kitty Martin
Had a vision in her slumbers
Of little cherub kitty cats
In most prodigious numbers.

They looked just like her own gray pets—
She saw them all quite clearly;
And still she wasn't frightened,
Because she loved them dearly.

Ever so many letters, which the Postmistress reads with great pleasure, have to be left out of Our Post-office Box every week. The little writers must not be discouraged, but try again. The Postmistress has many a hearty laugh over droll letters for which she can not find room in print; and sometimes she cries, all by herself, over some that are sorrowful, wishing so much that she could help the dear children who have troubles of their own to bear.

Well, dear, there are more luxurious school-houses than yours, but some of the best and greatest men our country has ever had, and those whose names we most honor, attended just such plain, homely little school-houses. It is the sort of teaching and of learning which goes on in school which is of the most importance. A dunce would not gain much on a velvet carpet and at a rose-wood desk, and a bright, diligent girl may learn much that is worth knowing, even in a rough, unplaned building. I think that you girls and boys might coax your papas and big brothers to plant vines and shrubs around the school-house, and make a garden in front of it. The teacher's desk might be covered with maroon-colored muslin, on which bright pictures might be pasted. Wreaths of evergreen, and after a while garlands of autumn leaves, might be hung upon the bare walls. Train some German ivy, which grows rapidly, around the windows. If I were there, I could help you make the place pretty I am sure. I am glad you are fond of darning stockings, but I can not send you my photograph, because I am one of the people who never happen to get a good likeness when I sit down before the camera.

Of course you are now in the full tide of vacation. Is Saturday the only day when the boys are allowed to fish, or do you go to the Park on other days, now that school is over for a while?

LITTLE PATTY.

Cross little Patty sat under a tree,
As fretful as ever a child could be.

"Keep still!" to a singing-bird she said;
"You are out of tune, and you hurt my head."

"Do stop!" she cried, to a dancing brook.
A lamb and a pussy cat came to look

At cross little Patty beneath the tree,
As fretful as ever a child could be.

The pussy cat wondered to see her pout,
And the frisky lambkin skipped about;

But the brook tripped on over stones and moss,
And never found out that Patty was cross.

The bird in the tree-top sang away,
And these were the words she meant to say:

"You poor little girl, why can't you see
That there's nothing at all the matter with me?

"Mend your manners, my dearie, soon,
Or you'll find the whole world out of tune."

Somehow the wind in the leafy tree,
And the rippling water so wild and free,

The bird on the bough, and the snow-white lamb,
And the gentle pussy so mild and calm,

Made Patty ashamed of her naughty mood;
She shook herself well, and said, "I'll be good."

And, presto! the Patty beneath the tree
Was just as sweet as a child could be.

Ma says I may write a letter too,
As many of the little boys and girls do;
So I will try and write, and see
How it will look in poetry.
I'm a little girl just twice six and one,
With this world's work just begun.
My father is a farmer, and bridge-builder too,
So, you have guessed wisely, there is plenty to do.
We all help to plant, to dig, and to hoe;
To be sure, in time we've plenty to mow;
For of all good times for children to play,
The best of all is on hay-making day.
Now 'tis our old house I must tell you about:
'Twas built for a tavern, all on a stage route;
Great trees of walnut were cut and hauled,
And placed together firmly to make these old walls;
It looks very old and ancient to some,
But yet it is a very dear and comfortable home.
My grandpa says, near sixty years ago or more
He made latches and hinges for these very doors.
The things that were made then were made to wear,
But now things of that kind you'll find very rare.
He had his shop where he could get the breeze,
And he hung his bellows between two trees,
But now his locks are silvery and gray,
And his house is the best place for children to play.
Dear Postmistress, should you be weary and need rest,
The best of all places is near the Athens of the West.
We take Harper's Young People, think it grand indeed,
And take great pleasure when your stories we read.
If you will please print my letter,
I will close by signing my name.

An epistle, dear Netta, so charmingly rhymed,
For weather like this I think very well timed.
I'm glad that at grandpa's, when lessons are done,
Yourself and your friends can have plenty of fun.
And I hope you will try to be thorough, my dear,
So that your work, like his, may last many a year.

CHERRIES.

Under the tree the farmer said,
Smiling, and shaking his wise old head:
"Cherries are ripe! but then, you know,
There's the grass to cut and the corn to hoe;
We can gather the cherries any day.
But when the sun shines we must make our hay.
To-night, when the work has all been done,
We'll muster the boys, for fruit and fun."

Up in the tree a robin said,
Perking and cocking his saucy head:
"Cherries are ripe! and so to-day
We'll gather them while you make the hay;
For we are the boys with no corn to hoe,
No cows to milk, and no grass to mow."
At night the farmer said: "Here's a trick!
Those roguish robins have had their pick."

The new birds must have driven the wrens and peewees away to find other homes. Perhaps you may be able to coax them back again.

A few Sundays ago, while service was in progress in the Presbyterian church at Rome, New York, what should walk demurely up the aisle but a little gray kitten. She stood on the pulpit steps, and looked at the boys and girls, who were in quite a flutter for fear somebody would say "scat," or pick kitty up and carry her out-doors. But nobody troubled her, and presently the little thing jumped up to one of the chairs in front of the pulpit, laid her head on her paws, and fell asleep. There she staid until church was out.

N. P. G.—Messrs. Harper & Brother's will send Toby Tyler, or any other volume on their list, to any address on receipt of the published price. It is necessary only to direct your order to Harper & Brothers, Franklin Square, New York. Letters designed for the various periodicals, or for any department in either of them, should be addressed in the same way.

A Subscriber.—I can not recommend any manual on the subject to which you refer. A few lessons from a good teacher are indispensable.

A lady of Yonkers, New York, lately sent to the Flower Mission in New York City two thousand clove pinks tied in bunches of fifty each. On account of their sweet, spicy fragrance these were sent to the blind sufferers in hospitals.

Little lovers of birds will send their good wishes to the kind Mr. and Mrs. Robin of whom this pretty story is told. A gentleman in Milton, Massachusetts, owns a mocking-bird, whose cage hangs under the piazza. Near by is a nest containing young robins. The parent birds are busy all day bringing worms to their young family. Twice, says the observer, the robins have been seen to pause on their way to their brood, and drop worms through the bars of the cage to the little prisoner.

Elsie G.—Your cat is really a gifted creature, but if I were papa, I would not like him to be quite so familiar. Did you ever dress him up with a paper cap, and a ruff around his neck?

Gertie and Lottie B.—Such a century plant as yours is a treasure worth owning.

Bessie H. B.—I am glad that you find it a pleasant occupation to help mamma in her garden. You forgot to tell me what you are raising besides strawberries. Did they turn out well, and repay you for your labor?

Max L.—The story of "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" began in Harper's Young People, Vol. III., No. 127, published April 4, 1882.

C. Y. P. R. U.

Great Paul.—Great Paul is an enormous bell which was cast for St. Paul's, in London, and has lately been hung in its belfry. It measures ten feet across the mouth, and weighs sixteen tons. You may imagine what deep tones will issue from this immense bell when it is rung on occasions of joy or grief. Large as Great Paul is, however, there are bigger bells in the world. The largest one in actual use is at Moscow, and it weighs nearly a hundred and thirty tons. The next largest is in Pekin, where there is a bell which weighs fifty tons. At Notre Dame, in Paris, there is a bell which weighs seventeen tons. The true test of a bell is its strength of sound. How far can you hear it? is the question, not how heavy it may be. High up in the steeple and on an elevation a bell ought to be heard for miles. In old times the bells summoned the people to gatherings called folk-motes. If anything of importance was to be decided, if an enemy's ship appeared in the offing, or there were rumors of an invasion on the coast, the solemn call of the bell hurried the men to a council. On the bell of St. Mary's, at Oxford, this line is inscribed, "Keepe tyme in anye case."

Arab Bread.—It is made of coarse flour resembling our Graham flour, and the loaves, which are very thin, are round, and about fifteen inches in diameter. It is placed on the table in piles, and is broken by those who wish to partake of it, not cut in slices like our bread.

Flo.—You are quite right in asking the Postmistress about any little thing that puzzles you. If you and cousin Theodore are both going up-stairs, you must let him go first. In going down-stairs he should step aside and let you go before him. Introduce your little visitor to your mother, mentioning mamma's name first.

A pleasant amusement in summer, when people are coming and going, is found in the game of Preferences. It is played in this manner:

Keep a blank book of sufficient size on the parlor table, and ask each guest to write out answers to the following questions:

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. to Mrs. Helen Conant's admirable article on "Catching Butterflies." Not only does it contain clear and simple directions for making a collection of these beautiful insects, but much is to be learned from it of their various characteristics and habits. There is a most interesting article on travel by Lieutenant E. W. Sturdy, entitled "Tom Fairweather goes to Bassorah, the Home of Sindbad the Sailor." The boys and girls both may learn a valuable lesson of presence of mind and heroism from the little incident told under the title of "A Brave Boy."

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

No. 2.

FIVE EASY DIAMONDS.

4.—1. In chicks. 2. A vessel. 3. A darling. 4. Something good to eat. 5. In ducks.

No. 3.

BEHEADINGS.

No. 4.

TRANSPOSITION.

A redyra clpea dlowu eb sith htrea,
Rewe ethre on tilelt elpoep ni ti;
Eht gnos fo ilef lduow eols sti htrim,
Erwe ethre on lichnerd ot ebign ti.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 139.

No. 1.

No. 2.

No. 3.

No. 4.

No. 5.

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "Fay," "Fern Heather," Lucie Timpson, Emil Hirsh, Eddie S. Hequembourg, Annie Meeker, Maud Mary Chambers, Florence V. Williams, Benjamin Smith, Lottie Hope, Ernest Pullen, Norman Cary, Elsie, "Rose-bud," "Fuss and Feathers," "Bright Eyes," C. J. C., Leslie Meigs, "Empire City," Annis Temple, John P. Mott, Emma Ray, Louise Prescott, Guy Paynter, Viola C., Ray M., Evarts Folsom, Etta Wheelock, and Flossie Dean.

THE FOX'S DINNER PARTY.

BY F. CASSIDY.

One of the funniest animal stories I ever heard was lately told by a sober Quaker gentleman from New Jersey, who said it was related to him by the eye-witness himself. He was one day in a field near a stream, where several geese were swimming. Presently he observed one of them disappear under water with a sudden jerk. While he looked for her to rise again he saw a fox emerge from the water, and trot off to the woods with the unfortunate goose in his mouth.

The fox chanced to go in a direction where it was easy to watch his movements. He carried his burden to a recess under an overhanging rock. Here he scratched away a mass of dry leaves, made a hole, hid his treasure within, and covered it up very carefully. Then off he went to the stream again, entered behind the flock of geese, and floated noiselessly along, with merely the tip of his nose visible above the surface. But this time he was not so fortunate in his manœuvre. The geese by some means took the alarm, and flew away with a loud cackling.

The fox, finding himself defeated, walked off in the direction opposite to the place where his victim was buried. The man went to the place, uncovered the hole, put the goose in his basket, replaced the leaves carefully, and stood patiently at a distance to watch further proceedings. The sly thief soon returned with another fox, whom he had apparently invited to dine with him. They trotted along right merrily, swinging their tails, snuffing the air, and smacking their lips in expectation of a rich repast.

When they arrived under the rocks, Reynard eagerly scratched away the leaves; but, lo! his dinner had disappeared. He looked at his companion, and plainly saw by his countenance that he more than doubted whether any goose was ever there at all. Appearances were certainly very much against the host. His tail slunk between his legs, and he held his head down, looking sideways, with a timid glance, at his disappointed companion. Indignant at what he supposed to be an attempt to get up a character for generosity on false pretenses, the offended guest seized his unlucky associate and cuffed him most unmercifully. Poor Reynard bore the infliction with the utmost patience and sneaked off, as if aware that he received no more than might naturally be expected under the peculiar circumstances.

PARLOR MAGIC.

HOW TO MAKE A QUARTER PASS INTO A BALL OF WORSTED.

Procure a ball of worsted, and also a piece of tin about three inches long and about an inch and a quarter broad, and turn up one-eighth of an inch of it on each side at an angle inward, and roll the worsted round this piece of tin until you make a ball, taking care to leave that part of the ball where one end of the tin slide is open so as to enable you to drop the quarter into it.

The ball of worsted is now placed on the table, and having borrowed a quarter, which you get the owner to mark, you turn to the table, and take up the worsted ball, dropping the marked quarter quickly down the slide or tube, which you then secretly withdraw from the ball. Now turn to the audience, and show them the ball of worsted (the hole where the tube was taken from will not be visible), and hold up a quarter (another one) which you have had secreted in your right hand until now, or which you can have fastened to an elastic attached to the inside of your sleeve, and inform them you will pass the coin into the ball.

Now get one of the company to cover the ball of worsted with a tumbler; hold up the quarter, and say, "Presto, go, fly!" then pretend to throw the quarter to the ball. Give one end of the worsted to the company to unwind, when the marked quarter will be found in the centre of the ball.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Begun in No. 127, Harper's Young People.

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vol. iii.—no. 142.	Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.	price four cents.
Tuesday, July 18, 1882.	Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.	$1.50 per Year, in Advance.

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L	eav	E
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U	n	A
S	teame	R