The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Young People, January 10, 1882, by Various.

It seemed to Marjorie as though she never would find that particular door; but at last it was reached. She put in the key; it turned in the lock, and she went in, not a little frightened and trembling.

She found herself in a large room covered, like the rest of the castle, with crystals; but on one side of the wall seemed to be a sort of gallery, evidently overlooking some other room. "I wonder if I ought to go in?" thought Marjorie. But almost at the same moment she felt herself impelled on, and to the foot of a little staircase leading up to the gallery. Now even before she had time to be surprised at what she saw below, she had a feeling that if she asked the horse a question, he would answer from somewhere. So she said, quite aloud, "What place is this?"

And the answer sounded from somewhere, "It's Santa Claus's Council Chamber." (Marjorie felt as if it was written or spoken in big letters.)

And then Marjorie, trembling in the white gallery, looked down on the most splendid room she had ever even dreamed of. It was long and high; there were panels of crystal; there were panels of sapphire and emerald and jasper, and there were lines of golden toys strung here and there. At the upper end was a splendid throne, with reindeers on either side. The whole room was ablaze with light. Marjorie longed for a hundred eyes.

Presently there came a rushing noise like the music of a million sleigh-bells; doors behind the throne fell back, and behold! a procession entered. Crowds of brilliantly dressed people came first, and then heralds and trumpeters, and many elves ringing bells. At last a majestic figure clothed in a snowy cloak of fur, with a long white beard and a crown of icicles, appeared. Every one fell back, the ladies and gentlemen, elves and dwarfs, bowing, the trumpeters flinging back their heads and pealing forth a triumphal blare. Through this double line Santa Claus walked, and took his place on the throne. Marjorie waited, breathless, for what would come next. Then she saw that the gayly dressed ladies and gentlemen had taken places on either side of the throne, and suddenly she seemed to know just who they all were.

"Why, of course!" she whispered to herself, eagerly. They were the fairy-tale people. There was Beauty; there was Prince Charming, Cinderella, and the Sleeping Beauty, and even the Babes in the Wood. As for Jack the Giant-killer, he was there in fine array. Marjorie saw him, and lots of other dear people she loved to read about. There were absolutely no giants.

As soon as they were all seated, the doors again opened, and four dwarfs entered, bearing huge silver dishes, full of something which sent up a most delicious odor. Santa Claus stood up, and called out, loudly:

"Beans porridge hot,
Beans porridge cold,
Beans porridge in the pot
Nine day's old."

And then Marjorie perceived that this supper was for the fairy people. Those who liked it best "in the pot nine days old," grouped themselves around a great big silver kettle, and dipped in long gold spoons.

Marjorie was still watching with eager eyes, when again the doors opened and a second procession entered. This was as queer as the other was gorgeous, for all sorts of toys came in of themselves; not only rocking-horses, but baby houses and blocks (each one by itself), and toy alphabets, and tea sets walking, Noah's arks ahead of the animals, woolly dogs, and bears on sticks. Directly after them came Marjorie's horse, and Nine-times-naught, with Augusta on the Kennebec.

A second pause followed, and then a whole group of dolls rushed in. They did not come in as sedately as the toys. The French dolls flounced about, the rag dolls pushed each other, and the china dolls just seemed to come in higgledy-piggledy, anyhow. But as soon as toys and dolls had assembled, they gathered about Santa Claus's throne with a most intimate air of proprietorship. Marjorie hadn't seen him smile before.

But somehow Marjorie felt as if she just couldn't wait. The toys and the dolls made very free with Santa Claus. When everything and everybody looked comfortable he spoke. His voice was loud, but kind.

From the toys came an ark, a big doll, and a woolly horse. They stood in the middle of the splendid room, and the doll, who had on a red satin dress, came forward.

"We are very happy," she said, and Marjorie listened eagerly, never having heard a doll's voice before. "We were given to a little girl who is a cripple. She lives in a small room with her mother and two sisters. When we came, she said God was so beautiful and kind this Christmas. She sent for other children to play with us. They were ragged and cold and hungry, but they were perfectly happy and thankful because they had us. They were so happy, that they forgot that a little girl named Marjorie had been cruel to them."

(Up in the gallery Marjorie gave a little shiver, for she remembered these poor children perfectly. Her governess, Miss Marbery, had wanted her to share her Christmas money and presents with them. Marjorie had stamped her feet angrily, had called them "miserable little beggars," and had openly refused to think of such a thing. Now she bowed her head and silently cried.)

The doll seemed to have done speaking. She moved back, and took her place with the woolly horse and the ark. Marjorie heard a voice say.

"These toys can come back on New-Year's Eve for an hour or two, and report to Santa Claus," and at that minute to her horror she beheld all of her own Christmas presents troop forward.

"We came to Marjorie," she said. "She lives in a warm, comfortable, beautiful house, where every one pets her, and is kind to her, and tries to make her happy. She is never cold, nor hungry, nor sick, but nothing pleases her. These toys did not satisfy her." (Here the toys sprang about angrily.) "She was cross and petulant, and she flung me into a corner because she did not get a new doll. All the toys hate her and despise her. She has never done anything at Christmas-time for any one else."

"I wanted very much to be given to the poor little lame girl," she answered. "To her I would have been a treasure. It would have been so easy for Marjorie to have made Christmas a happy day for a great many people."

The doll ceased speaking, and then Marjorie saw that all the fairy people were busy writing down something on the wall behind them. There was perfect silence for a moment, and then it seemed to poor bewildered Marjorie that all those beautiful walls blazed forth terrible words about herself. "Shut her out from our favor forever." "Miserable." "Ungrateful." "Cold." "Proud." "Cruel."

Suddenly the clock struck twelve. New-Year's Day had come, and in a flash toys, dolls, fairy-tale people, all seemed to melt away, and Marjorie found herself cold and weary in that strange flower garden.

She stood still a moment, and listened eagerly for the sound of the horse's rock. It came at last.

"Well," he said, gravely, "you were allowed to come out. Get up into the saddle and I'll tell you why."

The horse's rock sounded a little softened. "And next year perhaps a flower may grow for you in this garden."

"By your own feelings. When it grows, its fragrance reaches down to the world, and brings you peace and happiness. You will not need to be told that somewhere a blossom is waiting for you. God's garden paths reach down to every heart."

Marjorie sprang up. She was in her own room; it had grown dark, the fire was dying away, and there was Uncle John in his great-coat looking at her and laughing.

"Well, Pussy," he exclaimed, "you're a great girl to go to sleep. Come, I want you to go out with me and buy New-Year's presents for the Williamsons. Hurry up."

"Why," she said, and looked around to see her horse standing very still and bright-eyed in the middle of the room—"why, where's Augusta, on the Kennebec?" she said, suddenly, rubbing her eyes.

Uncle John roared laughing. "You've been studying too much lately, Puss," he said, kindly.

Later, as they were driving through the snowy streets, Marjorie put her hand into her uncle's, and said, gravely, "Uncle, where is God's garden?"

He was silent for a moment, and then he answered, quietly: "Dear, it ought to be all around us. It is wherever we can do any good or prevent any evil; the place we are going to to-night might be your part of His garden if you chose."

Marjorie looked up at the star-lit sky, wondering what she could do. Then she said to herself, "I feel as if somewhere there I might plant my flower."

PERILS AND PRIVATIONS.

BY JAMES PAYN.

II.

THE LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE."

In a letter which Miss Martineau once showed me, from a relative of hers, long dead, addressed to her great niece from Southsea, near Portsmouth, and dated August 9, 1782, there occurred this singular passage:

"The day is calm and pleasant, and as I sit at the open window, the great vessel in the offing, betwixt me and the Fair Island" (the Isle of Wight used to be so called), "seems to sway not a hand-breadth, nor to flutter a single pennant." Then, in a trembling hand, but still the same, was added: "A dreadful thing has happened. When I had written that beginning of my letter, Dorothy, I looked again southward; the sea was as waveless as before, and the Fair Island sparkled in the sun, but betwixt us and it I saw no trace of the great three-decker. I thought my brain had gone wrong, and rang the bell for Agnes; but when she too could see nothing of the ship, a terrible apprehension took hold of me; and when the alarm-guns from the fort began to thunder, I knew she had gone down. I hear near a thousand men were aboard of her."

This was the famous "wreck of the Royal George," immortalized by the verse of Cowper. She was a ship of one hundred guns, carrying brass 24-pounders on her main-deck, brass 32-pounders on her middle deck, and iron 32-pounders on her lower deck. Her lanterns were so large that the men used to enter them to clean them. She had six months' provisions on board, and many tons of shot. The blue flag of "brave Kempenfelt" was flying at her mizzen, and in two days she was to leave Spithead to join the fleet in the Mediterranean.

So sudden and unexpected a catastrophe was never before heard of in nautical annals; but the cause of it is common enough. It arose from the obstinacy and fool-hardiness of the lieutenant of the watch. These caused the death of some eight hundred human beings. It is not necessary to mention his name; indeed, the sailor from whose personal narrative I compile the story, and who had probably just joined the ship, did not know his name, though of course it could be discovered easily enough. "He was, if I remember right," he says, "the third lieutenant, a good-sized man between thirty and forty." Fortunately for himself, perhaps, he was drowned with the rest.

The accident arose through the heeling over of the ship. It was necessary to lay her on her side to get at the water cock, situated in that part of the hold called the well, in order to replace it by a new one. The operation was begun at eight o'clock in the morning. The ship at that time was "full of Jews, women, and people selling all sorts of things," as was usual on the eve of a long voyage. The last lighter, with rum on board, had just come alongside, and was lashed to the larboard side of the vessel, and the men were piped to clear her, and stow the rum in the hold. Though the water was almost level with the port-holes through which the larboard guns were run out, no danger seems at first to have been apprehended. The sea dashed in with every wave, and disturbed the mice in the lower deck, and the men amused themselves with hunting them in the water. "There was a rare game going on," are the words of the narrator.

By nine o'clock the weight of the rum barrels and of the sea water brought the larboard port-holes still lower, and the carpenter applied to the third lieutenant to give orders to "right ship, as she could not bear it." But the lieutenant gave him a very short answer. The captain—Captain Waghorn—was on board, and also the admiral; but admirals and captains are not consulted in such matters. The lives of those at sea, as of those on land, are mainly in the hands of subordinates. In a very short time the carpenter repeated his warning, and the lieutenant answered, "Sir, if you can manage the ship better than I can, you had better take the command." In a minute or two afterward, it is true, this fool-hardy officer ordered the drummer to be called to beat to right ship, but it was then too late. There was no time to beat his drum, or even time to get it. "Let us try," said our sailor to the lieutenant of his gun, "to house our gun out without waiting for the drum, as it will help to right the ship." They pushed the gun, but it ran back on them, and they could not start it. "Then I cried, 'Ned, the ship is sinking, jump out at the port-hole!' He did so, but I believe was drowned, for I never saw him again. I followed him. I saw the port-holes as full of heads as they could cram, all trying to get out."

What a picture! Imagine all those poor fellows struggling to escape through a space not large enough for one-tenth of them, up an incline as steep as the peaked roof of a house, and with a hungry sea rushing in behind them! Above all, think of the poor women! Our sailor, holding on to the best-bower anchor, which hung above the port,[Pg 164] seizes hold of one and drags her out, but at that moment the draught of air from between-decks, caused by the sinking of the ship, blows him off his feet. Then the huge mass goes down, and draws him down with it. He tries to swim, but can not, "though I plunged as hard as I could with both hands and feet; but when the ship touched bottom, the water boiled up a good deal, and I felt that I could swim, and began to rise." So, even if a vessel with a hundred guns goes down and takes one with her, there is some use, you see, in having learned to swim. When he comes to the surface he hears—what a sound at such a moment!—the cannons ashore firing their signals of distress, but he can see nothing. His face is covered with tar, a barrel of tar having been staved in as the ship went down, and its contents spread over the water. He strikes it away from his eyes as well as he can, and looks about him.

The fore, main, and mizzen tops of the huge ship were all above water, and he climbs up into comparative safety. In the shrouds of the mizzentop he finds the admiral's baker, and sees the woman he has just pulled out of the port-hole rolling by. He seizes her once more, and hangs her head over one of the ratlines of the mizzen-shrouds, like clothes to dry, which is the best he can do for her; but a surf comes and knocks her backward, and "away she went, rolling over and over." Strangely enough, the poor creature is saved after all by the boat of a frigate lying at Spithead, whose captain has just put off to the rescue. "I must look to those who are in more danger than you, my lad," he sings out to our sailor, as he goes by.

The captain of the Royal George, though, strange to say, he could not swim, was picked up alive. But out of nearly a thousand men, which was the ship's complement, although some were on leave, and sixty marines had gone ashore that very morning, only a very few were saved. Government allowed five pounds to them for the loss of their things. "I saw the list, and there were but seventy-five."

For several days afterward bodies would suddenly come up to the surface at the spot where the ship had sunk, "forty and fifty at a time. The watermen made a good thing of it; they would take from the men their buckles, money, and watches; then, making fast a rope to their heels, would tow them to land."

The poet who sings of the calamity tells us "no tempest gave the shock," and indeed there was scarcely any breeze at all. The ship was anchored, and had not even a stitch of canvas on her to keep her steady.

Sixty years afterward the interest of this terrible event had by no means died away, and I well remember, as a boy, going on board the ship that was stationed above the scene of the calamity, to see the divers who were still employed upon the wreck. The aspiration of the poet,

was never realized; but almost everything was taken out of her; and more fancy articles—paper-knives, work-boxes, etc.—affirmed to have been made from her timbers, were sold, I am afraid, than the Royal George, big as she was, could ever have furnished. In country places and at the sea-side in England you may purchase them even now at the bazars—old-fashioned articles, with this tomb-like inscription on them: "This desk" (or letter-weight, or paper-knife) "was made out of the wood of the Royal George, sunk off Spithead in 1782, with eight hundred of her crew."

THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

An Indian Story.

BY W. O. STODDARD.

Chapter XIV.

he advance of To-la-go-to-de and his Lipans that day had been a slow one, and it grew slower and more cautious as hour after hour went by without any word from the two pale-face scouts.

The chief himself grew uneasy. He thought they would surely return or send him some word before night-fall; but the sun was nearly setting when at last he went into camp with his discontented warriors on the very spot where Steve and Murray had made their halt before daylight.

Then, indeed, he could wait no longer, and several braves were ordered out on foot, with others on horseback a little behind them, to explore what was left of the pass, and see what they could find.

They could have done more for their chief and themselves if the night had not been a cloudy one, so that not a brave among them ventured to descend into the valley.

If they had done so they might have discovered two very important facts. The first was that the Apache hunting village had left it, bag and baggage. The second, and quite as important a discovery, would have been that the camping ground abandoned by the Apaches had been promptly occupied by a strong party of pale-faces.

All the scouts could really do was to bring back word that the pass was clear of enemies to the border of the valley.

The morning would bring news, at all events, for he determined to dash on with all his warriors, and find out about matters for himself.

"No Tongue is wise. He is a great warrior. Sometimes wise old warrior gets knocked on the head. Then he not come back at all."

There was a possibility, as he well knew, that the Apaches themselves had something to do with the silence of his two pale-face friends.

Another head had been quite as busy and troubled as that of To-la-go-to-de all that day. Captain Skinner also would have given something for a few minutes' conversation with "them two mining fellers."

He felt sure they could have given him both information and advice; but he said to himself: "Of course they won't come nigh our outfit. They know we've jumped their claim. Still, they did the friendly thing with Bill and the boys, and they sent word they didn't bear us any ill-will. That's 'cause they feel sure of their own ground. They're on good terms with the red-skins. I wish I could say we were."

Well he might, considering how many of them there were in that country, and how near to him some of them were coming. All the way down the pass the ragged little Captain had ridden in advance of his men, carefully scanning every rock and bush and tree. At last he paused at the very spot where Bill and his companions had had their little difficulty. He seemed to see some signs that needed studying, and he stooped down and picked up something. Only a pair of strong thongs of buckskin, that looked as if they had been recently used in tying up something. He could make very little out of them; but he noticed the marks of horses' feet going in and out of the forest.

"Signs are getting pretty thick. Hullo! an arrow. Cut in two, and blood on it. Bill, isn't this the spot?"

"Glad you made out not to have any. Did those two white men and the Indians ride away in company?"

"Wa'al, no. The red-skins rid away first, and the two fellers promised to foller 'em after a while. Then I reckon they cut off into the timber. 'Peared like they must ha' been huntin'."

"Most likely they were; and waiting for us to get away, so they could go back to their mine. Boys, I'm afraid our claim won't be worth a great deal by the time we get back."

"We'll take care of that when we come, Cap. They said they'd take thar chances. We'll take ours; that's all."

Slower and more and more cautiously the mining train again moved forward, until from under the last of the pine-trees Captain Skinner could look out upon the valley and see that it was empty.

How would he and his men have felt if they could have known that at that very minute Murray was chipping away[Pg 166] with his chisel at his inscriptions upon the central monument of the great Buckhorn Mine?

"Not a red-skin in sight," he remarked. "We'll go straight on down. There must be plenty of ways out of the valley."

No doubt of it, but the first business of those wanderers, after they reached the spring and unhitched their mule-teams, was to carefully examine every hoof-mark and foot-print they could find.

The fact that there had been lodges was proof that the Apaches were not a war party, but there was plenty of evidence that they were numerous enough to be dangerous.

"Glad Bill didn't pick a quarrel with such a band," grumbled Captain Skinner. "But how did he happen to show so much sense? I never suspected him of it."

This was not complimentary to Bill, and it was clear that the Captain's opinion of him had not changed.

"Some kind of an accident," he said. "Nobody need waste any time looking out for another one just like it."

It was getting late in the day, and a better place for a camp could not have been found.

"Of course it will. We'll try to move east from here, or south, when we leave it."

"Game? Oh yes. Plenty of it, after a hundred Apache hunters have been riding it down for nobody knows how long. The red-skins leave heaps of game behind 'em, always."

This answer prevented any further remarks on the subject of hunting that afternoon. They had plenty of fresh meat with them, nevertheless, and there was no reason why they should not cook and eat.

There was a reason why they should not be altogether pleased with their camping ground. They found the coals of one fire still hot enough to kindle with.

"The Apaches haven't been out of this a great while," said Captain Skinner, "but the trail of their lodge poles shows that they set off to the west'ard. That isn't our direction. I don't care how far they go, nor how fast."

The other miners did not agree with him. Neither did they like the looks of the mountain range through which the Apaches had come.

"Danger behind us or not," said one of the men, "I move we spend a day or so in huntin' and findin' out jest what's best to be done before we light out of this. We must be getting pretty close to the Mexican line."

They were even closer than he had any idea of, but when their evening conference ended, Captain Skinner was outvoted, and a "hunt and scout" was agreed upon.

[to be continued.]

THE STORY OF A LITTLE DOG'S TAIL.

BY HELEN MARVIN.

Flash was the name of the little dog whose tail I am going to tell you about. Flash's master was a great actor, whose name was David Garrick. Flash and his master lived more than a hundred years ago.

One evening the family and a number of their friends were at a theatre in the great city of London. Flash's master was on the stage, playing his part, while Flash was in the audience, lying on his mistress's lap.

The play was almost over, when a big countryman, whom nobody knew, came out on the stage, and spoke a piece that was called the epilogue. Everybody asked, "Who is he?"

"I don't know," said Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was a great artist, and painted beautiful portraits, to Miss Angelica Kauffman, a lovely young lady, who was also very famous as an artist.

"I don't know," said Dr. Burney to his daughter, Miss Fanny, who had written a charming story-book.

"I don't know," said Dr. Samuel Johnson to his friend Mr. Boswell, who had taken the liberty to nudge the great man's elbow.

"Can you tell me who that actor is?" asked Mrs. Thrale, the wife of a very wealthy brewer.

At this the little dog in Mrs. Garrick's lap jumped to his feet, pricked up his ears, looked toward the stage at the big countryman, and began to wag his tail.

Wig-wag, wig-wag, wig-wag went Flash's tail, and Mrs. Garrick said, "Why, it is my husband; Flash knows his master better than his own wife does."

"Yes, yes: yes, yes," replied Sir Joshua Reynolds. "You see, my dear young lady, the little dog knew more than all of us put together."

This is how Flash Garrick recognized his master, and told everybody in the theatre by the wagging of his little tail.

This is a true story, and it happened, as I told you, more than a hundred years ago.

MY FAMILY OF ORIOLES.

BY W. O. AYRES.

We were down in the country last summer, Fred and I, at Blackberry Farm. Fred is a bright, lively boy, nine years old, and everything there was novelty to him, for he had never been out of the city before, excepting once, when he was too young to notice and remember what he saw. Perhaps no boy who left New York in July enjoyed his vacation more than Fred did his two months at Blackberry Farm.

Among the residents at the farm-house was one Tiglath-Pileser, commonly called Tig for short, though Fred almost always gave him at least one of his two names in full in speaking either to him or of him. Tig was a very handsome Maltese cat, to whom his little mistress, who was very fond of him and very proud of him, had given this name of the old King of Assyria. Now Tig was a very industrious cat; he not only caught mice about the house and barn, but birds also out in the orchard, and once I saw him come in dragging a garter-snake much longer than himself.

One morning Fred came hurrying to the veranda, where I was sitting, closely followed by Tig, both of them in a state of great excitement.

"Oh, Uncle William, Tiglath has killed such a beautiful, beautiful bird! Only see! I made him give it up, though he tried hard to keep it."

And in fact Tig was at that very moment manifesting great dissatisfaction with the condition of things, and a decided determination to recover his property.

"Did you ever see such a beautiful bird, Uncle William? Tiglath-Pileser, keep your foot down. His head is so black and his breast is such a bright orange."

"Yes, Fred, there are few birds of more brilliant plumage which come so far north as New England. It is a Baltimore oriole, though if you should ask any one of the people about here, you would probably be told that it was a hang-bird, or perhaps a fire hang-bird—a name which they give it from the nest which it builds, and from its very bright colors. There are various species of orioles in other countries, but this and the orchard oriole are the only ones which are ever seen in New England."

"Cecil Calvert, known as Lord Baltimore," replied Fred, in regular school-boy style.

"Yes; and when Lord Baltimore came to America his[Pg 167] servants wore a livery of orange with black trimmings; and so this bird, which is very common in Maryland, was called the 'Baltimore oriole' from the colors of his coat. And it is very true of him, as it doubtless was of the servants just mentioned, that his wife and children are much more plainly dressed. The female bird and the young ones wear no such gay colors; you would scarcely suspect that they were part of his family. The people of Baltimore always speak of the oriole as 'our bird,' and if you had kept watch of the papers, Fred, you would have seen that last year in October, when they wanted to have a great festival to celebrate the completion of their splendid water-supply system, they called it 'The Baltimore Oriole Celebration.' Everywhere in the decorations, and in the dresses of the ladies, and in the scarfs and neckties of the gentlemen appeared the black and brilliant gold of the oriole."

"What does he live on, Uncle William? His bill is very smooth, and comes to a round, sharp point. It does not look as though he could bite anything hard."

"Ah! that bill, Fred, is a wonder. And it is not merely for eating that he uses it. You remember I told you the people called him hang-bird, because of the sort of nest he builds. Now that nest he never could build unless he had this curious bill. I must tell you a story about his mode of using his bill; but before I do it we will start out for a walk, and find one of their nests, if possible, even an old one of last year will do. We will put this dead bird away, so that we can examine him again. So, Tig, if you want a bird for your breakfast, you must go and catch another."

"Yes, Tiglath, we can not spare him, even though he does really belong to you. But you can go with us." So away we three went across the fields, Tig, however, soon wandering off in search of a mouse or something.

We had not gone very far before I espied an oriole's nest. It was on the extreme end of the branch of an apple-tree. Fred climbed it, and presently we had the nest in our hands. It was hung where a branch divided into two smaller twigs, and I showed Fred very easily how the bird had begun by fastening an end of a very long soft piece of grass to one of the twigs, and then fastening the other end to the other twig, so that the middle of the grass hung down in a long loop as much as five inches deep. Then it had made another loop, which hung across the first, and of the same depth, but this time the loop was made of a piece of bark. Then there was another loop—actually a string which the bird had found; and so it went on until there were seven or eight loops hanging.

"Now look at these other fibres, Fred, which run across and around the loops, and make a real basket of it. Do you see they go over one loop and under another, and so on? How do you suppose they were put there? There is where that shape of the bill which you noticed comes into play. Come, let us go back to the house, where you can have the bird and the nest together, and I will tell you the story, and you shall see for yourself."

We were soon quietly seated on the veranda, Fred all eagerness for a lesson in ornithology.

"The story is about a family of young orioles, three of them, which I took from their nest just before they were large enough to fly away. Perhaps it was cruel to take them, on their mother's account, but she seemed to care very little about it, and in a few days they would have left her anyway. I carried them to my room, and put them in a large open cage, where I thought they would be as comfortable as possible.

"Knowing that their mother fed them on berries and insects, I gave them plenty of both; but they would not touch them, and all that day they ate nothing. Next morning I tried them again, but it was of no use, and fearing they would starve, I was about to carry them back to the old nest, hoping their mother could do better with them than I could, when an accident showed me how to manage them.

"I was at that time making a collection of birds, and on my working-table lay the body of a robin, whose skin I had just prepared and stuffed. I had one of the little orioles sitting on my finger, when he hopped off on the table, and seeing a piece of the flesh of the robin, he swallowed it on the instant. As he seemed to like that sort of food, I cut him another piece, and down it went like a flash, and I continued to feed him until he could eat no more, and then I brought out his brother and sister and fed them in the same manner.

"After that I had no trouble in keeping them supplied with food, and they grew rapidly. They never ate anything but the flesh of the birds which I was skinning daily. I had no suspicion that such birds would eat meat at all, nor do I think that it is generally known. Neither Mr. Audubon nor any other writer mentions any such habit as belonging to them; but these little fellows were very fond of it, and they certainly throve well on it.

"Of course they were soon strong enough to fly, and I left the door of their cage open for them to come and go as they pleased. They grew very tame, and soon learned to come to the table and get food themselves. They always slept in the cage, but during the day they were everywhere about the room. They grew so much attached to me, that the instant I entered the room every bird with a loud chirrup would start for me with his utmost speed, lighting on the top of my head, on my shoulders, on my finger when I held it out to them—anywhere that they could find a place.

"If a stranger came with me, they were doubtful; would let him take them, and possibly sit a minute on his finger, but nothing more. It was when one of them was sitting on my finger that I first learned that curious use of his bill in nest-building of which I spoke before we went out.

"I had brought him up to my face, when, to my great surprise, he put the point of his bill between my lips, and tried to pry them open. I tried him again, and he did it the second time. I lifted one of the others, the female, and she used her bill in the same manner. It occurred to me at once that that was the way in which they built their nests. I watched them constantly, and became perfectly certain that I was right. They would try to pry open my fingers; if I separated my lips, they would try to part my teeth. They often went up to books, and put in the point of the bill to pry apart the leaves, opening the bill each time with all their strength."

"And is that the way, Uncle William, he has done with this nest? Sure enough, I can see. Look!—look here! that piece of grass has gone under this loop, and then it comes over, and here it goes under again."

"That is just what the bird did, Fred. At first it was all open work, and easy; but as the nest was getting nearly finished, the bill was shoved in under that loop and opened widely, and the grass passed through, and so on one after the other. And the nest could not have been made as you see it now except for that singular way of using the bill.

"But I must tell you more of their doings. They soon learned that their food came from birds, and that it was because I skinned the birds, and they learned just how I did it. If a bird lay on the table, they gave no attention to him till I sat down ready for work. Then every oriole flew immediately to the table; but each one looked around carelessly, as though he had come there by accident, and had nothing particular on his mind. They would walk about, and try to pry open books and whatever else came in their way, and very often I waited some time, just to try them and see what they would do. I would profess to read something, as though skinning a bird was not in my thoughts at all.

"But no; they knew better; one would look up at me,[Pg 168] and then another, and then they would run about again, but all the while keeping a sly and cunning watch of me; they knew they would get the better of me in a few minutes. For the instant I took up the bird, turned him on his back, and raised my knife, a rush was made, and there they stood watching for the first bite.

"It was a most comical sight, and time and time again I used to laugh to see them. I parted the bird's feathers with two fingers of my left hand, almost always with an oriole on each finger, while three little heads were thrust close down, and as I cut through the skin; in went three bills digging and tearing for a mouthful each."

"Oh, Uncle William, what a strange thing! Do tell me what ever became of the little orioles! What did you do with them in the winter, when there were no birds for them to eat?"

"Two of them, the female and one of the males, died very shortly after they were fully grown. The other used to fly in and out of the window as he pleased, into the orchard, and across to the woods. The first time he went out he seemed quite uncomfortable, and called very loudly for me to come and bring him back again, and when I climbed up the apple tree to him, he hopped on my finger, and settled himself down in a contented way that showed he was very glad to be at home again. But after a number of excursions he learned to prefer living out-of-doors, and doubtless went to the South in the autumn with the others of his kind."

THE LAMENT OF A LEFT-OVER DOLL.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

I'm a left-over doll, and I grieve to relate
How sad is my fortune, how lonely my fate;
For I had no notion that I should lie here,
Forlorn and neglected, at this time of year.

Oh, long before Christmas they dressed me up fine—
No dollie had clothes any better than mine;
And I rather imagine I looked very nice,
As many fine ladies inquired my price.

I was handled and dandled, and fondly caressed,
My beauty admired, my value confessed,
And yet for some reason or other was I
Put back in the show-case; the buyer went by.

One dear little maiden came into the store;
She saw me, and for me began to implore,
And said that there wasn't a doll in the place
With a handsomer dress or a lovelier face.

She stared at me long, so of course I stared back,
And saw that her eyes were a beautiful black;
And I wanted to speak, but I couldn't, because
I hadn't been made with a hinge in my jaws.

I dreamed about Christmas, and how I should be
Stuck into a stocking or up on a tree,
Then carried about in my mistress's arms
That all might admire my wonderful charms.

But Santa Claus came, and he went on his way,
And took with him many a doll, I dare say;
But as I've a chance to look round me, I find
That dozens and dozens have been left behind.

If you were a left-over dollie yourself,
You'd know how I feel lying here on the shelf
So long after Christmas; and wouldn't expect
Me to smile at old Santa Claus' cruel neglect.

They've marked down my price; and I very much fear
That those who buy cheaply will hold me less dear,
And the army of curious shoppers I shun
Since I had no part in the holiday fun.

FELIX.

BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.

It is early morning in a cathedral town of Germany, and a boy is muffling his head in the bedclothes, trying to keep out the sound of bells and the sight of the bright sun-beams. His comrade, however, is doing all he can to arouse him.

"Go away, I say," is all the reply to these well-meant efforts. "What's the use of getting up to be knocked about and scolded? When mother was here, one was sure of a cup of hot milk and a kind word. I'm going to sleep again. Do hush! There, take that!" and he gave his friend a cuff on the ear.

The friend howled, which sent a pang through the boy's heart. He stretched out his hand with a gesture prompted by remorse.

"Come here, come here. I've given you just what I don't like for myself, poor fellow. I beg your pardon."

His face was well washed after that by a dog's warm tongue, which had also the effect of waking the boy very thoroughly. The conversation too went on.

"Turk, old dog, you're the best friend I have in the world, and if you didn't wake me up every day, I'd never be in school. Since mother's death, father is so cross and still and dull! he does nothing but work, work, work. But my rose-tree must be planted to-day, and if I don't do it now, I don't know when I will have the chance."

So saying, he dressed rapidly, tossed open his lattice, and took a small plant from the window-sill, ran down the outside flight of steps leading from the door of his father's shop, paused a moment to snatch up a roll and his bag of books, and then with his dog hurried down the village street.

He was soon past the houses and shops, and nearing the vast towers of the great church, which was but partly finished; and as he looked up at the points and pinnacles of heaven-aspiring height a thought which had long been in his mind burst into bloom.

It was a simple thought, but a religious one, and it so absorbed him that for a while he forgot his errand, and stood gazing up into the pure sky, blue as forget-me-nots. He was startled, however, by the village bells and clocks, and a hurrying group of workmen approaching, so he quickly sought out a lonely grave, took his plant from its pot, and digging a little hole, set the rose-bush in it.

Quick as he was, he was yet too late for school, and received frowning disapprobation from the master as he took his seat.

Unfortunately Felix was often late, often too his lessons were unprepared. But he was so ready to make amends, and was so quick in learning, that he could get on better than the duller pupils who labored more systematically.

But to-day everything went wrong; his head was full of fancies, and with his ready pencil he was sketching when he should have been studying, scrawling scrolls and rose-windows over his Latin, and sending flocks of pigeons up and down the margin of oceans and continents. He stumbled at his lessons, he bothered those who knew them, and perplexed those who did not, until the master's patience was exhausted, and he gave him a sound thrashing.

After that there was silence, sullenness, and an appearance of work, but a sudden roar of laughter from the boys made the master look up. Felix was bending over his book as if he were the only one undisturbed. The master was not, however, easily deceived.

Now Felix had a real liking for his master, and was usually sorry for offending him; but the whipping had not been beneficial, although his conscience told him that it was deserved. He presented the book. On its fly-leaf was a drawing of the master—a very clever caricature—as Cupid drawing his bow at a group of girls, who, with much disdain and derision, were pelting him with sticks and stones.

The master's face flushed at the disrespect; but he quietly laid the book aside, and proceeded with his duties, Felix remaining standing.

The recitations went on, the hum of study, the drawl of the lazy ones, and the quick, eager replies of the ambitious. Felix was forgotten.

The boy began to think he had made a mistake. What had he gained by misconduct? Where were the thoughts of the morning under the cathedral windows? How was he fitting himself to work on the beautiful structure which was to be the medium of praise and prayer for multitudes, in the long ages to come? And yet he knew this had been his mother's hope and wish. Was he making good use of the talents God had given him?

He was looking out the window now, watching the lights and shadows on the carved stone of buttress and gable.

The boys were dismissed. He sat down to the extra tasks assigned him. He was hungry, he was miserable, but he plodded on, and finished his work. The master bade him go, and he went, but not home.

He lingered about the cathedral, watching the workmen. Finally he became fascinated by their employment; and taking up their tools, worked out a leaf pattern on a bit of refuse stone. The men left him there. Tired and faint, he sought his mother's resting-place. The rose was drooping for want of water.

Felix obeyed. The climax had come. His father was stern and hard, and the master, of course, would have a sorry tale to tell.

Fortunately the village people had gone in to their evening meal, and he would be spared the disgrace of being seen conducted like a culprit to his father. He did not speak a word, nor did the master, but shame and remorse were written on every feature. He felt as if he were a criminal about to receive sentence—a sentence, too, which was deserved, and which justice demanded.

"Well, what now, Herr Professor, is the matter?" asked the father, grimly surveying his son.

"No, once a day is enough. We've tried that; it did not answer in this case as well as it does sometimes. May I have the pleasure of Master Felix's company to supper?"

"Not at all—not at all. Run away, Felix; get your face washed and your jacket on, and you shall be my guest for this evening."

Felix was almost too much surprised to be able to move, but without daring to question his father, he did as the master told him. While he was gone, a conversation went on between Mr. Zimmerman and the teacher.

It is not necessary to repeat it; but Felix saw a different expression on his father's face when, neatly dressed, he came down the steps and followed the master home.

He was fearfully hungry, and yet almost ashamed to take the good broth and bread which were set before him in the master's quaint and quiet little parlor; they somehow choked him; and as he looked about at the book-covered shelves and old engravings, the detestable caricature he had drawn in the morning danced before his eyes.

At last he could stand it no longer. The teacher seemed to have disappeared, and only this kind, genial host sat opposite him, heaping up his plate and bowl.

"I am very glad to hear that, my boy; but don't think any more about it just now," was the response, and filling his pipe, wreaths of smoke began to play about the old man's head.

"It is a great pity that a lad of your talent should waste any time, Felix, and if you are willing, I think your father will let me give you drawing lessons."

"To be sure, you will have to apply yourself more diligently, be prompt and industrious, or all the lessons in the world won't make a man of you."

"That's right," said the Professor, and then he opened some great volumes full of pictures, and the boy gazed in delighted wonder at a world more beautiful than his dreams. Not an allusion did the Professor make again to anything that had happened during the day.

When evening was over, and he courteously bade him good-night, Felix was dazed, and went home with light steps to his little bed.

As soon as Turk woke him next morning he sprang up with alacrity, and would have been off with the dawn to water his rose-bush, but his father detained him.

"Felix," said he, somewhat sternly, "the master says there's good stuff in you if you'll use it. Come here and eat your breakfast before you go, and let me hear what you have to say for yourself."

"I'll try," was the sum and substance of Felix's talk over his brown bread and milk.

Ten years after this there was a great celebration in the town, for the cathedral was finished. Cannon thundered, bells pealed, and a grand "Te Deum" was chanted to the rolling rhythm of the magnificent organ.

A group of visitors standing near a certain pillar of great beauty were applauding it, while they complimented a young architect and sculptor, whose work it was. His head was modestly bent as he received the commendation, but in a moment he raised it, and turning to a very old man in a professor's gown, whose hair was white with the snows of many winters, he took him by the hand and presented him to the visitors.

"Gentlemen, this is the person you must thank for the pillar. Whatever beauty it possesses, whatever expression it is of truth and religion, is due to my master, whose kindness rescued me from idleness, whose skill directed my youthful efforts."

SLUMBER SONG.

Sleep, little daughter!
Ay, chill is the weather,
But we in our cottage
Are cheerful together.
Father is sailing
Across the wild water;
Father in heaven
Smiles down on my daughter!

Sleep, little daughter!
The wind is abating;
Father is sailing,
And mother is waiting.
Soon he will come,
In the soft sunny weather;
Father in heaven
Will bring us together.

A STEAM CHAIR.

BY JIMMY BROWN.

I don't like Mr. Travers as much as I did. Of course I know he's a very nice man, and he's going to be my brother when he marries Sue, and he used to bring me candy sometimes, but he isn't what he used to be.

One time—that was last summer—he was always dreadfully anxious to hear from the Post-office, and whenever he came to see Sue, and he and she and I would be sitting on the front piazza, he would say, "Jimmy, I think there must be a letter for me; I'll give you ten cents if you'll go down to the Post-office"; and then Sue would say, "Don't run, Jimmy; you'll get heart-disease if you do"; and I'd walk 'way down to the Post-office, which is pretty near half a mile from our house. But now he doesn't seem to care anything about his letters; and he and Sue sit in the back parlor, and mother says I mustn't go in and disturb them; and I don't get any more ten cents.

I've learned that it won't do to fix your affections on human beings, for even the best of men won't keep on giving you ten cents forever. And it wasn't fair for Mr. Travers to get angry with me the other night, when it was all an accident—at least 'most all of it; and I don't think it's manly for a man to stand by and see a sister shake a fellow that isn't half her size, and especially when he never supposed that anything was going to happen to her even if it did break.

When Aunt Eliza came to our house the last time, she brought a steam chair; that's what she called it, though there wasn't any steam about it. She brought it from Europe with her, and it was the queerest sort of chair, that would all fold up, and had a kind of footstool to it, so that you put your legs out and just lie down in it.[Pg 172] Well, one day it got broken. The back of the seat fell down, and shut Aunt Eliza up in the chair so she couldn't get out, and didn't she just howl till somebody came and helped her! She was so angry that she said she never wanted to see that chair again, "And you may have it if you want it Jimmy for you are a good boy sometimes when you want to be."

So I took the chair and mended it. The folks laughed at me, and said I couldn't mend it to save my life; but I got some nails and some mucilage, and mended it elegantly. Then mother let me get some varnish, and I varnished the chair, and when it was done it looked so nice that Sue said we'd keep it in the back parlor. Now I'm never allowed to sit in the back parlor, so what good would my chair do me? But Sue said, "Stuff and nonsense that boy's indulged now till he can't rest." So they put my chair in the back parlor, just as if I'd been mending it on purpose for Mr. Travers. I didn't say anything more about it; but after it was in the back parlor I took out one or two screws that I thought were not needed to hold it together, and used them for a boat that I was making.

That night Mr. Travers came as usual, and after he had talked to mother awhile about the weather, and he and father had agreed that it was a shame that other folks hadn't given more money to the Michigan sufferers, and that they weren't quite sure that the sufferers were a worthy object, and that a good deal of harm was done by giving away money to all sorts of people, Sue said:

"Perhaps we had better go into the back parlor; it is cooler there, and we won't disturb father, who wants to think about something."

So she and Mr. Travers went into the back parlor, and shut the door, and talked very loud at first about a whole lot of things, and then quieted down, as they always did.

I was in the front parlor, reading Robinson Crusoe, and wishing I could go and do likewise—like Crusoe, I mean; for I wouldn't go and sit quietly in a back parlor with a girl, like Mr. Travers, not if you were to pay me for it. I can't see what some fellows see in Sue. I'm sure if Mr. Martin or Mr. Travers had her pull their hair once the way she pulls mine sometimes, they wouldn't trust themselves alone with her very soon.

All at once we heard a dreadful crash in the back parlor, and Mr. Travers said Good something very loud, and Sue shrieked as if she had a needle run into her. Father and mother and I and the cook and the chambermaid all rushed to see what was the matter.

The chair that I had mended, and that Sue had taken away from me, had broken down while Mr. Travers was sitting in it, and it had shut up like a jackknife, and caught him so he couldn't get out. It had caught Sue too, who must have run to help him, or she never would have been in that fix, with Mr. Travers holding her by the wrist, and her arm wedged in so she couldn't pull it away.

Father managed to get them loose, and then Sue caught me and shook me till I could hear my teeth rattle, and then she ran up stairs and locked herself up; and Mr. Travers never offered to help me, but only said, "I'll settle with you some day, young man," and then he went home. But father sat down on the sofa and laughed, and said to mother:

I'm very sorry, of course, that an accident happened to the chair, but I've got it up in my room now, and I've mended it again, and it's the best chair you ever sat in.

"TOO MANY COOKS SPOIL THE BROTH."

See our Harry, Rosie, Lil—
Restless darlings, never still;
In and out all day they run,
Little people, full of fun—
Rosie, Lil, and Harry.

"Here's a lovely pan!" they cry;
Mary, maid, has set it by.
"Let us all, while no one looks,
Play at being real cooks—
Lillie, Rosie, Harry.

"Tie on aprons, big and brown;
Careful, lift the old pot down;
Now we'll nicely fill it up;
Stir it, girls, and take a sup—
Harry, Lil, and Rosie.

"Not quite nice—pour pepper hot,
Oil, and treacle in the pot;
Salt and coffee; apples too—
Pop this one into the stew"—
Rosie, Lil, and Harry.

In goes all, from peas to paint—
Well may Mary all but faint.
Well may she declare, quite wroth,
"Many cooks do spoil the broth"—
Harry, Rosie, Lillie.

Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross
To see a young woman upon a white horse;
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes.
She will have music wherever she goes.

The little Glastenbury girl who does not like cats has stirred up quite a number of defenders for the household pet. We would like her to write again, and let us know whether she has been converted by the friends of puss.

Some of our youthful puzzlers omit to send the answers with their puzzles. No puzzle can be admitted unless the solution is sent in the envelope with the puzzle. Some boys and girls send correct answers to puzzles, but forget to sign their names, and in consequence we can not give them credit, as we would like to, for their careful work.

Ada Allen, Bolivar, Missouri, has sent us her teacher's certificate that she has recited perfectly the list of the Kings and Queens of England.

Lester Tallmadge, of Leaville, Colorado, would like to receive the full address of H. R. S., who lately sent him a package of interesting curiosities, in order that he may make a suitable return.

C. Y. P. R. U.

Alice.—I can not decide for you the question which is the most useful of all the trees in the world. I will leave it open for the C. Y. P. R. U., and members may send me their opinions. The tree which is applied to the most various and multiplied uses is probably the palm. There are a number of species of palm, differing in some minor peculiarities, but all graceful, elegant, and beautiful. The Palmyra palm (Borassus flabelliformis) is, on account of its great usefulness, called the prince of trees. Until this tree reaches its twentieth year it has little grace or beauty. A recent writer says: "It is covered from the root upward with the remains of old leaves which have been cut off some distance from the trunk, leaving ugly and dangerous projections. These leaf-stalks when green are soft and easily cut, but after they become dry they are almost as hard as horn. A person running against such a tree by night, or accidentally, is sure to retire wounded. After the tree becomes older, all these remains of former leaves disappear, and the straight trunk emerges smooth and clean, as if it had been artificially trimmed and polished. It rises to the height of from sixty to ninety feet, and is considered in its youth during its first hundred years. The timber is almost worthless until the tree is sixty years old."

A Hindoo poem is said to enumerate eight hundred and one uses to which the palm is applied. The leaves are used for fuel, for thatch, for mats, for baskets, for cords, for fans, for umbrellas, for pouches, books, etc. The sap is drawn from the tree twice daily during seven months of the year, and makes, when unfermented, a pleasant drink; when fermented, an intoxicating wine. It is boiled into a coarse sugar, which is used both as food and medicine, and as a cement in mortar. The fruit is considered a delicacy. There is an Indian proverb about the palm which says, "If you plant it, it will grow a thousand years; and if you cut it, it will last a thousand years."

The Postmistress acknowledges with thanks the kindness of her young friends who have sent her pretty cards and other favors of the season.

How would you like "We Girls?" I think that would be a pretty name for such a club as yours. As for badges, there is nothing more appropriate than a geranium leaf or two, to be worn when you meet, or you might assume rosettes of pink ribbon, or, prettier still, always wear a white apron when you assemble. I think it would be very charming for you to have some beautiful needle-work on hand, and while one should read aloud, let the others sew. If there are poor little girls in your town who do not know how to sew, or whose mothers are too busy to make comfortable clothing for them, your club, with your mothers' permission, might make garments for them. A cooking club is very popular among girls of your age, and, upon the whole, would perhaps give you more enjoyment, and result in more real benefit to you in making you efficient little house-keepers, than anything else the Postmistress could propose. If you try the latter work, you will need the assistance of some older friend until you are fairly organized. Please write, and tell me what you finally resolve upon.

I am very glad to publish this letter in memory of the faithful dog who lost his life to save his master's.

There is one thing certain about our paper this week. The C. Y. P. R. U., on the look-out for relations of solemn fact, would never be able to tell which articles were intended for its special entertainment if the Postmistress did not point them out. "The Loss of the Royal George" is one, but who that did not know it to be an actual occurrence, and one of the most terrible and heart-rending in English history, would not think the story one of the wildest fancies of some writer's brain? Then who would believe that some birds could be so cruel and heartless as to feed upon the flesh of their fellows, if Dr. W. O. Ayres, of Yale College, did not tell us so in "My Family of Orioles"? Unless the Postmistress is very much mistaken, the articles in Young People which will be most widely read this week are those in which "truth is stranger than fiction."

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

ENIGMA.

Formed half beneath and half above the earth,
We sisters owe to art a second birth;
The smiths' and carpenters' adopted daughters,
Made on the earth to travel o'er the waters.
Swifter we move as tighter we are bound,
Yet neither touch the water, air, nor ground.
We serve the poor for use, the rich for whim,
Sink when it rains, and when it freezes, swim.

Ella B.

No. 2.

TWO EASY DIAMONDS.

2.—1. A letter. 2. A huge serpent. 3. Juvenile. 4. A conjunction. 5. A letter.

No. 3.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

1. To obey. 2. A surgical instrument. 3. Universal. 4. Part of a bird. 5. To breathe out. 6. A weight. 7. A pronoun. Primals—One of Shakspeare's plays. Finals—The name of a famous author.

No. 4.

A LETTER PUZZLE.

One I, one O, one R, four S's, and one C.
Now place these letters in order, and form a word for me.

H. W.

No. 5.

NUMERICAL ENIGMA.

My whole is a familiar adage composed of 22 letters.
The 6, 4, 5, 16 is to try anything.
The 3, 18 does not mean yes.
The 11, 2, 20, 15, 16 is to lift.
The 13, 8, 10, 12 is to sting.
The 19, 22, 14 is used to wash with.
The 1, 2, 3, 4, 7 is very sweet.
The 9, 17, 1, 21, 4 is a fragrant substance.

W. B. G.

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "Lodestar," Nellie Anderson, Ella Chirney, Ernest Payne, Walter E. Paulding, G. W. Taggart, Edward Lee Haines, Sammy A. Jones, Reggie Reid, Arthur Bancroft, Elbert E. Hurd, J. J. Bellman, Gerson G. Freund, Jacob Marks, Henry E. Johnston, Jun., and Willie Volckhausen.

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

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Vol. III.—No. 115.	Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.	price four cents.
Tuesday, January 10, 1882.	Copyright, 1881, by Harper & Brothers.	$1.50 per Year, in Advance.