[Pg 433]

MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]

BY JAMES OTIS,

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

Chapter VI.

OLD BEN.

Toby watched anxiously as each wagon came up, but he failed to recognize any of the drivers. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps those whom he knew were no longer with this particular company, and his delight gave way to sadness.

Fully twenty wagons had come, and he had just begun to think his fears had good foundation, when in the distance he saw the well-remembered monkey wagon, with the burly form of old Ben on the box.

Toby could not wait for that particular team to come up, even though it was driven at a reasonably rapid speed; but he started toward it as fast as he could run. After him, something like the tail of a comet, followed all his friends, who, having come so far, were determined not to lose sight of him for a single instant, if it could be prevented[Pg 434] by any exertion on their part. Old Ben was driving in a sleepy sort of way, and paid no attention to the little fellow who was running toward him, until Toby shouted. Then the horses were stopped with a jerk that nearly threw them back on their haunches.

"Well, Toby my son, I declare I am glad to see you;" and old Ben reached down for the double purpose of shaking hands and helping the boy up to the seat beside him. "Well, well, well, it's been some time since you've been on this 'ere box, ain't it? I'd kinder forgotten what town it was we took you from; I knew it was somewhere hereabouts, though, an' I've kept my eye peeled for you ever since we've been in this part of the country. So you found your uncle Dan'l all right, did you?"

"Yes, Ben, an' he was awful good to me when I got home; but Mr. Stubbs got shot."

"No? you don't tell me! How did that happen?"

Then Toby told the story of his pet's death, and although it had occurred a year before, he could not keep the tears from his eyes as he spoke of it.

"You mustn't feel bad 'bout it, Toby," said Ben, consolingly, "for, you see, monkeys has got to die jest like folks, an' your Stubbs was sich a old feller that I reckon he'd have died anyhow before long. But I've got one in the wagon here that looks a good deal like yours, an' I'll show him to you."

As Ben spoke, he drew his wagon, now completely surrounded by boys, up by the side of the road near the others, and opened the panel in the top so that Toby could have a view of his passengers.

Curled up in the corner nearest the roof, where Mr. Stubbs had been in the habit of sitting, Toby saw, as Ben had said, a monkey that looked remarkably like Mr. Stubbs, save that he was younger and not so sedate.

Toby uttered an exclamation of surprise and joy as he pushed his hand through the bars of the cage, and the monkey shook hands with him as Mr. Stubbs used to do when greeted in the morning.

"Why, I never knew before that Mr. Stubbs had any relations!" said Toby, looking around with joy imprinted on every feature. "Do you know where the rest of the family is, Ben?"

There was no reply from the driver for some time; but instead, Toby heard certain familiar sounds as if the old man were choking, while his face took on the purplish tinge which had so alarmed the boy when he saw it for the first time.

"No, I don't know where his family is," said Ben, after he had recovered from his spasm of silent laughter, "an' I reckon he don't know nor care. Say, Toby, you don't really think this one is any relation to your monkey, do you?"

"Why, it must be his brother," said Toby, earnestly, "'cause they look so much alike; but perhaps Mr. Stubbs was only his cousin."

Old Ben relapsed into another spasm, and Toby talked to the monkey, who chattered back at him, until the boys on the ground were in a perfect ferment of anxiety to know what was going on.

It was some time before Toby could be persuaded to pay attention to anything else, so engrossed was he with Mr. Stubbs's brother, as he persisted in calling the monkey, and the only way Ben could engage him in conversation was by saying:

"You don't seem to be very much afraid of Job Lord now."

"You won't let him take me away if he should try, will you?" Toby asked, quickly, alarmed at the very mention of his former employer's name, even though he had thought he would not be afraid of him, protected as he now was by Uncle Daniel.

"No, Toby, I wouldn't let him if he was to try it on, for you are just where every boy ought to be, an' that's at home; but Job's where he can't whip any more boys for some time to come."

"Where's that?"

"He's in jail. About a month after you left he licked his new boy so bad that they arrested him, an' he got two years for it, 'cause it pretty nigh made a cripple out of the youngster."

Toby was about to make some reply; but Ben continued unfolding his budget of news.

"Castle staid with us till the season was over, an' then he went out West. I don't know whether he got his hair cut trying to show the Injuns how to ride, or not; but he never come back, an' nobody I ever saw has heard anything about him."

"Are Mr. and Mrs. Treat with the show?"

"Yes, they're still here; he's a leetle thinner, I believe, an' she's twenty pound heavier. She says she weighs fifty pounds more'n she did; but I don't believe that, even if she did strike for five dollars more a week this season on the strength of it, an' get it. They keep right on cookin' up dinners, an' invitin' of folks in, an' the skeleton gets choked about the same as when you was with the show. I don't know how it is that a feller so thin as Treat is can eat so much."

"Uncle Dan'l says it's 'cause he works so hard to get full," said Toby, quietly; "an' I shouldn't wonder if I grew as thin as the skeleton one of these days, for I eat jest as awful much as I used to."

"Well, you look as if you got about all you needed, at any rate," said Ben, as he mentally compared the plump boy at his side with the thin, frightened-looking one who had run away from the circus with his monkey on his shoulder and his bundle under his arm.

"Is Ella here?" asked Toby, after a pause, during which it seemed as if he were thinking of much the same thing that Ben was.

"Yes, an' she 'keeps talkin' about what big cards you an' her would have been if you had only staid with the show. But I'm glad you had pluck enough to run away, Toby, for a life like this ain't no fit one for boys."

"And I was glad to get back to Uncle Dan'l," said Toby, with a great deal of emphasis. "I wouldn't go away, without he wanted me to, if I could go with a circus seven times as large as this. Do you suppose young Stubbs would act bad if I was to take him for a walk?"

"Who?" asked Ben, looking down at the crowd of boys with no slight show of perplexity.

"Mr. Stubbs's brother," and Toby motioned to the door of the cage. "I'd like to take him up in my arms, cause it would seem so much like it used to before his brother died."

Ben was seized with one of the very worst laughing spasms Toby had ever seen, and there was every danger that he would roll off the seat before he could control himself; but he did recover after a time, and as the purple hue slowly receded from his face, he said:

"I'll tell you what we'll do, Toby. You come to the tent when the afternoon performance is over, an' I'll fix it so's you shall see Mr. Stubbs's brother as much as you want to."

Just then Toby remembered that Ben was to be his guest for a while that day, and after explaining all Aunt Olive had done in the way of preparing dainties, invited him to dinner.

"I'll come, Toby, because it's to see you an' them that has been good to you," said Ben, slowly, and after quite a long pause: "but there ain't anybody else I know of who could coax me out to dinner, for, you see, rough fellows like me ain't fit to go around much, except among our own kind. But say, Toby, your uncle Dan'l ain't right on his speech, is he?"

Toby looked so puzzled that Ben saw he had not been understood, and he explained:

[Pg 435]

"I mean, he don't get up a dinner for the sake of havin' a chance to make a speech, like the skeleton, does he, eh?"

"Oh no, Uncle Dan'l don't do that. I know you'll like him when you see him."

"And I believe I shall, Toby," said Ben, speaking very seriously. "I'd be sure to, because he's such a good uncle to you."

Just then the conversation was interrupted by the orders to prepare for the parade; and as the manager drove up to see that everything was done properly, he stopped to speak with and congratulate Toby on being at home again, a condescension on his part that caused a lively feeling of envy in the breasts of the other boys because they had not been so honored.

[to be continued.]

"WHAT DO THE PANSIES THINK?"

BY MARY A. BARR.

What do the pansies think, mamma,
When they first come in the spring?
Do they remember the robins,
And the songs they used to sing?
When the butterflies come again,
I wonder if they will say,
"We are ever so glad to see you,
And won't you sit down and stay?"

Will the pansies tell the butterflies
How the snow lay white and deep,
And how beneath it, safe and warm,
They had such a pleasant sleep?
Will the butterflies tell the pansies
How they hid in their cradle bed,
And dreamed away the winter-time,
When people thought they were dead?

And will they talk of the weather,
Just as grown-up people do?
And wish the sun would always shine,
And the skies be always blue?
Speak of the lilies dressed in white,
And the daffodils dressed in gold,
And say that they think the tulips
Are exceedingly gay and bold?

I fancy the purple pansies are proud;
I fancy the yellow are gay.
Oh! I wish I could know just what they think;
I wish I could hear them say,
"Here comes our dear little Lucy,
The kind little girl in pink,
Who used to visit us every day—
And that's what we pansies think."

HOW JELLY-FISH LIVE AND MOVE.

BY SARAH COOPER.

When jelly-fish are seen lying in shapeless masses upon the beach, where they have been washed by the tide, their appearance is not attractive. If, however, we can watch them from the side of a boat, or from a long pier, as they dart through the water with their tentacles trailing after them, we shall soon learn to admire their graceful movements and their elegant colors. There is something very interesting too in these little inhabitants of the great deep. They are such soft and helpless little things, and yet they live and have their own good times if only the boisterous waves do not catch them and fling them too harshly against the rough shore.

Fig. 1.—Section of Jelly-Fish showing Tubes and Mouth.

Jelly-fish consist of a single bell-shaped mass of jelly, from the inner surface of which hangs the body of the animal, with the mouth in the centre. The mouth opens directly into the stomach, from which several hollow tubes (usually four) extend to a circular tube around the edge of the bell. In the jelly-fish, Fig. 1, a, the side next to us has been removed that we may see the tubes and the mouth hanging in the centre; b shows us the same viewed from below.

The eggs of jelly-fish are formed in large quantities in the tubes leading from the centre. In Fig. 1 you will see the enlarged cavities containing eggs. At certain seasons of the year great clusters of bright-colored eggs may be seen through the transparent flesh. A few jelly-fish are thought to produce young ones resembling themselves, without passing through the strange forms we noticed in studying hydroids.

Hydroids, about which I told you in Young People March 14, No. 124, you will remember, are abundant in all oceans. So are jelly-fish, and they are often found floating in large companies. Jelly-fish are propelled by alternately taking in and throwing out water under the bell. This gives them a jerking movement, which looks as if it were caused by breathing. They come to the surface chiefly when the water is quiet, and, as they like the warm sun, you will not see many of them at an early hour in the day. They are easily alarmed. If they meet with an obstacle in their course, or if they are touched by an enemy, the bell contracts, the tentacles are instantly drawn up, and the creature sinks in the water.

Upon the outer edge of the bell there are bright-colored specks and solid spots, which are thought to be the beginnings of eyes and ears. Although they never grow to be perfect eyes and ears in the jelly-fish, they promise that Nature has in store for her children the precious gifts of sight and hearing. Such imperfect organs are called by the wise men rudimentary organs. This is the lowest animal in which anything corresponding to our nerves is found.

Fig. 2.—Lasso Cells from a Fresh-water Hydroid (Magnified).

Delicate fringes and tentacles hang from the lower edge of the bell, adding greatly to its beauty. The tentacles are often many feet long, yet the animal has the power of drawing them up so that they are not visible. This curious power of contracting and expanding the tentacles belongs to many humble sea creatures, and you will be greatly interested in watching their movements. Sometimes, while we are still wondering at their disappearance, they lengthen again as if by magic.

The tentacles of jelly-fish are covered with a great many lasso cells. These lasso cells are too small to be seen without a microscope; still, they are powerful weapons in their way, and are quite sufficient to enable the jelly-fish to catch its food. Many of you know how the skillful hunter uses a lasso for catching wild cattle. The jelly-fish uses its lasso in quite a different manner, but it may be equally unfailing.

When examined, each lasso cell, or little sac, is found to contain a long slender thread, coiled within it, somewhat like a lasso, and floating in a fluid. The cell is filled so full of the fluid that it bursts with the slightest touch, and as the fluid squirts out, it carries with it the slender lasso armed with sharp stings. In this way lassoes are darted out to capture many little crabs or fish that brush too near in passing.

Fig. 3.—Jelly-Fish, showing Tentacles.

The sting of the lasso seems to paralyze the unfortunate creatures, and they make no effort to escape as the tentacles coil round them and carry them to the mouth of the greedy jelly-fish. In Fig. 2 you will see a group of lasso cells highly magnified. The cell at a has not yet burst, and through its thin walls we see the barbed dart at the end of the lasso. At b the lasso has been thrown out only a short distance, while at c the long slender lasso still carries the dart at the end, and the curious little bladder is[Pg 436] much larger than it was inside the cell. The lasso cells of this specimen are exceedingly delicate and simple, but in some animals the lasso may be seen coiled within the cell; and when thrust out it bristles with sharp stings. Is it not a dainty weapon to be used in the continual warfare carried on by these innocent-looking creatures? Small as the lasso cells are, they serve to protect the soft-bodied animals from their numerous enemies.

Jelly-fish would hot hesitate in the least to use these tiny weapons upon us if we should touch their soft, pretty tentacles with too much familiarity. The irritation produced in the flesh by the numerous sharp points on the lassoes is similar to the stinging of nettles. For this reason jelly-fish are often called sea-nettles. The correct name, however, which you will find in scientific books, is "Medusæ."

Jelly-fish vary greatly in size. Some are mere dots, so extremely small that we should not notice them in the water, while one species is said to be seven feet in diameter, with tentacles measuring fifty feet (Fig. 3). The parent of this huge jelly-fish was a hydroid only half an inch high. Its children will be the same. What do you think its grandchildren will be?

Fig. 4.—Mushrooms of the Sea.

The size of jelly-fish is greatly enlarged by the water they absorb; indeed, the substance of which they are composed consists largely of water. A specimen weighing several pounds when alive will shrink away to almost nothing if exposed to the sun and the wind. As the body contains no bones or other solid matter, it all perishes together, and no trace is left of its former beautiful shape. You will see that jelly-fish are in no way like real fish. One writer found them so much like a familiar vegetable that he called them "Mushrooms of the Sea."

It would be impossible to describe to you the varied colors of jelly-fish, as they include almost every hue, the beautiful tints being probably due to their transparency. Some are purely white and as clear as glass, while all shades are to be found, from pale blue and pink, to bright red and yellow. Those found in tropical seas are of a deeper color than ours.

In striking contrast with these brilliant jelly-fish is one species which is so delicate and transparent that as it floats upon the water we can scarcely see the substance of which it is composed. The only parts that strike the eye are the circular tube around the edge and the four radiating tubes with their large clusters of eggs. The tubes look as if they were held together by some slight web. The movements of this jelly-fish are languid, and it sometimes remains perfectly quiet in the bright sunshine for hours, not even moving its tentacles.

Fig. 5.—Fixed Jelly-Fish.

You have probably noticed a great difference in the movements of people. So with jelly-fish: some are much more active and energetic than others. While some kinds appear to delight in darting through the water, until one might suppose from their frisky motions that they are having a great deal of fun and frolic, others prefer to make no exertion, and to drift idly with the waves. There have even been found "fixed jelly-fish" (Fig. 5)—those so fond of a settled resting-place that they have put out suckers by which they attach themselves permanently to some rock or stone.

Although jelly-fish are so brilliant in the daytime, they have a different beauty at night, when they throw out a golden light slightly tinged with green, resembling the light of a glow-worm. Vast numbers of small animals in the sea have this power of throwing out light from their bodies. The light is called phosphorescence. As it may be seen at anytime of the year illuminating air oceans, it is an unfailing source of delight to voyagers. It is most conspicuous on a dark night, when the water is agitated by the motion of a boat, or by the breaking-waves, because the disturbance of the water excites the little animals.

A pail of sea-water carried into a dark room often affords a good opportunity for studying this interesting phenomenon. Although we may not have detected the presence of any animals before, as soon as the water is stirred or jostled we will see the beautiful sparkles of light. The phosphorescence of some animals is of a bluish tint; in others it is red, like flame.

A person will rarely tire of watching a boat as its prow[Pg 437] turns up a furrow of liquid fire, and each dip of the oar sends a miniature flash of lightning through the otherwise dark water. It fills us with wonder to think of the countless millions of little creatures required to produce these marvellous effects all over the ocean, and wherever the restless waves break in lines of light, either upon tropical shores or ice-bound rocks.

Crabbe, the English poet, has given us the description of a phosphorescent sea:

"And now your view upon the ocean turn,
And there the splendor of the waves discern;
Cast but a stone, or strike them with an oar,
And you shall flames within the deep explore;
Or scoop the stream phosphoric as you stand,
And the cold flumes shall flash along your hand;
When, lost in wonder, you shall walk and gaze
On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze."

FALSE COLORS.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

"It's to be what I call fun."

This from Mattie Blake, the eldest of the party, sitting on the bed, and dangling her feet idly.

"Rather risky," said little Joan in her shy voice.

"Risky! how absurd!" Bella Jones exclaimed. And finally I broke in with:

"What will Philip Sydney think of us?"

Mattie, with the superiority of her years, looked very scornfully upon my small figure.

"Philip Sydney will be there, himself, and you may be sure he will be delighted. Now come, Cecilia, don't make any new objections. Remember you promised me last night;" and Mattie's black eyes flashed angrily.

We all remained silent for two or three moments, while the dusk of the spring afternoon gathered in the room. It was a big bare-looking room, with our four beds and four dressing-tables and four chairs, but to my mind the scene of much that was fascinating in our school life at Hillbrow, for there Mattie Blake entertained us on every occasion with thrilling experiences, in which she was usually the successful and admired heroine. Nothing could have been more monotonous than our daily school life, and these hours and Mattie's recitals were looked forward to with romantic interest.

Looking back, I remember Mattie as a tall, thin, black-eyed girl of about fourteen, with saucy, independent ways, and a touch of what I now know was a vulgar love of show about her. In her dress, her profuse jewelry, her crimped hair, and her voice and laugh, she was not really the fine young person we girls thought her. From her own accounts, she led the most bewitching life at home. Her father was a rich railroad man—a widower, who left Mattie to her own devices; and when she descended one winter's morning into our midst she seemed to bring splendor and riches and excitement with her.

How she had happened to select me as a desirable acquaintance I can not say, but the fact was soon known to the school. Mattie's favor was bestowed upon my insignificant self, and I was delighted to be her humble servitor. My own little past seemed very tame in comparison with Mattie's: she had "fun" of the most daring, brilliant kind whenever she was at home; I had led a thoroughly childish life, yet there had been much pleasure in it too; but who could compare it with Mattie's?

My father was a country clergyman, and on my mother's death, dear, dear Aunt Anna had come to live with us, and to make our home very sweet and happy. But for Mattie's influence not a shadow would have fallen on my enjoyment of home pleasures and home duties; but during this one season she had sowed seeds of discontent. Already I was beginning to dread a return to Bridgeley, even though I knew the pleasures that were waiting for me: the rides on my pony, with Philip and Laura Sydney, the Squire's son and daughter; the long days out fishing and sailing; the picnics and the girls' sewing circle; the evenings at home, with papa to read aloud to us; and the quiet sunny Sunday mornings, when I liked to stand beside Miss Sydney at the organ, and hear my voice mingling with the rest in sweet, simple songs of praise to God.

No, Mattie Blake had cast her spell: I wanted to go home with her to North Erie to see "Bob" and "Jim," of whom she talked so much and so foolishly; to ride out[Pg 438] to the "Lake"; to dance at the "Bell House," and to stay up until daybreak whenever I chose. And what would papa and Aunt Anna and Philip and Laura think of my latest ambition—the scheme which had brought us together on this afternoon, a thrilled little circle about Mattie, who had been the originator of it?

It was as follows:

The boys—or should I say "young gentlemen"?—of Barnabas Academy, some six miles distant, had sent us invitations to their "Prize Day": invitations promptly declined by our principal, Miss Harding; for although the day was to be a holiday with us, Miss Harding did not approve of its being spent in the Academy among a party of boys unknown to our friends, and who were always trying to make us break some of our rules. Two or three girls were going with their parents, but our party in "No. 6" had no such opportunity. Vainly had Mattie rebelled. Miss Harding was firm. Then there had entered into the girl's wild head a plan, which she unfolded to us with all her usual eloquence and dramatic energy. We were to get off early in the day on some pretext, and, once out of sight, make our own way to the Academy. Then, as we were invited guests, no one would be the wiser, and as our school was to break up the next day, the chances were that no one would ever betray us to Miss Harding.

"By the time we are back next fall," said Mattie, "it will all be forgotten; and I'll tell you what, girls, Bob and Jim will give us a splendid time. Just you leave it to me."

We trembled, half with fear, half with admiration of Mattie's daring. What were we three mites against her? And then to see the Bob and Jim of her fascinating romances! Bob was described as "perfectly elegant," and Jim was always depicted as "simply superb—one of the most splendid fellows you ever saw." While we talked it over for the last time, I happened to see my own figure and little brown face in the glass, while near it was reflected Mattie's fine brown silk gown, her frizzles and bracelets and rings.

"But, Mattie," I said, suddenly, "how can I go? I've nothing to wear."

"Humph! Let me think," she said, slowly, and added, with her usual impressive air, "Just wait until to-night."

When that decisive period came, it appeared that Mattie had decided to lend me one of her own costumes. It was a last year's white muslin, trimmed with Valenciennes lace, and so much finer than anything I had ever owned that I was completely carried away by the prospect of wearing it. It is true that for a few minutes my sense of refinement was disturbed. In our simple home we would never have dreamed of borrowing any finery.

"Oh, Mattie!" I said, timidly, "I never wore any one else's things. What would papa say?"

Mattie laughed shrilly. "Don't be a goose!" she exclaimed. "Think of my wondering what my father would say to anything I did!"

And so the matter was settled, and by the time I had tried on the muslin dress and a Roman sash, and tied some of Mattie's beads around my neck, I felt no misgivings, and went to bed in high spirits.

And so the 18th of June dawned, and found Mattie waking me up to see what a fine day it was.

"Bella and Joan have backed out," she said, disdainfully. "But I've made them promise not to tell of us. Now, Cecy, you leave the getting away to me. When eleven o'clock strikes, you leave the school-room, slip up here and dress, and put your duster over your dress, while I'm with Miss Harding. Then just march down coolly to the front hall, and you'll see."

"I SEE MYSELF HURRYING INTO MATTIE'S DRESS."

How perfectly I can recall that morning! I see myself now hurrying into Mattie's dress, tying on the sash and beads, and then slipping guiltily down to the front hall, which was quite deserted, and where I stood for a moment trembling, yet excited and happy. And then Mattie appeared from a side door, caught my hand, and putting her finger on her lips, hurried me out, down the garden, and into the road.

Just below the school garden we came upon a rockaway, in which a young girl, very like Mattie in general style, and a tall boy of sixteen were seated.

"Hello!" the boy called out, and Mattie, looking very delighted, said:

"Here's Cecilia Martin, I told you I'd bring. This is Mr. Bob Rivers, Cecilia, and Miss Rivers."

Then this was Bob! I looked, trying to admire; but Bob was not like Philip Sydney in any way. He was stout and red-faced, and decorated like a young man of fashion; and Kate Rivers was a pert miss of fourteen, quite unlike my dear Laura.

These two, it appeared, had arranged with Mattie, and we were to drive with them to the Academy.

After all it seemed like "fun." Anyway, it was one of Mattie's dazzling experiences; so we got in, I feeling quite finely, and prepared to enter into the spirit of everything. Bob drove, and we girls sat inside.

[to be continued.]

MR. THOMPSON AND THE SWALLOWS.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

Mr. Thompson was sitting in the barn belonging to the farm where he had been spending the summer. He looked very disconsolate, and from time to time heaved such deep sighs as to greatly disturb the family of swallows who had their nest against the beam just above his head.

Poor Mr. Thompson had had a hard time all summer. First of all, he had met Miss Angelina, who had captured his heart; and everybody knows that the most miserable object on earth is an old bachelor in love.

"Oh, had I wings of a bird, I would fly—" murmured Mr. Thompson to himself.

"Course you would," interrupted a saucy voice.

Mr. Thompson looked up. On the edge of the mud nest just above his head sat a bright-looking barn-swallow, eying him curiously.

"Where would you fly to?" inquired the swallow.

"Away from this world of care," murmured Mr. Thompson.

The swallow laughed heartily.

"Well, I guess not; but you can try, if you want to."

Mr. Thompson felt himself begin to shrink, and saw his clothes slowly disappear and become changed into feathers. But he was getting so used to these metamorphoses that he didn't mind it, and really gazed upon himself with satisfaction as finally he felt that he was a perfect swallow.

"Come up here," said the swallow.

Mr. Thompson stretched his wings, and fluttered up to the nest beside his friend.

"How do you like it?" inquired the swallow.

"It is glorious," replied Mr. Thompson. "Oh, that I could always be a bird!"

"Humph!" replied the bird. "How would you like to have to build your house every spring, going and coming a hundred times a day with your mouth full of mud?"

"But the glorious feeling of freedom!" said Mr. Thompson.

"Oh yes," answered the swallow, sarcastically. "Come with me; I'll show you."

The two flew out of the barn, and after wheeling around for a few minutes, flew up to a large vane on top of the carriage-house. Mr. Thompson had often seen the swallows perched on this vane, twittering and fighting among themselves. This morning he had a feeling of elation at being there himself, and shook his wings proudly. Bang![Pg 439] whiz! the shot flew around him, and two of his companions fell fluttering to the ground. Just then he heard two boyish voices exclaim,

"It's awful hard to hit a swaller on the wing, but you can shoot 'em sittin' like pie."

Mr. Thompson and his friend were uninjured; and as they flew away in alarm, the bird said, in an ironical tone, "Such a feeling of freedom!"

Mr. Thompson said nothing, but flew back to the barn. After resting for a moment, the swallow said, "Let's go up to the Sound and visit my cousins, the bank-swallows."

Mr. Thompson followed the bird, and skimmed over the fields, snapping up a fly or two by the way, until they reached the high sand-cliffs which border Long Island Sound. Here, high up on the cliffs, were a number of small round holes; flying about them, and darting out and in were a number of small gray birds; sitting on a fence rail not far off were nearly a hundred more solemnly sunning themselves.

"I'll introduce you to one of them, and he will show you around," said Mr. Thompson's friend.

After the introduction had been effected, the bank-swallow said, in an inquiring tone, "You are interested in birds?"

"Yes," said Mr. Thompson; "theirs is so glorious and free a life."

The swallow smiled pityingly; then, as if to change the subject, invited Mr. Thompson to visit his house. It was high up under the overhanging edge of the cliff.

The swallow led the way, and Mr. Thompson followed through a corridor about a foot long, and slanting slightly upward in order that the rain would not drive into the nest. At the end of the corridor was a circular apartment, lined with feathers and sea-weed, and here sat Mrs. Bank-Swallow upon four speckled eggs. Mr. Thompson did not wish to disturb her, so he retreated soon after having been introduced. His companion led the way back to the rail upon which the barn-swallow was seated, waiting. After a slight pause, Mr. Thompson inquired, "May I ask what you find to eat up here?"

"Certainly," replied the bank-swallow, good-naturedly. "During the summer we eat grubs, flies, mosquitoes, and the like; in the fall, when the bayberries are ripe, we eat them. You know each berry is covered with a coating of vegetable wax, and we get very fat; then people shoot us, for they say the berries give us a delicious flavor," added he, bitterly.

Mr. Thompson sighed, and was lost for a moment in reverie, when he was suddenly aroused by his companions suddenly screaming, "A hawk!"

Mr. Thompson followed the barn-swallow, too frightened to know where, for as he turned back he saw the hawk pounce upon an unfortunate bird, and bear it off in his claws.

When they reached the house again, the swallow said, "Well, do you think that the life of a bird is unalloyed pleasure?" Mr. Thompson paused for a moment, and the swallow continued: "First, there are the boys who steal the eggs, then they shoot at you; then there are the hawks, and the snakes, and the cats."

"Cats?" inquired Mr. Thompson.

"Yes, cats!" screamed the swallow in alarm, fluttering away. Mr. Thompson was too late. He felt the sharp claws in his leg, and with a jump and a scream he awoke, to find himself sitting in the barn, with the big house cat standing beside him, and looking somewhat surprised at his sudden movement. Slowly Tabby lifted her paw, and putting it on Mr. Thompson's knee, stretched herself lazily. 'Lisha, who was feeding the horses, remarked: "Reckon it's goin' to rain; the swallers fly low, and it's a great sign of rain when a cat stretches like that."

Mr. Thompson walked slowly to the house, thinking that, after all, the bird's life was not all happiness.

A PRINCELY ART.

BY SHERWOOD RYSE.

It is not much more than a hundred years since gentlemen gave up wearing rapiers at their sides—a practice which was once as common as is that of carrying a cane among us. And with a weapon so handy, it can easily be believed that it was drawn on very slight provocation. Hence every gentleman who valued a whole skin was diligent to make himself a master of the small-sword, as it was generally called. Small it was originally, however, only by comparison with more formidable weapons. Richard Cœur de Lion's sword, you will remember, was so large and heavy that none other than himself could wield it.

In the reign of the haughty Queen Elizabeth, the rapier, only lately introduced into England, was so much in fashion that he was the greatest dandy who wore the longest rapier and the widest "ruff." Queen Bess herself set the fashion in ruffs, but the flattery of imitation was not dear to her. She loved flattery; but to have every one copying her large ruffs—and who ever saw a picture of Elizabeth without one?—was more than her quick temper could put up with. And so she issued one of those orders which seem so strange to us now: she stationed "grave persons" at the gate of every town to break the points of all rapiers exceeding one yard in length, and to cut all ruffs measuring more than the "nayle of a yard."

Skill with the small-sword was a necessary part of the education of a gentleman. At the age when the boy of our day is just about opening his Latin grammar for the first time, the young prince or noble of two hundred years ago was being taught the art of longe and parry, of tierce and carte. And besides the usefulness of being skillful with a weapon which every gentleman carried and was ready to use at short notice, the practice of fencing gave an easy carriage to the body, making the joints supple, and strengthening every muscle.

The art of fencing, says an old French comedy, consists of two simple things—to hit, and not to be hit; but like a great many other simple things, its simplicity takes a vast deal of finding out. Each position, whether for thrust or parry, is easy by itself, but when your thrust is quickly parried, and the point of your opponent's foil is reaching for your breast quick as thought, then the cool head, the quick eye, the ready hand, are brought into play. The first thing for the beginner to do after equipping himself for the contest—and about this we shall have a few words to say later on—is to master the proper position. In no exercise is position of greater importance. Let the right side of your body be half turned toward your adversary; feet at right angles, with the left foot pointing to the left, and placed behind the right. The foil is held in the left hand, down by your side. Grasping it by the hilt with the right hand, you draw it through the left hand, at the same time raising both hands so that by the time the point of your foil comes into your left hand both hands are above your head, the one holding the hilt and the other the point of the foil.

From this position you will easily and gracefully fall into the third position, "on guard," by bringing your sword-hand down in front of you, and bending your elbow until the fore-arm and the sword make one straight line. The left arm will remain where it was. While you are doing this, bend the knees, and advance the right foot about twelve inches, sinking down only just so far as that the shin-bone of the right leg shall be perpendicular to the floor. This position is the position of defense, and is always returned to after a thrust.

Thus far you have maintained an attitude of defense only, and if you have mastered that, you have laid the foundation of your future skill. Watch your adversary's eye, and decide instantly when you will thrust, or longe,[Pg 440] as it is called. Straightening the right arm, you advance the right foot about eighteen inches, taking care not to lean forward so far that the shin-bone makes anything less than a right angle with the floor. If you get up from the seat where you are sitting to read this, and try the movement, you will see why this right angle formed by leg and floor is important. Lean too far forward, and you can not spring back instantly and without effort to the position of defense, and thus you are at the mercy of your opponent, who will quickly parry your blow, and be able to reach you almost without advancing his right foot. Instantly after longeing you must spring back, in order to be able to parry the longe of your adversary.

In longeing, as in the "on-guard" position, the nails of the sword-hand must be turned up. This may seem a trifle, but in reality it is of the greatest importance, since the force and directness of the blow depend upon it. Try it with a cane, and you will at once feel how much firmer your wrist is than when you thrust with your nails turned down. To prove it another way: do the stroke with a long poker, and see how much easier it is to extend the poker and hold it extended with your nails turned up than when they are turned down.

There are four thrusts in fencing, and twice as many parries; that is, there are two parries for each thrust. The object of this is that having parried a thrust, you may at once return the blow; and were you always to parry the same kind of thrust in the same manner, you would always be obliged to attack in the same manner. The difference between the two kinds of parries for each thrust is that one is done with the nails turned up, the other with them turned down. Thus, having parried a thrust, the hand is in one of two positions for making a return thrust.

The various thrusts and parries are too large a subject to be gone into here. The thrust, however, it may be remarked, is always some kind of a longe, and in parrying the one sword does not beat the other aside, but simply turns it by a turn of the wrist. The idea of the parry may be gathered from the fact that the point of the foil always describes a circle of not more than three feet in diameter in the air. Thus the adversary's point is turned aside from its object.

The art of fencing is so difficult to learn without a master that it is useless for any one to attempt by himself to do more than acquire skill in the simpler movements; and it is so graceful an accomplishment that if it is worth doing, it is worth doing well.

A YOUNG PRINCE PRACTICING THE ART OF FENCING.

Without attempting, therefore, to go into all the mysteries of tierce and carte, of ripost and reprise, we will add a few words which an instructor might omit. In the first place, never cross your blade with any one who is not dressed for the exercise. He may say he will take his chances of getting hurt, but you can not afford to take the chance of putting out his eye. The proper armor to wear is a padded leather jacket, a gauntlet on the right hand, a piece of padded leather on the right thigh, and a wire mask over the head. Secondly, never use any but a good and sound foil, and see that the button is firm: many accidents have been caused by a broken foil or an unsafe button. Lastly—and though this applies to all games, it is perhaps more necessary in small-sword exercise than in anything else—remember that the coolest head always goes with the quickest eye and the surest hand.

[Pg 441]

"THEY PULLED WITH A WILL WHEN THE WORD WAS GIVEN."

PERIL AND PRIVATION.

BY JAMES PAYN.

THE LOSS OF THE "HALSEWELL."

On Sunday, the 1st of January, 1786, the Halsewell, a vessel of 758 tons burden, bound for the East Indies, sailed through the Downs with a fair wind and under exceptionally favorable circumstances. She had a well-tried commander, Captain Pierce, good officers, and a numerous crew. To these were added a considerable number of soldiers of "John Company," as the East India Company was called, so that security seemed assured both by sea and land.

There were, moreover, several lady passengers aboard, most of whom were known to one another, including the daughters of the Captain, two of his cousins, and one still younger lady, Miss Mansell, returning from a school in England to her parents in Madras. The chief[Pg 442] mate too was related to Captain Pierce, so that the company in the chief cabin was almost a family party.

On Monday very thick weather came on, so that the ship was compelled to anchor, and on Tuesday a gale arose that obliged her to cut her cables and run out to sea. The gale grew to a tempest, which continued for three days, and on Friday night the ship ended her voyage.

At two in the morning of that day she was driving to her doom on the sharp rocks between Peverel Point and St. Alban's Head, in Dorsetshire. These rocks run sheer down to the sea, so that to approach them even in fine weather is fraught with danger.

There is a story told by the great humorist Thomas Hood of a terrible scene on board ship, when every one was running about distracted with fear, save one cheerful old lady. "There is nothing whatever to be alarmed at," she said, when some one asked her how it was she showed such courage, "for the Captain has just told me we are 'running on shore.'" To her the land seemed like safety. And so it doubtless was with some of the poor ladies on board the Halsewell.

The Captain, as they drove nearer the rocky shore on that awful night, consulted with his second mate, Mr. Meriton, as to their chances of escape, and especially with reference to his daughters.

"We can do nothing, sir, but wait for the morning," was the sad reply; and even while he spoke the ship struck with a violence that dashed the heads of those standing in the cuddy, as the saloon in an Indiaman was called, against the deck above them.

A frightful scene followed. The sailors had acted ill throughout the storm, and, skulking in their hammocks, had compelled their officers and the soldiers, who behaved admirably, to man the pumps; but now that the catastrophe, which they might have helped to avert, was upon them, they exhibited a frantic fear.

The ship lay beating against the rocks, with her broadside toward them, and the Captain's advice was that each man should take what opportunity should offer itself to reach the land. The ensign staff was accordingly unshipped, and laid between the ship's side and a rock; but it snapped asunder with the weight of the first man who attempted to cross, so that there was nothing for the rest to do but to drop into the raging sea, and trust to the waves to carry them to the unknown shore.

This desperate attempt, made by a number of the men, was of course impossible for the ladies, who with the passengers, three black women, and two soldiers' wives, had collected in the roundhouse upon deck to the number of no less than fifty. The Captain, whose use was gone in these dreadful straits, sat on a cot with a daughter upon each side, whom he alternately pressed to his breast. The scene was indescribably mournful. Mr. Meriton procured a quantity of wax candles, and stuck them about the place in which it was their hope to wait for dawn; then perceiving that the poor women were parched with thirst, he brought a basket of oranges, with which they refreshed themselves. This was the last meal they were ever to take on earth.

At this time they were all tolerably composed, except Miss Mansell, who lay sobbing upon the floor. Mr. Meriton thought he perceived that the sides of the ship were visibly giving way; that her deck was lifting, and that consequently she could not much longer hold together.

On leaving the roundhouse to see whether his suspicions were correct, they received a terrible confirmation. The ship had separated in the middle, and not a moment was to be lost in seizing the slender chance of saving his life. As a great sea struck the ship the poor ladies cried out: "Oh, poor Meriton, he is drowned! Had he staid with us he would have been safe." Whereupon Mr. Rogers, another officer, offered to go and look for him. This they opposed, lest he should share the same fate.

Rogers and the Captain, however, went out with a lantern, but being able to see nothing but the black face of the perpendicular rock, the Captain returned to his daughters, and was no more seen. A very heavy sea struck the ship, and burst into the roundhouse, and Mr. Rogers heard the ladies shriek at intervals until the water drowned their voices.

He seized a hen-coop, and was carried by a wave on to a rock, where it left him, miserably bruised, in the company of no less than one hundred and twenty-four persons, among whom he found Mr. Meriton. The meeting between these two was very touching, for they were old friends, and had just survived a calamity, little less terrible, in another Indiaman, between which event and their present peril an interval of only twenty-five days had elapsed. They were prevented, however, from the interchange of mutual congratulations by at least twenty men between them, none of whom could move without imperilling his life.

They were, in fact, on the ledge of a cavern overhung by the precipice, as closely packed and with as little room to move in as those sea-birds which we often see clustered on some ridge of rock. The full horror of their situation was, however, hid from them. They could not even see the ship they had just quitted, though in a few minutes a universal shriek, which long vibrated in their ears, and in which the voice of female agony was plainly distinguishable, informed them that she had gone to pieces. Not one atom of the wreck of the Halsewell was ever afterward beheld.

This terrible incident gave such a shock to the poor trembling wretches on the ledge that many of them, being already unnerved and weak from bruises, lost their feeble hold, and fell upon the rocks below. Their groans and cries for succor increased the misery of the survivors. After three hours, which seemed as many ages, the daylight broke, and revealed the fact that unless aid was given from the cliff above them, escape was impossible, while the total disappearance of the ship left no evidence of their position, their guns and signals of distress through the night having been unheard by reason of the roaring of the gale.

The only hope of escape was to creep along the ledge to its extremity, and then, on a ridge nearly as broad as a man's hand, to turn a corner, and then scale a precipice almost perpendicular and two hundred feet in height! Such was the courage of their despair that even this was essayed. What with fear and fatigue, many lost their footing, and perished in the attempt. The cook and quarter-master alone succeeded in reaching the cliff top, and at once hastened to the nearest house.

This chanced to be the residence of the steward of the Purbeck stone quarries, who instantly collected his workmen, and furnished them with ropes. Next to the two men who had escaped, and after an interval in which many must have failed, a soldier and Mr. Meriton were trying to make their way to the summit, as the quarrymen arrived. They perceived the soldier, and dropped him a rope, of which he laid hold, but in the effort loosened the stone on which he stood, which also supported Mr. Meriton. The latter, however, seized another rope as he was in the very act of falling. He had probably the narrowest escape of all.

The perils of the rest were by no means at an end. The most fortunate crawled to the edge of the ledge and waited for the rope held by two strong men at the very brink of the cliff. Other ropes were tied about them and fastened to an iron bar fixed in the ground. Four other men, standing behind these, also held the rope which was let down, and we may be sure that they pulled with a will when the word was given.

Many of the poor shipwrecked souls, however, were too benumbed and weak to help themselves even thus far;[Pg 443] and for these the rope, with a strong loop at the end of it, had to be let down. The force of the wind blew the rope into the cavern, when whoever was so fortunate as to catch it put the noose round his body and was drawn up. Many even of these perished from nervousness or loss of presence of mind. One especially, who lost his hold, fell into the sea, and being a strong swimmer, added to the general distress by dying, as it were, by inches before the eyes of the survivors.

It was evening before they found themselves in safety; indeed, one poor fellow, a soldier, remained in this perilous position until the next morning. On being mustered at the steward's house, they were found to number seventy-four out of a crew of two hundred and fifty.

They were treated with the utmost hospitality, and word of their coming was sent to the towns through which they would have to pass on their way to London, that they might be helped along. "It is worthy of commemoration," says the biographer, in which all my readers will agree, "that the landlord of the Brown Inn at Blandford not only refreshed all these distressed seamen at his house, but presented each with half a crown."

As one lies on the cliff-top above Peverel Point in the summer sun, with the blue sea below smiling so smoothly, it is difficult to imagine what took place in that unseen cavern beneath, or even the tears of joy which were shed by those who, after such a night of horror, set foot for the first time upon that grassy slope.

THE SPECKLED PIG.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

"I'm glad spring's come," remarked Grandmother Gates, as she looked out through the kitchen window, "if it's only so that boy can spend his time out-of-doors. There isn't any house can hold him."

"What, Bun?" said Aunt Dorcas, while the skimmer in her hand was dripping over the soap-kettle. "He's all spring and India rubber. What's he doing now?"

"Doing?" said grandmother. "I'd say so! If he hasn't rigged some leathers and strings, and he's trying to harness that little speckled pig into his wagon. Can't you hear the pig squeal?"

"He's always a-squealing," said Mrs. Gates, from the milk-room. She was a large, motherly looking woman; but now she hurried to the door, and shouted, "Audubon, my son, what are you doing to that poor critter?"

"Why, mother, spring's come, and it's time he did something. I can drive him if I can once get him harnessed. He's half in now; but he does just plunge around!"

The speckled pig was a small one, truly, and he was well acquainted with Bun Gates; but his present occupation was new to him. The wagon matched him fairly well as to size, and it was only a little too plain that he had strength enough to haul it anywhere the moment he should have a fair chance. The best he could do at that moment was to make music, and his voice was uncommonly clear and shrill.

"Dorcas! mother!" exclaimed Mrs. Gates, "do come here and look at that boy."

"I see him," said grandma, but Aunt Dorcas put down her skimmer, and came to the door just as another boy, a head shorter than Bun, trotted up the garden walk to see what was the matter with the pig.

"Harnessed! harnessed! Oh, what a horse! I'll get in for a ride."

"Jump in, Jeff," said Bun. "You take the reins that belong to his head, and I'll hold on to the rein that goes to his hind-leg. We'll break him in."

Jeff was hardly more than eight years old, while his stoutly built and chubby elder brother was at least thirteen. There was "boy" enough in either of them, but the "spring" was tremendously developed in Bun. He was so full of it that he could hardly stand still. Neither could the pig stand still, and while the women at the kitchen door and window were laughing until the tears came into their eyes, the speckled unfortunate was dodging in every direction in a desperate effort to regain his freedom. Bun had deceived him when he enticed him from the barn-yard. The gate through which he had consented to be driven was well known to Speckle as leading into the garden, and all the free rooting to be desired of any pig could be had there. He had marched through the gate meekly enough, and he had looked over the "promised land," with its neatly kept walks and beds, and with all its green things just coming up, and yet here he was with a rope still restraining his hind-leg and a queer net-work of pig harness all over him. No part of that harness worked as a muzzle, and Speckle did what he could with his voice to express his opinion of the matter.

"Don't you let him get away from you," said Aunt Dorcas. "There's no telling what he'd do."

Jeff was in the wagon now, and grandmother was on the point of remarking, "Do?—why, he might run away with that there child, and break his precious neck," when the precise help Bun Gates was wishing for came hurrying through the front gate.

"What you got there, Bun? I'm a-coming. Hold him."

"You hold the shaft on that side, Rube, till we get him aimed right. I want to point him for the front gate, and drive him into the street. We'll have more room there to train him."

"Biggest kind of an idea ever was," said Rube. "I saw a learned pig once. He could play checkers, and count twenty. Smoke a pipe too. He was bigger'n this one."

"This one knows more'n most people now."

"Can't he squeal, though!"

"Audubon," said Mrs. Gates, "I want you to go to the store for me pretty soon. You'll have to take your wagon."

"All right," said Bun.

"Stand back, Rube. Hold on tight, Jeff. He'll make things rattle. Look, mother!"

She looked, and so did Grandmother Gates and Aunt Dorcas, but it was half a minute before there was anything to see, and Bun punched his queer "horse" with a long stick to set him going. A short sharp grunt replied to the punch, and suddenly the speckled pig made a plunging dart forward, and the wagon went with him.

"See!" shouted Bun. "That harness is just beautiful. It pulls first-rate. He'll go anywhere."

The pig felt about it in that way exactly, and the only drawback, so far as he was concerned, was the strong cord that was so well knotted around his left hind-leg. It had been a very strong cord in its day, and it was so now in many places, but there was about an inch of it, not a foot away from the pig's leg, that had seen its best and cordiest days. It was frayed and worn out and weak, and it had been severely tested all that morning. Fibre after fibre and strand after strand had given way, until now it needed but one more long, strong, willful tug with a boy pulling one way and an angry pig another, and the cord parted at its weak spot.

His first rush was straight forward for several yards; but the wagon did not seem to hinder him at all, even with Jeff pulling his best upon the "reins." He would have had to pull that pig's head nearly off before he could have stopped him in that manner, and it was fastened on too strongly.

"Stop him!" shouted Jeff. "He's running away; he's dodging."

That meant that he was making a sudden wheel across the grass-plot, under the big cherry-tree, and that brought him in full view of the garden.

The pig knew where he wanted to go now, and he[Pg 444] sprang away in that direction with all his might and main. The boys were after him; but Rube's first attempt at heading him off only made him give so sudden a side rush that poor Jeff was pitched out, as the wagon keeled over, right into the middle of the raspberry bushes. The kick he gave as he landed set the wagon back on its wheels again, and it was easier running for the pig after that.

"OH, THAT PIG!"

"Oh, my son!" was all Mrs. Gates could say, and nobody could guess whether she meant Bun or Jeff; but Jeff himself was remarking at that very moment, "Oh, that pig!" and it was plain enough of whom he was speaking. Aunt Dorcas and Grandmother Gates were at the same instant, as with one united voice, saying the same words, and Aunt Dorcas added:

"The garden'll just be ruined. There he goes, right through the tomato plants, and they ain't but just been sot out."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Bun. "He's stopped in the spinach bed, and he's gone to rooting right away."

"Never mind," said Rube. "The wagon's all right. He might have broken that."

"We must get him out somehow."

Yes, that was precisely the task they had before them; but the pig was in the garden, and he knew it, and believed that he too had duties to perform. He could run, and he could dodge, and he could change work from one bed to another, but at any moment when he got at all away from those boys, he found uses for his long, busy, root-hunting nose.

Jeff crept out from among the raspberry bushes right away, and when his mother and the two other women reached that spot, he was able to answer them: "No, I ain't hurt a bit, but I'm scratched the worst kind. Oh, that pig!"

"Run, Jeff," said Aunt Dorcas, "and hold the barn-yard gate open. Don't let any other pigs get in. There are three more out of the pen. Must be Bun let 'em out when he went for that one."

The pig was now making a stand among the young beets; but suddenly an idea came to Bun, and he sprang forward. In an instant he was seated in the wagon, and was goading his victim with the sharp end of his long stick.

"Got him, Rube! I've got him, mother! He'll have to go now."

"Oh, my son! Yes, Dorcas, he's starting off. Look, mother; if he isn't pulling wagon and all!"

"He's going for the barn-yard gate, too," said Rube. "Punch him, Bun. We'll train him in the barn-yard."

Jeff was holding the gate open, but he was also shouting loudly at the other pigs, and it was an open question—as wide open as the gate itself—whether or not all three of them would not soon be at work in the garden. Very likely they would have been but for Bun's presence of mind in getting into the wagon. That puzzled the speckled pig, and the sharp stick made it worse for him. He saw the open gate, and he made a desperate rush for it. There was a deep drain furrow just before he reached it, and Bun was thinking, "He can't pull me over that," when the fore-wheels went down into it. The pig uttered the loudest squeal he had squealed all that morning as he struggled forward. The three women shouted in one breath, "Oh, Bun!"

Rube Hollenhauser stooped down to pick up a stone, and Bun punched harder than ever; but the pig had the best of it. That harness had not been calculated for any such strain. There was a faint snap, then another, and the pig was free.

He did not pause to look back at the garden he had lost, but he dashed wildly through the open gate, and Jeff banged it shut after him.

"Mother," said Bun, "I believe I can train him to draw."

"Draw?" exclaimed Aunt Dorcas. "He draws well enough now. The trouble is to steer him. What'll your father say to that garden?"

"I'll tell him my 'horse' ran away," said Bun.

"Well," said his mother, "don't you bring him into this yard again. Do your pig-training on the pigs' side of the fence. Come, now; it's time you went on your errand."

"Come on, Rube," remarked Bun. "We'll see about a better harness."

"May I go too?" asked Jeff. "I'm all scratched up."

"Come on, then. You may haul the wagon if you want to."

In a few minutes more they were all away up the street; but the speckled pig over in the barn-yard seemed to be in a manner grunting his morning's experiences for the information of his three relatives. Every now and then, too, one of them answered him with a grunt that seemed to have surprise in it, for neither of them had ever before heard of or from a pig in harness.

"SAIL A BOAT."

[Pg 445]

MOVING DAY.

[Pg 446]

.

How the Postmistress wishes, on these bright May mornings, that she could turn herself into a fairy godmother!

"What would she do then," do you ask?

Why, print ever so many more of the dear little letters, bright stories, and tangled puzzles which every day are dropped for her into Uncle Sam's great mail-bags by the children's hands.

Her heart almost aches sometimes when she has to put aside so many clever, amusing, and affectionate letters which can not possibly be crowded into Our Post-office Box. Still, the dear little folks are too sensible to be vexed at the Postmistress, when she can not possibly help herself. You all know she must try to be fair in her treatment of each of her host of correspondents.

When you have anything interesting to write, do not mind even though you may have sent two or three letters already and they have not appeared. Write again.

Now for a word to the Exchangers. I am sorry that several complaints have come about careless little people who forget, when they send their exchanges, to inclose plain directions as to where they live; and, worse still, stories have been told about some who appear to be dishonorable. I will not believe that a single boy who reads Young People ever willfully cheats another boy. I am sure this can not happen. But I fear that some lads do not attend as they ought to the standing notice at the head of our exchange list, and I think some may not be sufficiently careful to fully prepay the postage on their budgets, and so the pretty treasures and rare curiosities are sent away to the Dead-letter Office.

Please be very careful about this in future.

Charlie's letter has been waiting its turn a long time, but his pleasant way of telling about what he saw on the other side of the Atlantic has lost nothing of its freshness, while lying in the Postmistress's drawer:

New York City.

I went up to the top of Mount Vesuvius, and it burned my feet, and almost suffocated me with smoke. We were about three hours going up. First we rode in a carriage for two hours, and then we took a car, something like the car at Mount Washington, except that the engine did not go along with us, but was left at the station from which we started, and we were pulled up by a wire rope. When we got out of the car, mamma and papa were carried in chairs on men's shoulders, but as I am only nine years old, a man took me on his back and carried me up. I had been carried in Switzerland on a man's back before this, when we crossed the Mer de Glace (that is French for sea of ice). The man said I was a heavy boy, but I think I am not so fat now as then.

I brought home a lot of foreign coin and stamps and curiosities. A little girl gave me a bullet at Waterloo that she said she found in the field. I drove over the road that Napoleon built across the Alps, and saw at the house where the monks live the big dogs that go out and find travellers when lost in the snow. I like to read about Napoleon. I went to his tomb when we were in Paris; it is all built of marble, and the church too.

We had awful bad weather coming home, and I had a big pitcher of water thrown all over me when asleep in my berth.

Charlie P. R.

Carlinville, Illinois.

I would like to tell Wickie J. M., of Ann Arbor, about two little brothers who are as fond of playing marbles as he is. Their names are Harry and Louis W., of this place. I am Harry. Mamma does not think marbles a very nice game, because we wear such big holes in the knees of our pants and stockings. We don't intend to play it very often any more, but are trying to get a collection of pretty ones. I would like to take a peep into that bag of beautiful marbles of yours, Wickie. We never play keeps.

Louis is six and I am eight years of age. We both go to school, and take lessons on the piano. The only pets we have now are four little kittens, whose eyes are just open. We once had two rabbits, but they were killed by dogs. The mother of our little kittens is a beautiful tortoise-shell and white cat. She does not like children very much, but she catches rats and mice. She always wants mamma to notice her when she has a mouse, and when she can will bring it to her and purr and rub around her until she speaks to her.

There are apple-trees in our yard, and every spring a great many robins and other birds come and build in them. Louis and I often feed them. One day we put some bread in some empty cigar-boxes and set them on the ground for the birds; but they did not eat out of the boxes, so we emptied the bread off the ground, and very soon we saw a number of birds eating it. I think they did not like the smell of tobacco which was about the boxes. Last year two robins had a nest of young ones in one of the trees. The old cat killed the mother, and the father fed and took care of the little robins until they were grown. The cat killed so many birds last year that we had to keep her shut up in the chicken-coop a great deal of the time.

I must tell you that we have a dear little blue-eyed brother nearly three years old, named Willis, whom we all think lovelier and sweeter than any other pet.

Mamma wishes me to tell you of a few funny things that Louis has said. One day, when he was about five years old, mamma was teaching him his Sunday-school lesson, and she asked the question, "How did Adam and Eve feel when the angel drove them out of the garden?" He answered, "Dus spendid." He had been told a story of a little boy who was lost. After the parents and friends had searched the woods and town in vain, he was found in the hay-loft fast asleep. Louis said, "When a little boy is lost, you must always look in the hay-loft, for that is a specially place for boys." One very warm and dusty day, while at play, Louis in some way got the top of his head quite covered with dirt and ashes. When mamma saw it, she said, "Why, Louis, I believe I could plant potatoes on the top of your head." He said, "But you mustn't; for if you should, when I go up town everybody would say, 'Hello, garden!'"

I have not learned to write with a pen, and I suppose you will think my letter is not written very nicely. If it will do to put in the Post-office Box, it will surprise and please my papa very much to see it there.

Harry W.

If the four new kittens should resemble their mother, I'm afraid the robins will have to fly away from your apple-trees, Harry. Thank your mamma for remembering those nice stories about Louis. Next time she must tell us some of your droll little speeches.

LATE.

The minute-hand points to the quarter,
And Jennie is there at the gate;
The clock is too fast, I am certain—
It always is fast when I'm late.
There! Jennie has gone on without me.
Mean thing! pray why couldn't she wait?

Has any one seen my examples?
Please, mother, help look for my slate.
I wonder who last had the shoe-hook;
My pencil has dropped in the grate.
How everything hinders a person
So sure as a person is late!

Glendale, Ohio.

As I have never seen a letter from this place. I thought I would write one to Our Post-office Box.

We are to have our school picnic next month, and we shall have a Queen and King. We have not selected them yet, but intend doing so in about two weeks. We will have a May-pole dance and a band of music. All the scholars are looking forward to the day with great pleasure. I will write again after the picnic, and tell you all about it.

Carrie C.

Are the King and Queen chosen to their positions for their beauty, their scholarship, or their winning ways? I suppose the other pupils vote for them. Do you remember the story of "Susie Kingman's Decision," and has anything like it ever happened in your school? When I was a little girl I used to look forward to our May party just as you do. We elected our Queen and her Maids of Honor, but had no King, as our only boy school-mates were little fellows just tall enough to make the sweetest small pages you ever saw. The Queen's crown was a wreath of roses, and two of the girls carried it between them to the woods on a board.

Indianapolis, Indiana.

I am a little boy eight years old. I have taken your paper almost two years. I like every story in it, and think they are all good. I like to read the letters. I go to school every day, and am in the Third Reader, and like my teacher. Every time it rains very hard here White River overflows. This is the capital of the State, and they are building a new State-house of stone. They have been working on it for the last three years, and it will take them three more at least to finish it. I have but one pet, a bird, which we call Trouble, because he was so hard to raise. He is a very pretty singer. I would like to see this published, as it is the second letter I have written to you. My ma is writing this for me, as I am sick.

H. R. C.

It is a new idea to call a bird Trouble, after the trouble he gave, isn't it? It would be fair to change his name to Pleasure, now that he sings so well. I hope, dear, that you have by this time quite recovered from your illness.

Birdie M.—Please pardon me for not having sooner thanked you for the pretty daffodil which you sent in your letter all the way from Cherokee, Kansas. Now, to pay you for it, let me give you a pretty poem from the poet Wordsworth, to copy into your little book of extracts. In fact, I would be glad to hear that a great many of my little friends had done the same. It is a good plan to copy gems of thought from great authors into little books of our own. Even though you may not quite understand the poet's meaning in these verses, you will like their musical sound, and, believe me, that when you are older the meaning will be plain to you:

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company.
I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

A Little Boy's Composition.—The subject assigned by mamma was "Quadrupeds." Ernest retired to the attic, and wrote very patiently until he had finished this, which is not so bad for a first attempt:

"Quadrupeds are animals. Animals live on grass, hay, oats, bran, and water. A quadruped is anything that has four legs."

That was all Ernest could possibly think of. But mamma, who sends it, wants the children to say whether everything with four legs is, of course, a quadruped.

Here is another little composition, by a wee girlie, who writes about kittens:

"I have a little kitty, jet-black, full of frisking and fun, and I hope she will never get to be a dreadful old cat, and run away. She plays with my apron strings, and likes a red ball best of any. My sister Lucy, when she went to the store, asked the shoe man for a pair of shoes for a baby without any heels on. This is all I can write about kittens.

"Lottie (aged 8)."

Osakis, Minnesota.

My aunt sends me Young People, and I read it as soon as it comes from the Post-office. We live on the bank of the most beautiful lake in the world. The lake is twelve miles long, and is full of fish. Boat-riding and fishing are our chief amusements. I am the only girl in the family, and my papa says that I am the prettiest girl in the Northwest.

Lunetta E. C.

Don't let papa make you vain, dear. That would be a great misfortune, wouldn't it? Do you tell him that he is the best and handsomest papa in the whole United States? I am sure you think so.

Clarkstown, New York.

We thought we would like to tell about our pets. We each have a rabbit. One is black with a white breast, and the other two are white and gray. We give them apple-wood, and they peel the bark off so clean! We have two cats, both gray. One of them is very old; we call her Kitty Gray. The other is a kitten, and is named Christopher. He will run up my dress to fetch a piece of bread which I hold as high as I can. We have eight bantams; one of them is blind. We ourselves write a paper called "The Monthly Budget"; we compose it all. We like Young People very much. I am ten. Robert is eight, and Pauline is five. We can all read.

Marianne W.

Send me a copy of your "Budget," please. I would like to have a peep at it.

Huntington, West Virginia.

The boiler in a flour mill here blew up the other day. It lifted the large chimney away up in the air, and that came down with an awful crash. When the boiler blew up it shook all the houses near it. It blew the large water tank that was on the roof clear up into the air. Pieces of the boiler and engine were blown across the street.[Pg 447] Some bricks and large pieces of timber were blown over the street, and burst in the side of a house. There was a real large barrel factory that caught fire here, and the fire-engine worked from seven until eleven o'clock, but could not stop it, it had got under headway so much. It rained almost every day in the next week, but the fire kept on smoking. We have good teachers at our day school. I am ten years old, and study spelling, reading, arithmetic, grammar, and geography.

Charlie A. P.

What an exciting time you have had between the explosion and the fire! I am afraid you boys enjoyed the fun more than you thought about the calamities.

Not long ago I saw an explosion of a different kind. Some boys were playing marbles near my house, and a quarrel had arisen. One little man jumped up, shook his fist at another, and with blazing eyes said, "You just get me mad, now, and see what I'll do!" He looked as though he might turn into a torpedo on the spot. It made me think of a Bible verse which I like very much: "Better is he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city." I fear the angry boy had not learned that verse by heart, if, indeed, he had ever heard of it.

Grattan, Michigan.

Although I am thirteen years old, I am not too old to write to a young people's paper. I went to school in the winter, but just a week before school closed the school-house burned. My papa owns a hop yard, and in the fall we have a number of girls to pick hops. I like to pick quite well, but when the sun is hot the hops settle, and you don't get your box full so quickly. I have only two pets. One is a large, playful yellow-dog, and the other is a ferret. Her name is Jennie, and she is very nice. She looks very much like a weasel, only her fur is yellow and black. She likes bread and milk very much, and if we give her a cracker she will run and hide it. We can take a saucer of milk and hold it up a foot and a half from the floor, and she will jump and catch hold of the edge of the saucer and eat. I have taken Young People for about four months, and like it real well. This is the first letter I have ever written to a paper.

Ollie L. W.

So even a ferret appreciates kindness! It must be a pretty sight when the girls go out to pick the hops. I am sure they have a happy time over their work. Are they paid according to the number of boxes they fill in a day?

Josie E. L.—For a little girl still in the Primary Department your letter is very well written indeed. I hope the new Maltese kitten will be as cunning and as great a pet as the one that died.

Margaret S. S.—Your account of your travels almost took away my breath. Twice across the continent; twice from New York, by Panama, and thence by steamer, to San Francisco; and then, last summer in the Yosemite! You are a fortunate girl to have seen so many places. Well, dear, when you grow up you will have many pleasant and some droll things to remember, and you will not be a timid or fussy traveller, making every one around you uncomfortable. Your room must be very beautiful, decorated as you describe it. I presume your sister and you are both fond of natural history.

C. Y. P. R. U.

Effie D.—Pot-pourri is a French word which means a mixture. In music it is used to describe a piece or a series of pieces in which fragments of various melodies are oddly contrasted. But its prettier meaning, and the one which you will probably like to carry out for yourself, is that by which it was known to our grandmothers when they were young. The pot-pourri was a vase or jar into which rose petals, sprigs of lavender, bits of fern, and other delicate flowers were thrown, often with perfumes and essences, and all the year round it shed a faint sweetness through the parlor where it stood.

The Postmistress was much interested, not long ago, in the description given by an English lady residing in Pekin of the funeral of a Chinese Empress. The manners and customs of China are not at all like our own. Their way of showing their love and respect for the dead is quite different from ours, as you will see by reading about the procession which followed the lady Tung-tai-how to her resting-place in the Imperial Tombs. Her body was inclosed in a splendid coffin, and the tablet telling her name and the story of her life was hung in a niche in the Temple of Ancestors. The road to the Tombs was spread with yellow earth, and banners were hung across it at intervals, while blue cloth was festooned at crossings, and wherever there was danger that the curious eyes of the common people should peep at the tablet. In complete silence came the imperial umbrella, flag, and Sedan-chair, all of beautiful yellow satin. The chair containing the tablet was carried by eight bearers in crimson dresses with yellow spots. It was followed by a train of Mandarins in court dress, their garments glittering with embroidery. After them came a troop of spearmen, wearing yellow jackets with black sleeves, and bearing long slender lances.

On arriving at the Temple of Ancestors, which is within the palace, the procession was met by some of the ministers of state and the princes. The tablet was lifted to its place of honor, and then the ceremonies were over for the time, though offerings will be placed before it, as before the tablets of other ancestors, whenever any event of importance takes place in the royal family.

Perhaps some of you do not know that the Chinese worship their ancestors. They fancy that the souls of the dead linger around these tablets, and so they place food, clothing, and money near them. Even the poorest consider this a sacred duty. Every home has its tablets, if not its ancestral hall. It is their idea that the spiritual part only of the food is eaten by the dead, and so, after a while, most families use the rice and fruit themselves. Money and clothing are represented by paper, which, at stated periods, is very devoutly burned before the shrines.

Two Amusing Games.—By the same mail which brought the Postmistress a letter from the pupils of the Prairie Mound School, Watkins, Iowa, asking her to tell them of a nice game to play at recess, came another letter from St. Louis, Missouri, telling of two games. So what can be better than to let Olga answer the Prairie-Mounders? The Postmistress is sure they were thinking of games for rainy days. On fine days top, ball, I-spy, and tag usually enlist active boys and girls, and those are the best plays for them which give them wholesome exercise in the open air:

I have two very interesting games that may be played in-doors—one is called "Cross-Purposes," and the other is "The Cook who likes no Peas." The first is played in the following manner: One player goes around among the circle, and whispers in each one's ear an answer which he is to make to the next player who shall come after him asking questions. For instance, Charles goes around to Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4. To No. 1 he whispers, "Hot, sweet, and strong," to No. 2, "With pepper and vinegar," to No. 3, "With my best love," and to No. 4, "No, indeed." Jane comes after Charles to ask any questions her own wit may suggest. She asks No. 1, "What kind of a week have you passed?" No. 1 answers, "Hot, sweet, and strong." She asks No. 2, "Shall you ever marry?" No. 2 answers, "With pepper and vinegar." To No. 3, "How will you keep house on these?" No. 3 answers, "With my best love." To No. 4, "Where do you live?" No. 4 answers, "No, indeed." Much amusement is sometimes made by the total variance of the questions and answers, and sometimes a very hard blow is administered to some of the company, but of course no offense can be taken.

Now for "The Cook who likes no Peas." The leader of the game must put the following question to his right-hand neighbor, and also to all the players in succession: "My cook likes no peas; what shall I give her to eat?" If any player replies, "Potatoes, apples, and parsnips," the other answers, "She does not like them—pay a forfeit." But if another says, "Onions, carrots, veal," she likes them, and consequently no forfeit is required of the player. The trick of this game is evident: it is the letter "p" that must be avoided. Thus, to escape the penalty of a forfeit, it is necessary that the player should propose some kind of food in which the letter "p" does not occur.

Olga C. B.

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to the article, by Sarah Cooper, entitled "How Jelly-Fish Live and Move"; to the story of shipwreck entitled the "Loss of the Halsewell," and told under the head of "Peril and Privation" by Mr. James Payn; and to the article on fencing, by Sherwood Ryse, entitled "A Princely Art."

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from "Fleur-de-lis," Kitty Hoyt, Jennie Belknap, Jack Hayes, Robbie Keyes, Mary Jane Nichols, "Lodestar," H. W. B., "Bo-Peep," Mary Stansbery, Emily Atkinson, G. P. Taggart, Samuel S. Wolfsohn, S. May, Herman Metz, William H. Shine, B. J. Lautz, L. E. C., Caspar Van Gieson, Lillie D., Willie T. Blew, Smith Olcott, Lulu Payne, Dudley Long, Henry Clayton, Fanny Grey, John Hobson, Archie McIntosh, Dick Fanshaw, Thomas B. Irons, Elsie V. Bess, Mollie Ramsay, "I. Scycle," D. Herman Winter, Jun., Allie E. Cressingham, "Benny Fishel," Eddie Lawler, and Everett C. F.

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

CHARADE.

1. A little pool (so called in England).

2. A little pool (so called in Scotland).

Whole—A city in Ireland.

J. P. B.

No. 2.

WORDS WITHIN WORDS (GEOGRAPHICAL).

(The word defined is contained, without transposition, between the first and last letters of the second).

J. P. B.

No. 3.

ENIGMA.

Mabel M. S.

No. 4.

GEOGRAPHICAL PUZZLE.

Olivette.

No. 5.

TWO DIAMONDS.

1.—1. A letter. 2. A tag. 3. Emaciation. 4. A stout satin-striped silk. 5. The slanting bank opposite the tow-path. 6. To perceive. 7. A letter.

2.—1. A letter. 2. A receptacle. 3. Pipes. 4. Hollow. 5. To beat. 6. A boy's nickname. 7. A letter.

Fossil.

No. 6.

BEHEADINGS.

P. F. S.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 129.

No. 1.

No. 2.

Eli Whitney. Victor Hugo. Boy.

No. 3.

No. 4

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

[Pg 448]

HOW THE DANDELIONS GROW.

How do they grow? Why, little sprites
Pop up from the ground on starry nights;
One, with a candle, sits aloft,
Another rakes till all is soft;
Then one little elf a bellows wields;
He scatters the seed o'er dewy fields.
And now, small people, you surely know
The way that the dandelions grow.

A DOG WHO LIKED CATS.

Poodles are, in some respects, the most intelligent of all species of dogs. This is the reason why the performing dogs who are taught to do all sorts of curious tricks are almost always poodles. There was a lady who owned a large poodle which was very fond of walking with her. Every day at about ten o'clock he would find the articles of dress that he thought she ought to wear out-of-doors, and would bring them to her, and bark loudly until she would put them on. He always insisted that she should wear rubber overshoes, no matter what the weather might be, but he never brought her an umbrella except when it rained. It was very nice in him to wait on his mistress; but sometimes, when he would drag her best bonnet by one string down stairs and through the whole house until he found her, she would not remember to thank him as heartily as he imagined that he deserved.

Unlike most dogs, this poodle liked cats. He had intelligence enough to perceive that cats had their uses, and that it was much better to use them than to waste them recklessly by killing them. In the family where he lived there were at one time two large cats. Now the poodle was not allowed to wear any wool except on his head, fore-quarters, tail, and legs, and the consequence was that in the winter he suffered from the cold. He therefore made friends with the cats by giving them scraps of his dinner, and so induced them to come and lie down by him when he wanted a nap. With one cat on each side of him he was quite warm and comfortable, and when the cats showed signs of wakefulness he would put them to sleep by licking their fur with his rough tongue.

The two cats finally died or ran away, and a small kitten took their place. The dog did not think it worth while to waste bones on the kitten, as she was a weak, foolish little beast, who fancied that she must do whatever the poodle wanted. When he felt sleepy, he would go into the kitchen and find his kitten. Picking her up in his mouth, he would walk slowly through the house until he found a nice sunny spot on a soft carpet, when he would lie down, placing the kitten close to him. If any one called him while he was walking about with the kitten in his mouth, he would throw her away with a toss of his head, never caring where she might land. This rough treatment, together with the fact that he would sometimes pick the kitten up by the tail or the head, and carry her for several minutes in a most trying position, proved too much for the meek little animal's constitution, and one day, to his great disappointment, the dog found her dead, and so cold that she was no longer of the slightest use to him.

It is a great pity that other dogs have not discovered that cats can be put to good use if dogs only take a little pains to win their friendship and develop their useful qualities. But dogs are too often reckless and thoughtless, and prefer to waste valuable cats in order to enjoy for a few moments the pleasures of the chase.

AN EVENING AMUSEMENT.

DROPPING MELTED LEAD.

From far-away Russia we may learn of a pretty custom which Florence and Fanny might propose some evening when the cousins and school-mates have gathered for an hour or two of fun. It forms one of the traditional amusements of the New-Year festival, but you might try it at any period of the year.

Pin a large white sheet against the wall. Have ready a basin of cold water, and over the fire melt a quantity of lead. Let some one drop this liquid lead by spoonfuls into the water. It of course cools quickly, and hardens into shape. Hold it up, and observe the shadow it casts on the sheet. If this is like a boat, or a sleigh, or a horse and phaeton, it is a sign that somebody in the company will soon start on a journey. Should it assume the shape of a blossoming bough, it betokens the speedy convalescence of a friend who is ill; if it resembles a dove, you may be sure that Albert and Elsie, who have quarrelled, will soon be reconciled. In short, by the aid of a vivid imagination, you may fancy that the lead tells you almost anything you wish to hear.

SPRING SPORTS—"SKIPPITY-HOP."