The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's Young People, March 29, 1881, by Various.

In the good old days of the city of Wilmington, some seventy or eighty years ago, there lived a couple in that quaint little Quaker town by the name of Vertz, better known as Dutch Dolly and her husband.

Dutch Dolly had a truck patch wherein she raised vegetables—peas, radishes, potatoes, and beans—supplying the better part of the town with such produce. Her husband was a tailor, and is described in the chronicles of the town as sitting cross-legged on his bench opposite the window that looked out on the stony street.

Dutch Dolly was a woman of much importance of demeanor, and is described as being the admiration of the rising generation when, on a fair-day or holiday, she appeared in "a black velvet hood, a bodice of the same, a petticoat of superior blue cloth, the whole dress trimmed with gold-lace and two rows of gold-fringe on the skirt." But Tailor Vertz was as puny and insignificant as his helpmate was large and imposing. Dutch Dolly attended to her husband's business, collected his bills for him, and took such good care of his money that the poor little fellow was driven to many an odd shift to get a stray cent or fip [1] to buy him a pinch of rappee or a small glass of strong waters to comfort his inner man. One of his means for gaming small contributions was by telling fortunes, which he did by the aid of astrology, knowing a great many stars, from Aldebaran downward. For those who consulted him, chiefly serving-maids and very young girls, he drew mysterious signs of the heavens, in which the sun, moon, and stars were represented in miraculous conjunction. But with all his faults, with all his cloudy reputation among the good folk, Tailor Vertz was a merry, chipper little fellow, and though not entirely trustworthy, had as blithe a heart as any in Wilmington. He was a great favorite with the boys; he could whistle as sweetly as a robin, he could sing numberless ballads and songs in his queer piping voice, and had a knack of whittling little trinkets out of wood, which he sold, thus turning an odd penny from his young friends.

There were two boy friends especially, Ned Springer and Billy Shallcross by name, who were fond of loitering at odd times in the dusty, musty little shop. They looked upon the tailor as one of the wisest of men, and would listen by the hour to his stories of wonderful adventures, of perils he had escaped, of magic books he had read, and of the wonders of his black-art, believing everything with the utmost sincerity; for boys were much more credulous then than they are nowadays. The little tailor delighted especially to talk of his mysterious art, and often bewailed himself that he had never been able to find a branch of witch-willow, which had such properties that he could with it tell wherever secret treasure lay buried. He generally spoke of this witch-willow in connection with old Jan Judson's house.

Jan Judson was an old Swede of a generation preceding that of which we are speaking. So far as trustworthy narratives tell of him, he appears to have been only an eccentric, miserly old bachelor. A very heavy thunderstorm which passed over the region in which Jan lived struck his house with lightning, and it was burned to the ground, all that was left being a tall stone chimney and a pile of stones. Whether it was the effect of the electricity, or merely the shock of losing his property that affected the owner, certain it is that the old Swede, though rescued from the flames, died a day or two after the accident. Of course the occurrence gave rise to many weird stories connected with old Jan Judson. It was said that One had appeared to him in fire and flame to carry him off bodily, and all agreed that he had left great wealth behind. Treasure-hunters had dug in the cellar, and had turned over the stones, but had found nothing; or, if they had, had said nothing about it.

One bright afternoon the two boys entered the shop of Tailor Vertz, whom they found sitting cross-legged on his bench, with one finger touching his forehead, apparently sunk in deep meditation—a position which he had assumed when he heard the boys approaching. He held up his hand to them to enjoin silence, and they stood looking at him, a little awe-struck and very much wondering. At last he roused himself, and, looking cautiously, beckoned them to draw near.

"Yes, de vitch-villow. I haf foundt it town in de marsh. Look!" And he drew forth a slender osier twig that he had cut and peeled the day before.

"Then you'll be rich, won't you?" said Ned Springer, excitedly. "All you've got to do is to walk around and to find treasure."

Tailor Vertz shook his head sadly. "I am like many creat mens," said he; "I haf foundt creat tings, but I lack von tings."

"Money. If I had von quarter of a tollar, I vas all right. I must coot a leetle hole into de vitch-villow, and melt some silfer and bour into it, and den it is magics."

"Dat's vot I vants to do," said Tailor Vertz. "Now I tells you vot I do. To-morrow's Plack Imp's Night—"

"Shust vait, and I tells you. To-morrow's Plack Imp's Night, de fery night de vitch-villow's able to findt de moneys. Now I am fondt of you poys: you lend me a quarter of a tollar to melt and run in de hole I coots in de vitch-villow, and I gifs you de first lot of moneys vot ve findt."

"Of course I findt some," said Tailor Vertz, indignantly. "Didn't I tells you I foundt a pranch of vitch-villow?" Then, in a reproachful manner: "I didn't tinks you vouldn't peliefe me—me, as alvays tells you de trut'. Nefer mind. I goes to somepody else and gets a quarter of a tollar; somepodies as tinks I'm honest."

"Of course we think you're honest," spoke up Billy. "If I had a quarter of a dollar I'd lend it to you. I've only got a levy. How much have you got, Ned?"

"Very vells," said the little man, climbing rather hastily back on the bench, for he thought he heard his wife coming—"very vells; put pring de quarter to-night, else I get it from somepodies."

The boys were all excitement and interest. They laid out so many plans for the spending of their wealth—when they should get it—and built so many castles in the air, that they wound themselves up to a thorough pitch of enthusiasm. That night they brought the tailor the quarter of a dollar. He pocketed the money, made an appointment with them for the next night to go treasure-hunting, and, after they were gone, melted some lead and poured it into a hole in the willow wand for the sake of appearances.

The next night the three met at a paling fence at the foot of Stalcop's lot; the tailor brought his magic wand, Billy Shallcross a lantern, and Ned Springer a crowbar for turning over the stones.

As the three walked along, Tailor Vertz beguiled the way with stories of the departed Swede, and how his ghost still haunted the ruins—how it was apt to appear to treasure-hunters, laying its grisly hand upon them at the very moment of finding the sought-for treasure, until the very hearts of his listeners quaked with dread. Probably they would willingly have sacrificed their hopes of treasure and turned back, but neither of them liked to propose such a measure. The lantern cast a ghostly flitting light on the fence posts and trees as they walked along, and so drew near the ruined house, the chimney of which stood black against the sky.

"Now dere is von tings to remember," said Tailor Vertz, as they stood on the shapeless pile of stones that marked the ruin. He spoke impressively. "Now dere is von tings to remember. From de moment de stick pegins to p'int, you mustn't speak von vord, for shoost as soon as you do—poof!—de magics all goes out of de stick, de silfer turns into lead, and de treasure all melt like ice on a hot stove. If you see a ghost, den mind, shoost don't pay no notice to him, but go on vorkings, and say nodings. Are you ready?"

They both thought there was less danger from the ghost to the one that held the lantern than to the one that laid a hand on his buried treasure. However, it was finally determined that Ned should begin, and work until he was tired, and then Billy should take a turn. The tailor stepped forward, holding the wand by the middle between his finger and thumb. In this way the slightest movement of the fingers would direct it. The boys watched him with the most intense interest. The willow wand moved slowly this way and that, and finally pointed toward a great beam that reached across the chimney just over the fire-place, thus indicating it as the place where a treasure must be. The boys approached cautiously, Billy holding the lantern, and Ned firmly grasping the crowbar, both wrought up to a high pitch of nervous excitement, while the tailor stood a little back from them. It was a hopeless-looking piece of work for two boys to remove such a beam, so imbedded in the stone and mortar, and probably that was why the tailor had selected it. Ned struck the crowbar between the stones just under the beam, but it was a quarter of an hour's job to loosen the first stone, which was very large; but finally it came, and then another. Then Ned, whose face was beaded with perspiration, handed the crowbar to Billy. By this time they were beginning to regain their courage. Billy examined the chimney carefully, and seeing a stone looser than the rest, just over the beam, determined to begin the attack in that quarter; so he stuck the crowbar between that stone and the next, and began to prize. In the mean time, Tailor Vertz had grown tired, and determined to hasten matters; accordingly, just as the stone was loosening, he gave an unearthly groan.

"What's that?" cried Billy, and let go of the crowbar. It fell clanking on the stones, and with it fell the stone he was loosening. The groan, and the noise of the falling of the crowbar and the stone, frightened Ned so that he dropped the lantern; and the boys, leaping over the pile of stones, fled up the road like frightened deer, closely followed by the tailor, who was scarcely less frightened than they were. At length they stopped, and stood panting about a hundred yards up the road.

"Ach! mein Himmel!" cried Tailor Vertz, stamping his foot, "what you speak for? You have shpoilt all de magic of de vitch-villow. Vy did you not hold your tongue?"

"It must have been the ghost," said Ned. Then, in a very loud voice, "I don't want the money anyhow," cried he.

"Well, you dropped my father's crowbar. It was you that scared me, dropping it, so you ought to go back for it."

They approached the spot very cautiously, the tailor, who had no further reason for frightening them, encouraging them to proceed, but himself keeping a little back, as he was secretly much afraid of ghosts. Luckily for their fears, the candle in the lantern had not gone out, but had burned as it fell, guttering the tallow, and running it over the glass of the lantern. Billy picked it up, and the light flashed out more brightly. Ned also picked up his crowbar, and they turned to leave, when Billy cast a glance at the hole whence the stone he had been working at had fallen.

They all three looked in the hole; then Billy thrust in his hand, and drew out a small wooden box. It was crumbling with dry-rot, and without much effort he broke off the lid with his fingers. The boys could scarcely believe their eyes. Ned sprang from the ground and gave a shout. The box was full of money. They were chiefly copper coins and small silver pieces; still, it was a treasure to the boys.

All this time Tailor Vertz had been standing with staring eyes and open mouth. He was amazed, thunder-struck, dumfounded, that he, who had been deceiving the boys with juggling tricks, should have actually showed them a real treasure. All of a sudden it came over him with a rush that he had deliberately led the boys to this spot, and placed their very hands, as it were, upon all this money. He felt as though it had been taken from his own pocket, and burst out in a sudden torrent of words, scolding and stamping his feet in such a way that the boys stood amazed.

"Vat's de matter?" shouted the tailor, beating his breast—"vat's de matter? Oh, Vertz! you fool! you fool! Oh, if I'd only known it vas dere!—if I'd only known it vas dere! To go empty it out of my pockets into yours! Bah! I might er had it all myself."

"But didn't you know it was there? Didn't the witch-willow tell you so?" said Billy.

"Vitch-villow! Oh, you yank! vat's a vitch-villow but to fool such tunces as you?"

The tailor began to cool down somewhat at that, and entered on a long explanation, in which he got very much involved.

"All very well," said Billy; "but tell us now, up and down, fair and square, did you know anything about the money being there?"

However, they deducted the quarter-dollar from Tailor Vertz's share. Billy's share was six dollars and twenty-three cents, Ned's six dollars and twenty-two cents, and Tailor Vertz's five dollars and ninety-seven cents, with which he expressed himself perfectly satisfied.

Forever after this adventure Dutch Dolly's husband was more careful about telling the boys of the mysteries of his art; and when he would get on the subject, Billy was apt to slyly remind him of the magic wand.

MOUNTAIN-PEAKS.

When the world was comparatively young, and people were contented with legends and myths concerning the wonders of creation, just as children like fairy stories, it was the common belief that mountains were the work of gods and genii, who hurled them down from heaven, and allowed them to fall by chance, or else raised them as mighty pillars destined to bear the vaults of the skies. The Titans, who were not gods, threw down all the mountains of Thessaly in order to use them again for building up the ramparts round Olympus. Another story is that a giantess of the North had filled her apron with little hills, and dropped them at certain distances that she might recognize her way. And still another, from the other end of the earth, is that Vishnu, one day, seeing a young girl asleep beneath the sun's too ardent rays, took up a mountain, and held it poised upon his finger-tips to shelter the beautiful sleeper. This, the legend tells us, was the origin of sun-shades. Nor was it even always necessary for gods and giants to lift up the mountains in order to remove them; the latter obeyed a mere sign. Stones hastened to listen to the strains of Orpheus's lyre; mountains stood erect to hear Apollo. It was thus that Helicon, the home of the Muses, took its birth.

Strange as are these stories, they are no more wonderful than the actual fact that, under the direction of the Creator, the two great giants Fire and Water have been and still are at work constructing mountains, slowly, it is true, and not by any sudden upheaval, as the lovers of the marvellous would have it to be, but none the less surely.

While wandering over the surface of the globe, and carefully observing its natural phenomena, we see that mountains are the slow growth of ages. When an insular or continental mass some hundreds or thousands of yards high receives rain in abundance, its slopes gradually become indented with ravines, dales, valleys; the uniform surface of the plateau is cut into peaks, ridges, pyramids; scooped out into amphitheatres, basins, precipices; systems of mountains appear by degrees wherever the level ground has rolled down to any enormous extent. In addition to these external causes which change plateaus into mountains, slow transformations in the interior of the earth are also being accomplished, bringing about vast excavations. Those hard-working men who, hammer in hand, go about for many years among the mountains in order to study their form and structure, observe in the lower beds of marine formation, which constitute the non-crystalline portion of the mountains, gigantic rents or fissures extending thousands of yards in length. Masses millions of yards thick have been completely raised up again by these shocks, or turned as completely upside down, so that what was formerly the surface has now become the bottom. And in this way have been revealed the crystalline rocks. Plication, or folding, is also an important feature in the history of the earth. By this process, subjected to slow pressure, the rock, the clay, the layers of sandstone, the veins of metal, have all been folded up like a piece of cloth, and the folds thus formed become mountains and valleys.

One of the most interesting features in the study of mountains is the discovery of fossils, by which the naturalist accurately determines the age of rocks. Millions of these remains of animal and vegetable life have been preserved. Of course the tissues of flesh and drops of blood or sap are gone, but in their stead are particles of stone which have kept the form, and sometimes even the color, of the creature destroyed. Within the thickness of these stones are shells of mollusks, disks, spheres, spines, cylinders in astounding numbers; we see the skeletons of fish with their fins and scales, the wing-sheaths of insects, and even foot-prints; upon the hard rock, too, which was formerly the shifting sand of the beach, we find the impression of drops of rain, and the intersecting ripple marks traced by wavelets on the shore. These fossils, which lived millions of years ago in the mud of oceanic abysses, are now met at every mountain height. They are to be seen on most of the Pyrenees, they constitute whole Alps, they are recognized upon the Caucasus and Cordilleras.

The wealth contained in mountains in the shape of silver and gold ore and precious stones has ever been, like the magic thread of the labyrinth, leading miners and geologists into the depths of their caverns. Formerly it was supposed to be an easy matter to reach these riches. All that a man needed was what is called "luck" and the favor of the gods. Boldly seizing some opportunity, such as the rolling away of a stone from a crevice, he had but to mutter some magic words, creep into a dark passage, and find himself beneath a vaulted roof of crystals and diamonds; he needed but to stoop and gather the rubies beneath his feet. Not by chance and magic do the miners of our day reach the rich veins of minerals. Study and hard work are behind all the engineering skill which penetrates our mountains.

When the summer is here, and you go forth with merry hearts and stout staves to climb some "Saddleback" or "Mount Tom," just stop and think of all the wonderful things which happen to make a mountain; and as you glance up its wooded sides, and see the clouds resting upon its summit, or behold the purple hues of evening gathering about its majestic form, remember "the hand that made it is Divine."

[Begun in No. 58 of Harper's Young People, December 7.]

TOBY TYLER;

OR, TEN WEEKS WITH A CIRCUS.

BY JAMES OTIS.

Chapter XVI.

TOBY'S FIRST APPEARANCE IN THE RING.

When the circus entered the town which had been selected as the place where Toby was to make his début as a circus rider, the boy noticed a new poster among the many glaring and gaudy bills which set forth the varied and many attractions that were to be found under one canvas for a trifling admission fee, and he noticed it with some degree of interest, not thinking for a moment that it had any reference to him.

MADEMOISELLE JEANNETTE

AND

MONSIEUR AJAX,

THE TRIUMPH OF THE INNOCENTS.

MADEMOISELLE JEANNETTE

AND

MONSIEUR AJAX.

"Look there!" said Toby to Ben, as he pointed out the poster, which was printed in very large letters with gorgeous coloring, and surmounted by a picture of two very small people performing all kinds of impossible feats on horseback. "They've got some one else to ride with Ella to-day. I wonder who it can be?"

Ben looked at Toby for a moment, as if to assure himself that the boy was in earnest in asking the question, and then he relapsed into the worst fit of silent laughing that Toby had ever seen. After he had quite recovered, he asked: "Don't you know who Monsieur Ajax is? Hain't you never seen him?"

"No," replied Toby, at a loss to understand what there was so very funny in his very natural question. "I thought that I was goin' to ride with Ella."

"Why, that's you," almost screamed Ben, in delight. "Monsieur Ajax means you, didn't you know it? You don't suppose they would go to put 'Toby Tyler' on the bills, do you? How it would look!—'Mademoiselle Jeannette an' Monsieur Toby Tyler.'"

Ben was off in one of his laughing spells again, and Toby sat there, stiff and straight, hardly knowing whether to join in the mirth or to get angry at the sport which had been made of his name.

"I don't care," he said at length. "I'm sure I think Toby Tyler sounds just as well as Monsieur Ajax, an' I'm sure it fits me a good deal better."

"That may be," said Ben, soothingly; "but you see it wouldn't go down so well with the public. They want furrin riders, an' they must have 'em, even if it does spoil your name."

Despite the fact that he did not like the new name that had been given him, Toby could not but feel pleased at the glowing terms in which his performance was set off; but he did not at all relish the lie that was told about his having been with Ella in Europe, and he would have been very much better pleased if that portion of it had been left off.

During that forenoon he did not go near Mr. Lord nor his candy stand, for Mr. Castle kept him and Ella busily engaged in practicing the feat which they were to perform in the afternoon, and it was almost time for the performance to begin before they were allowed even to go to their dinner.

Ella, who had performed several years, was very much more excited over the coming début than Toby was, and the reason why he did not show more interest was probably because of his great desire to leave the circus as soon as possible, and during that forenoon he thought very much more of how he should get back to Guilford and Uncle Daniel than he did of how he should get along when he stood before the audience.

Mr. Castle assisted his pupil to dress, and when that was done to his entire satisfaction, he said, in a stern voice, "Now you can do this act all right, and if you slip up on it, and don't do it as you ought to, I'll give you such a whipping when you come out of the ring that you'll think Job was only fooling with you when he tried to whip you."

Toby had been feeling reasonably cheerful before this,[Pg 342] but these words dispelled all his cheerful thoughts, and he was looking most disconsolate when old Ben came into the dressing tent.

"All ready, are you, my boy?" said the old man, in his cheeriest voice. "Well, that's good, an' you look as nice as possible. Now remember what I told you last night, Toby, an' go in there to do your level best, an' make a name for yourself. Come out here with me, an' wait for the young lady."

These cheering words of Ben's did Toby as much good as Mr. Castle's had the reverse, and as he stepped out of the dressing-room to the place where the horses were being saddled, Toby resolved that he would do his very best that afternoon, if for no other reason than to please his old friend.

Toby was not naturally what might be called a pretty boy, for his short red hair and his freckled face prevented any great display of beauty; but he was a good, honest-looking boy, and in his tasteful costume he looked very nice indeed—so nice, that could Mrs. Treat have seen him just then, she would have been very proud of her handiwork, and hugged him harder than ever.

He had not been waiting but a few moments when Ella came from her dressing-room, and Toby was very much pleased when he saw by the expression of her face that she was perfectly satisfied with his appearance.

"We'll both do just as well as we can," she whispered to him, "and I know the people will like us, and make us come back after we get through. And if they do, mamma says she'll give each one of us a gold dollar."

She had taken hold of Toby's hand as she spoke, and her manner was so earnest and anxious that Toby was more excited than he ever had been about his début; and had he gone into the ring just at that moment, the chances are that he would have surprised even his teacher by his riding.

"I'll do just as well as I can," said Toby, in reply to his little companion, "an' if we earn the dollars, I'll have a hole bored in mine, an' you shall wear it around your neck to remember me by."

"I'll remember you without that," she whispered, "and I'll give you mine, so that you shall have so much the more when you go to your home."

There was no time for further conversation, for Mr. Castle entered just then to tell them that they must go in in another moment. The horses were all ready—a black one for Toby, and a white one for Ella—and they stood champing their bits and pawing the earth in their impatience, until the silver bells with which they were decorated rang out quick, nervous little chimes that accorded very well with Toby's feelings.

Ella squeezed Toby's hand as they stood waiting for the curtain to be raised that they might enter, and he had just time to return it when the signal was given, and almost before he was aware of it they were standing in the ring, kissing their hands to the crowds that packed the enormous tent to its utmost capacity.

Thanks to the false announcement about the separation of the children in Europe and their reunion in this particular town, the applause was long and loud, and before it had died away, Toby had had time to recover a little from the queer feeling which this sea of heads gave him.

He had never seen such a crowd before, except as he had seen them as he walked around at the foot of the seats, and then they had simply looked like so many human beings; but as he saw them now from the ring, they appeared like strange rows of heads without bodies, and he had hard work to keep from running back behind the curtain from whence he had come.

Mr. Castle acted as the ring-master this time, and after he had introduced them, very much after the fashion of the posters, and the clown had repeated some funny joke, the horses were led in, and they were assisted to mount.

"Don't mind the people at all," said Mr. Castle, in a low voice, "but ride just as if you were alone here with me."

The music struck up, the horses cantered around the ring, and Toby had really started as a circus rider.

"Remember," said Ella to him, in a low tone, just as the horses started, "you told me that you would ride just as well as you could, and we must earn the dollars mamma promised."

It seemed to Toby at first as if he could not stand up; but by the time they had ridden around the ring once, and Ella had cautioned him again against making any mistake, for the sake of the money which they were going to earn, he was calm and collected enough to carry out his part of the programme quite as well as if he had been simply taking a lesson.

The act consisted in their riding side by side, jumping over banners and through hoops covered with paper, and then the most difficult portion of their act began.

The saddles were taken off the horses, and they were to ride first on one horse and then on the other, until they concluded their performance by riding twice around the ring side by side, standing on their horses, each one with a hand on the other's shoulder.

All this was successfully accomplished without a single error, and when they rode out of the ring, the applause was so great as to leave no doubt but that they would be recalled, and thus earn the promised money.

In fact, they had hardly got inside the curtain when one of the attendants called to them, and before they had time even to speak to each other they were in the ring again, repeating the last portion of their act.

When they came out of the ring for the second time, they found old Ben, the skeleton, the fat lady, and Mr. Job Lord waiting to welcome them; but before any one could say a word, Ella had stood on tiptoe again, and given Toby just such another kiss as she did when he told her that he would surely stay long enough to appear in the ring with her once.

"That's because you rode so well, and helped me so much," she said, as she saw Toby's cheeks growing a fiery red; and then she turned to those who were waiting to greet her.

Mrs. Treat took her in her enormous arms, and having kissed her, put her down quickly, and clasped Toby as if he had been a very small walnut, and her arms a very large pair of nut-crackers.

"Bless the boy!" she exclaimed, as she kissed him again and again, with an energy and force that made her kisses sound like the crack of a whip, and caused the horses to stamp in affright. "I knew he'd amount to something one of these days, an' Samuel an' I had to come out, when business was dull, just to see how he got along."

It was some time before she would unloose him from her motherly embrace, and when she did, the skeleton grasped him by the hand, and said, in the most pompous and effective manner:

"Mr. Tyler, we're proud of you, and when we saw that costume of yours that my Lilly embroidered with her own hands, we was both proud of it and what it contained. You're a great rider, my boy, a great rider, and you'll stand at the head of the profession some day, if you only stick to it."

"Thank you, sir," was all Toby had time to say before old Ben had him by the hand, and the skeleton was pouring out his congratulations in little Miss Ella's ear.

"Toby, my boy, you did well, an' now you'll amount to something if you only remember what I told you last night," said Ben, as he looked upon the boy, whom he had come to think of as his protégé, with pride. "I never seen anybody of your age do any better; an' now, instead of bein' only a candy peddler, you're one of the stars of the show."

"Thank you, Ben," was all that Toby could say, for he[Pg 343] knew that his old friend meant every word that he said, and it pleased him so much that he could say no more than "Thank you" in reply.

"I feel as if your triumph was mine," said Mr. Lord, looking benignly at Toby from out his crooked eye, and assuming the most fatherly tone at his command; "I have learned to look upon you almost as my own son, and your success is very gratifying to me."

Toby was not at all flattered by this last praise. If he had never seen Mr. Lord before, he might, and probably would, have been deceived by his words; but he had seen him too often, and under too many painful circumstances, to be at all swindled by his words.

Toby was very much pleased with his success, and by the praise he received from all, and when the proprietor of the circus came along, patted him on the head, and told him that he rode very nicely, he was quite happy, until he chanced to see the greedy twinkle in Mr. Lord's eye, and then he knew that all this success and all this praise were only binding him faster to the show which he was so anxious to escape from; his pleasure vanished very quickly, and in its stead came a bitter, homesick feeling which no amount of praise could banish.

It was old Ben who helped him to undress after the skeleton and the fat lady had gone back to their tent, and Ella had gone to dress for her appearance with her mother, for now she was obliged to ride twice at each performance. When Toby was in his ordinary clothes again, Ben said:

"Now that you're one of the performers, Toby, you won't have to sell candy any more, an' you'll have the most of your time to yourself, so let's you an' I go out an' see the town."

"An' s'posin' he does?" said Ben, with a chuckle. "You don't s'pose the boss would let any one that rides in the ring stand behind Job Lord's counter, do you? You can do just as you have a mind to, my boy, an' I say to you, let's go out an' see the town. What do you say to it?"

"I'd like to go first-rate, if I dared to," replied Toby, thinking of the many whippings he had received for far less than that which Ben now proposed he should do.

"Oh, I'll take care that Job don't bother you, so come along;" and Ben started out of the tent, and Toby followed, feeling considerably frightened at this first act of disobedience against his old master.

[to be continued.]

A HERO IN SEVEN PIECES.

BY MARY A. BARR.

And so I thought, the other day, when I found myself in an art foundry in Twenty-fifth Street, New York. There was a terrible noise, and at first I thought I was in a smithy; but, children, I soon found out it was only the workman seaming together a hero's coat.

Most of you know all about this hero, and just the part he played in the history of our country; but because many of you have read carelessly that page of your history, and for the sake of those who have forgotten, or have never read it, let me tell you something about him before we go back to Twenty-fifth Street, and the 1000-pound bronze statue of our hero, whom every true-hearted American remembers with honest pride.

He was one of seven young men who captured a very famous spy. Now there have been many famous spies, so don't guess in a hurry. He was three times a prisoner in New York; twice he escaped; the second time only four days before he saved his country a mortal blow; and the third time he was released by the peace.

Congress gave him an annuity of two hundred dollars a year for life, a silver medal, on one side of which was a shield, inscribed "Fidelity," and on the other the motto, "Vincit Amor Patriæ"; and New York gave him a farm, and also, in 1827, erected a marble monument in a churchyard two miles from Peekskill.

He died at Yorktown in 1818, when he was fifty-nine years old; but he will always live in the memory of his countrymen. So it was with a great deal of reverence I touched the bronzed hand, and pictured to myself that he was alive, and just about to step forward and give the order to "Stand!"

But that was after the workman had fastened a rope and chain around his waist, and by means of a pully lifted him upright on the pedestal, for my first glimpse of him was lying on his side with a little black-eyed Italian hammering away at the seam which I spoke of. For our hero was cast in seven pieces, and these pieces are put together with brass nails, and then the seams hammered smooth.

The sculptor of the statue being present, offered to take me through the foundry, and so I followed him, meeting a part of our hero at every turn.

Here his head and shoulders, there his gun, over yonder his arm, and lying right at my feet one of his hands, and in the corner his feet and legs, which one of the workmen told me they had cast one evening at half past six, by the glare of the furnaces, which threw great shadows across everything, and made it like a dream with the reality of heat and noise.

But these were only the plaster moulds, taken from the sculptor's model in clay, and I passed them with only a glance, for I knew the splendid whole would make up for these broken pieces.

Many of you have been in a foundry, and can easily picture to yourselves the great oven for baking the clay moulds in; the banks of sand; the furnaces down in the ground and on a level with the floor, with iron beams high above on which the pots for melting the metal in are hung; the enormous tongs and hooks; the troughs of water; half-finished work; the workman's tools; and men bending over work that seems too beautiful to come out of such chaos and from such rough material.

From the foundry I went up to the sculptor's studio on the third floor, in the front of the building. Now, children, this is a real place, and if any of you ever come to New York, you can go and see it, for the artist is a very good-natured man, and is always glad to see pleasant company.

What a place it would have been to play in! Oh, what fun I should have had calling on Miss Venus! and what a splendid coachman Apollo would have made! and the sailor lad we would have all claimed; and the girl with the shawl over her head would have been the soldier's sweetheart. But what would the sculptor have thought if he had known what use I was putting his beautiful works to? and so, my dears, let us play that all this has been said in a whisper, while he is dusting a chair for me, and go back to the studio as it really is.

To begin with, there was no carpet on the floor, and no paper on the walls, but a beautiful pier looking-glass without a frame leaned against the brick wall, and innumerable reliefs in plaster, photographs of people and places, an old army suit, and several costumes which the sculptor used in draping his model, hung in splendid confusion everywhere. One side of the room was of wood painted a dark brown, and over this the artist had drawn Cupids, angels, flowers, flags, and all kinds of beautiful designs in white. There was a stove in the room, and two or three chairs that needed constant dusting; several easels stood about, and at one a German artist, in a checked blouse or old-fashioned apron, was working on a beautiful relief, which told the story of a young farmer leaving home for the war. The artist said[Pg 344] it was for a soldiers' monument in Massachusetts. Near him stood a bucket of water with a sponge in it, and every little while he would wet the clay he was working with.

A great many busts and statuettes of all kinds stood in every conceivable place—on tables, pedestals, and shelves; and on one shelf was the bust of a famous New York belle and the statuettes of a horse and cow, visitors' cards, photographs of famous actors and artists, old letters, and in a table glass a bouquet of roses and lilies that some one had sent to the sculptor that morning. While we were talking, the sculptor's model came in; that is, the man who stands for his figures, so that the artist may catch the proper motion of the body.

I had spent an hour very pleasantly in this queer, mussy place, and as it was growing dark, I was forced to say good-by to Miss Venus, and the Boy in Blue, and my new-found friend the German artist; but I took away with me many pleasant memories, and I hope I have interested my little readers enough for them to turn to the history of the Revolution, and tell me who our hero is. Many of you have already guessed, but I should like some of you to tell me his name, and if I have forgotten anything about him. Will you?

IN, OUT OF THE STORM.

It is high time that the poor little lamb was taken in, out of the storm, is it not, my young readers? The artist says that when he made the sketch from which this picture was drawn, the season was late in March, and the weather for a few days had been so warm that the children in the farm-house where he was staying thought old Winter had surely gone. He was still there, however, and to prove his presence he sent one of his very worst storms of snow and sleet, that lasted all day, and made people think that the almanacs were wrong, and that the month must be January instead of March.

In the midst of this storm, as the children were looking out of the window, and wondering if summer ever would come, they saw their father walking from the barn with something in his arms, and followed by their old pet sheep Mana. As their father came near, the children saw that he held a dear little lamb in his arms; and when he got into the house he told them that Mana was its mother, and that it had been born out-of-doors in all the terrible storm. If he had not been led to the spot by Mana's pitiful cries just when he was, the poor lamb would have been frozen to death. As it was, the little creature was chilled through, and had to be wrapped in flannel, placed close beside the fire, and fed with warm milk before it recovered. The children took such good care of the lamb that their father gave it to them, for their own; and when at last the summer did come, in spite of the efforts of old Winter to prevent it, the "cosset" well repaid their care of him by his funny antics and pretty ways.

On that stormy afternoon, after the lamb had been made as comfortable as possible, the children gathered about the artist, and asked him so many questions about sheep, that they finally gained from him the following information.

"Sheep—that is, common domestic sheep—are certainly dull and uninteresting animals, but this is partly because we do not usually see them to advantage. Sheep are naturally mountainous animals; if left to themselves, they always prefer hills and rocky mountains to plains and low-lying pasture, and are as active in climbing as goats. At the period of sacred history, sheep were evidently not considered stupid. It was the custom to give each individual a name, to which each would answer when called. This custom still exists in Greece, and, I believe, in some other countries. A missionary tells us that once when he was travelling in Greece, in passing by a flock of sheep, he begged the shepherd to call one of them by name; he did so, and immediately the sheep left its companions and its pasture, and ran up to the shepherd with evident signs of pleasure. The shepherd told the missionary that many of the sheep were still wild, that they had not yet learned their names, but that by teaching all would learn them. Those which knew their names and would answer to them he called tame. Some years ago, pet lambs used to be quite a fashion, and there have been many poems and stories written about them. The poet Wordsworth wrote a very pretty account of a pet lamb and a mountain maiden; and all children ought to read Miss Edgeworth's story of Simple Susan and her lamb. Queen Victoria, when she was a little girl, and lived at Kensington Palace, had a pet lamb with a pink ribbon round its neck. Some children I know had one which was very tame and affectionate. When it grew up it was too rough and big for a play-fellow, and was sent to join a flock of sheep; but long afterward, when the children came past, it would leave the others to run to them."

THEY ARE COMING.

BY MRS. M. E. SANGSTER.

Mr. and Mrs. Robin,
Mr. and Mrs. Wren,
The Orioles, and the Cat-birds
Are coming back again.
Heigho! for the sweet, sweet blossoms,
And the sweeter music then.

Mr. and Mrs. Robin
And the rest of the merry crew
Will be very brisk and busy,
With plenty of work to do.
Just think of it: keeping house, dears,
And building your houses too.

HOW THE BOYS FOOLED UNCLE BUDGE.

BY KATE R. McDOWELL.

It had chanced for two or three years that they were there on All-fools' Day, and at the end of the last visit Uncle Budge, on leaving them at the cars, had urged them to come on for the same time the next year, adding, "If you succeed in fooling me then, I'll give you each a gold piece."

Uncle Budge as completely forgot having made such an offer, five minutes after the boys had waved their hats in good-by, as though there were no April-fool Days and no gold pieces in the world.

But not so with the Barnes boys. Gold pieces were not so plenty with them that they would be apt to let such an offer pass in one ear and out of the other. Already seats at the circus, fishing-rods, and skates were in wild confusion in their brains.

"I don't believe there's a bit of use in trying," answered Karl. "We've come to the conclusion no end of times that we can't fool Uncle Budge, and we can't. That's all there is about it."

"No harm in trying," ventured the not easily discouraged Rick, thinking how often he had admired the gold dollar on Chan Holmes's watch chain. "Let's try, anyway."

So next April-fools' Day finding them at Uncle Budge's, Karl and Rick were tiptoeing about very early. They spread the Berkville Morning Argus of April 1, 1880—which they had slipped out of Uncle Budge's file the day before—out on the floor, sprinkled some water over it, folded it carefully, and Karl went quietly down stairs, opened the side door, laid the paper there, and took up stairs the Argus that the carrier had just thrown.

About an hour afterward the breakfast-bell rang, and the boys went down stairs. There lay the paper by Uncle Budge's plate, which caused so preternaturally solemn an expression to come over their faces that Aunt Budge was quite worried.

"Now I hope you're not getting homesick," she said to Karl; "I know there's not much goin' on for you, as is used to a large family and a good deal of noise; still"—in a more cheerful tone—"we'll think of something after I've done up my work."

An amused smile played about Rick's lips, to hide which he leaned his head on his hand.

"Your toothache ain't come on again, Richard?" inquired Aunt Budge, sympathetically.

"Oh, I'm all right," said one, while the other assured Aunt Budge that he didn't want to go home a bit, and was having the best sort of a time.

"Uncle Budge has gone over to Wilson's," said Aunt Budge, "but may be in any minute. He left word not to wait breakfast. Can you reach the Argus, Karl?"

"Well, well," began Aunt Budge, "if another of those Wilkinses isn't married! Amanda J. Why, now, I was thinking that Amanda went last year; but no, come to think, it was Alvira. It does seem that just as reg'lar as spring comes round, off one on 'em goes. Now Amanda is—"

But Aunt Budge's dissertation was cut short by a choking scene, in which Rick pounded his brother with such force on the back that it was a wonder they heard the front door open at all.

"There's Uncle Budge," said Rick, hurriedly. "Don't tell him anything you've noticed in the Argus, Aunt Budge, or he'll suspect."

"Sh—sh!" implored Karl. "It's a fool, Aunt Budge. Help us to carry it out. Last year's paper—don't you see?"

"Well, well, I declare!" said Aunt Budge, as the real state of the case flashed over her. "Then," collecting her thoughts, "I was right about its being Amanda, and—" But Aunt Budge interrupted herself by laughing so heartily that the boys found themselves compelled to join her, though it appeared from the conversation, when Uncle Budge came to breakfast, that Aunt Budge had been recounting some of the boys' pranks of years before.

"How old was I then?" asked Karl. "I mustn't forget to ask mamma, when I get home, if she remembers it."

Uncle Budge seated himself, and asked for the paper. He squinted at the date as Karl held it toward him, and then said: "I believe I'd rather have a little younger paper than that. This comes within one of it, boys, but I guess I'll take the one on the eighty."

"Well, now!" exclaimed Aunt Budge, admiringly. "And he never so much as took it in his hand."

"We can't fool Uncle Budge," said Karl, uttering each word slowly. "That may as well pass into a proverb. It can not be done."

"I'm not so sure. We're not through trying yet, you know," put in Rick, with a peculiar look at his brother.

"That I've an idea. Just listen;" and a great many questions and answers were exchanged in a hurried undertone.

"Grand—if it will work. Then we must be all ready by the time he comes down stairs?"

"The boys" meant Hal and Jack Putnam; "a telegram," a note pinned to the string that went round a wooden peg at one of the Budgett windows, and another at the Putnams'.

The telegram came as the Putnam boys were breakfasting, and Jack laughed as he read it aloud.

"What is the fun?" asked Mrs. Putnam. "And how strange it is I can not remember those boys' names. Which one, now, is it that signs himself 'B. S.'?"

"Neither," laughed the boys, merrily. "'B. S.' means 'Big Show.' An April-fool on Mr. Budgett."

"And mustn't be missed," added Hal. "Jane, please tell us when you see Mr. Budgett come down street."

Jane went into the kitchen, where she hurriedly told the cook that Mr. Budgett would probably be coming down town soon, with "April-fool" chalked on his back.

"Ye don't mane it!" cried the interested Bridget. "Oh, thim byes! thim byes!" and she flew after the departing milkman with the news, omitting, however, the word "probably."

But to return to Mr. Budgett. Just as he was putting on his coat, he heard whispers of,

Mr. Budgett heard it all. "I believe I've left my pocket-book," he said, half aloud, as he turned to go up stairs.

"Couldn't very well do otherwise under these coats. Why doesn't he go? I'm smothering."

This decided Mr. Budgett. Up he went, and with Aunt Budge's hand-glass and the mirror took a complete survey.

The shutting of the front door was a signal for the boys to rush wildly out of the hall closet into the dining-room, where Aunt Budge was hovering over the breakfast dishes.

"What is it?" cried Aunt Budge, putting on her glasses. "Oh, what red faces! Did you get shut in?"

"We're fooling Uncle Budge," said Rick, breathlessly. "He promised us each a gold piece if we could," and he dashed up stairs after Karl.

They raised the windows cautiously, but not too quietly for Uncle Budge. He heard, but did not look up, though he began to feel a little ill at ease; and no less so when the milkman, who was dashing away from the Putnams', reined in his horses very noticeably, nudged the small boy on the side of the wagon, and both looked curiously at him.

Mr. Budgett walked a few steps, then looked furtively behind him. Imagine his feelings at discovering that the milkman had stopped his horses, and that the small boy was running quietly after him, but stopped as he noticed Mr. Budgett glance around.

"There certainly is something wrong," decided Mr. Budgett; "though I didn't think those little rascals would make a spectacle of me. As I live, their heads are out of the window yet. And look at the Putnams!" he exclaimed, aloud.

Well might he stop in surprise. There was Mrs. Putnam standing in the library window, with Abby and Sarah on tiptoe beside her; the two boys at a large upper window, poking each other and giggling audibly; Mr. Putnam at a third, apparently consulting a thermometer, but looking across at Mr. Budgett as though he possessed far more interest for him than any degree on the indicator; and lastly, Jane and Bridget on the side stoop, gazing as though he were a candidate for Barnum's.

"Polly, what's the matter with me?" he asked, walking into the dining-room, where Aunt Budge was drying her coffee-caps. "All Berkville is agog."

"Berkville agog!" cried Aunt Budge, inspecting Mr. Budgett critically. "I'm sure I don't know over what. However, the boys are up to something, for they said as much."

"Of course they are," agreed Uncle Budge; "but can't you take it off, Polly? It's on my back, I guess."

"It would be as well," advised Aunt Budge, "to give 'em the gold at once, for they'll play the trick, Jacob, whatever it is, on you till you do."

"Give them the gold!" exclaimed Uncle Budge, wonderingly. "My dear Polly, what do you mean?"

"They say you promised 'em each a gold piece last year if they'd come on and fool you this."

"I did?" with still more surprise in his voice—"I did? 'Pon my word I'd forgotten it. Well, well," producing the purse that Polly had knitted for him years ago. "Where are the rascals?" Then going to the stairs, "Rick and Karl, come down here," he called, with an affected sternness in his voice. "The idea of your daring to make a guy of your old uncle!"

"We haven't made a guy of you," said the boys, rushing down; "and it isn't a mean fool at all, Uncle Budge, for it's really nothing."

"You don't mean it!" chuckled Uncle Budge; "and that that whole family is fooled from garret to cellar, milkman included. Well, well, pretty good, pretty good. You deserve a reward, boys, for there'll be few tricks played to-day that'll end as pleasantly as this. It's the right kind of one, and the more of that sort the merrier."

"Beauties, ain't they?" cried Aunt Budge, admiringly, as the boys laid their gold pieces on the table where the sun came streaming in, and called her to look at them.

"His has worn down, perhaps," said Rick, spinning his glittering coin. "Why, look here! what's this? 'Two and a half D.'"

"No you don't," answered Karl, knowingly. "I'm too well posted on the day of the month."

"Well, I know these are two-dollar-and-a-half pieces," cried Rick, snatching his hat, "and I'm off to thank Uncle Budge for his fool," and away he went, and Karl after him when he found it was true.

[Begun in Harper's Young People No. 66, February 1.]

PHIL'S FAIRIES.

BY MRS. W J. HAYS,

Author of "Princess Idleways," etc.

Chapter IX.

A VISIT FROM THE YOUNG DOCTOR.

"Now, Phil," said Miss Rachel, "I am not going to be so busy for a while, and though you can not study yet, for the doctors say you must not, I shall read aloud to you a little every day. Graham has promised to come often to visit you, and with our boating and driving, and pleasant friends coming to stay with us, I think we shall have rather a nice summer. What do you think?"

Phil's face lighted up with a grateful smile, which grew into rather a sober expression.

"Miss Rachel, what becomes of all the poor sick children in the city who have no such friend as you are to me?"

"I am not sure that there is for a child like you. Perhaps there may be, and we will think about it; but you must not let such a thought oppress you; it is too much for a sick child to consider. Be happy; try to get well; do all you can to make everybody about you glad that you are here, by pleasant looks and good-nature. There, that is a little sermon which you hardly need, dear, for you are blessed with a sweet and patient temper, and are far less troublesome than many a well child."

"No, not a bit; the poor cross little things who fret and tease and worry are the ones who should be praised when they make an effort not to be disagreeable. But I am not going to preach any more. I am going down stairs to make some sponge-cake for the picnic you and Lisa and I are going to have to-morrow."

"Yes, and here comes Graham with a basket. I wonder what is in it. Good-by. I will send him up to you."

"Well, then, watch," and lifting the cover slowly, three cunning white rabbits poked their little twitching noses over the edge of the basket.

Phil gazed at them delightedly. "And you call those little darlings something to eat, do you?"

"As if any one could choose to be such a cannibal! What precious little beauties they are! Oh, how pretty they look!"

"I did, and I am to build them a hutch. Until I do, there is an empty box in the barn where they can stay."

Graham forgot that Phil was one boy who could not, but seeing the shade come over his friend's face made him repent his hasty speech.

"No, you need not, Graham. I must get used to being different from other boys. Well, these are just the loveliest little things I ever saw. What do they live on?"

"Almost any green thing; they are very fond of lettuce. When you are able, you must come and see my lop-ears."

"Yes, quite a number. Let me see: there's Neb (he's an old black fellow, Nebuchadnezzar), and Miss Snowflake, Aunt Chloe (after the one in Uncle Tom's Cabin), Fanny Elssler (because she jumps about so), and Mr. Prim—he is the stillest old codger you ever saw."

"You would be amused with Polly. She is a gay old thing—laughs, sings, and dances."

"Indeed she can; sometimes she sings like a nurse putting a child to sleep, in a sort of humming hush-a-by-baby way; then she tries dance-music, and hops first on one foot, then on the other—this way," and Graham began mimicking the parrot, and Phil laughed till the tears came. "She screams out 'Fire!' like an old fury, but she is as serene as a May day when she gets her cup of coffee."

"We will have to pay it a visit. Can you join our picnic to-morrow? it is Phil's first one."

"Yes, and I have a little plan to propose in which you may help us. Promise you will come."

"Then we will go early, I suppose, as it is quite a long pull. What must I bring, Miss Schuyler?"

"Only your arms, Graham, for alone Joe will perhaps find the rowing a little too much for him in the warm sun. I am Commissary-General for the party. That means, Phil, that I furnish the provisions; a Commissary-General has to see that his troops are well fed."

"There is no danger about that, I am sure," said Graham, gallantly, "if Miss Schuyler leads us."

"Well, then, to-morrow at nine, before the sun is too high—earlier would not do for Phil. And now be off with yourself; and your bunnies, Graham, leave them in the barn; and tell your good, kind father that you are an excellent substitute for himself, that Phil is improving even faster with your visits than he did with his."

[to be continued.]

PINAFORE RHYMES.—(Continued.)

Three organ men met in the street one day,
And all of them started at once to play;
They ground out their music from morning till night,
And the neighborhood felt in a terrible plight.
The rats and the mice scampered out of their holes,
And fled to the tops of the telegraph poles,
And a dog, that had patiently heard every tune,
Went mad at the last, and howled at the moon.
Then each of the organ men shouldered his pack,
And the neighborhood wished they might never come back.

Dear Aunt Fanny drove up to the door
From her country home with a coach and four;
She brought a big bundle of candy and cake,
The sweetest and best she could purchase and bake;
And that is the reason she travelled in state,
For she knew that the dear little folks couldn't wait.

I'll tell you a story—it's not very long—
Of the terrible giant, old Pink-a-pong.
He lived in a castle so big and high
That the topmost turrets were up in the sky.
He made a great earthquake whenever he walked,
And it sounded like thunder whenever he talked.
He never jumped less than a mile at a bound,
And would frighten the people for leagues around;
And every one said this was very wrong
Of the terrible giant, old Pink-a-pong.

Four little youngsters ran out of the mill,
Clambered right merrily over the hill;
Scampered about through the whole afternoon;
Went home at night by the light of the moon.
Foot-sore and weary and sleepy were they;
Slept all the night and the whole of next day.

Blow, breezes, softly blow,
Rock the children to and fro;
Not too hard, and not too high,
Lest they should tumble out and cry.

A little red bag, evidently the work of a "very little girl," containing three very bright pennies, accompanied this letter. It has been sent to Mr. Otis, who has written the story of the little boy's wanderings, and we are sure that when it reaches him, Toby Tyler will be pleased and comforted by this pretty expression of sympathy. The little readers of Young People are very lavish with their offers of kindness to this unfortunate boy. A great many homes are proffered to him, and no end of pennies and other comforts.

Indeed, no story that we remember has excited so much interest in its readers as that of "Toby Tyler." We could fill the Post-office Box with the letters received from our young correspondents, expressing their sympathy and delight. Many letters from parents also show that grown-up people are interested in the story, not only for the good lesson which it teaches, but for the graphic and entertaining manner in which the boy's adventures are told.

We do not know at present where Toby Tyler is; and we advise our young correspondents, who show such a pleasant disposition to help him, to wait for the end of his story, and see how his adventures turn out.

Willie M. Bloss, Montreal, Canada, desires to inform correspondents that he will not exchange any longer for postmarks.

Elijah G. B., Cleveland, Ohio, and Shelton A. Hibbs, Philadelphia, Penn., withdraw their names from our exchange list.

Charles Gruner, Brooklyn, N. Y., made a mistake in his offer printed in the Post-office Box of Young People No. 71. He wishes to exchange foreign stamps and foreign coins for old United States copper one-cent and half-cent pieces, coins, curiosities, and postmarks.

Correspondents will please take particular notice of the paragraph at the beginning of the Post-office Box in the previous number. In future we shall print no offer of exchange unless it comes to us very clearly expressed, for there is no space in the Post-office Box for the correction of mistakes.

We publish the above statement for the benefit of those who may be sending stamps to the writer; but at the same time we must remind him that, as his first offer of exchange did not state that he wished for new stamps only, he is in honor bound either to send his foreign stamps to his correspondents, or to return promptly those which he has received.

W. D. C. Spike,
St. Peter's Clergy House,
Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Canada.

Robert T. and Bertie Parke,
Care of J. H. Wills,
Downingtown, Chester County, Penn.

A Reader, Syracuse.—Skins of woodchucks and other small animals are often prepared by country boys without the use of any chemicals. The skin, fur side down, is stretched as tight as possible on a board, and is exposed to the sun and air until thoroughly dry. It must never be left out at night, nor allowed to get damp, as this makes it liable to crack and mould. When dry, it should be rubbed gently between the hands until soft. A little bran added while rubbing absorbs the grease, and helps to soften the skin. The skin will be better preserved if, after tacking it to the board, you wash it over with a solution of salt, and afterward, during several days, moisten the surface often with a wash made by dissolving two and a half ounces of alum in a pint of warm water.

E. L. S.—The first series of United States stamps was issued in 1847, and consisted of two values—5-cent, Franklin head, brown; 10-cent, Washington head, in black. The next series was begun in 1851. It consisted of 1-cent, 3-cent, 5-cent, 10-cent, 12-cent, 24-cent, 30-cent, and 90-cent. This was followed in 1861 by a series of similar values, with the addition of 2-cent and 15-cent. In 1869, an entire change was made, and stamps were issued of 1-cent, 2-cent, 3-cent, 6-cent, 10-cent, 12-cent, 24-cent, 30-cent, and 90-cent. Following this, in 1870, came the current series, which at first had values similar to the 1869 series, with the addition of a 7-cent stamp. The 7-cent, 12-cent, and 24-cent were suppressed in 1875, and the 5-cent re-introduced. Space is too limited to give any details of these stamps, but the following point will help you. The second and third series can be distinguished by the size of the holes separating the stamps, being very small in the second. In the fourth series, the stamps are all square. In the current series, all except the 5-cent are treated similarly to the 3-cent, head in oval to left. The 5-cent is blue. All these are the regular postage stamps for the use of the public.

E. S. R.—There are no books on the subject about which you inquire which are of use to beginners. The best thing you can do is to take a few lessons from some practical workman.

Johnny S.—If by "round" stamps you mean those cut from stamped envelopes, they are good for exchange, with the exception that they are very easily obtained. You must always cut them square, as they are better to paste in an album.

T. A. J.—Fac-similes of autographs of celebrated persons are not of much value for exchange, as they can easily be obtained. They are not only often given in newspapers, but are contained in school histories and many other books.

Harry A. McI.—The list of words ending in cion was given in the Post-office Box of Young People No. 20, Vol. I.

W. E. B. and Walter E. L.—Before the annexation of New Mexico, St. Augustine was the oldest town in the United States. Santa Fe had long been an Indian pueblo when it was occupied by the Spaniards, toward the end of the sixteenth century, and some of the ancient adobe dwellings of the Indians are still standing. Neither history nor tradition tells when this location was first chosen by the Indians, but the remains found there prove the date of settlement to be very ancient. The San Miguel Church, built soon after the occupation of Santa Fe by the Spaniards, is probably the oldest church edifice in the United States.

O. W. S.—The first "Jimmy Brown" story was in No. 32 of Young People, Vol. I. There were also stories of the series in Nos. 35, 38, and 50 of the same volume.

Subscriber, Philadelphia.—The first Wednesday in March, 1789, which that year fell on the fourth day of the month, was the time appointed for the government of the United States to begin its operations after the election of George Washington, but owing to unavoidable delays it was several weeks later before both of the new Houses of Congress could assemble. The inauguration of Washington did not take place until April 30 of the same year, but his term of office dated from March 4, and it was on that day in 1797 that he retired, after serving his country for eight years, and the inauguration of John Adams took place. The inaugurations of Presidents of the United States have always taken place on that day, except when the date has fallen on Sunday, in which case the public ceremonies are postponed until the following day.

E. W. H., and many Others.—When the address of a correspondent desiring exchange has been given, you must direct your offers and inquiries directly to the one with whom you desire to make an exchange.

M. C. M.—The address you desire was given twice in the Post-office Box, in No. 36 and No. 41, Vol. I.

Robert H. R.—We can not furnish a full set of Young People containing "The Moral Pirates," but you can obtain the story in neat book form.

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Jessie Allen, T. M. Armstrong, Walter E. Brainard, Charles Beyers, Jun., Berty Bassett, Jimmie F. Burns, Nellie Brainard, Courtney Chambers, C. D. Chipman, Nellie and Charles Corbishley, Maud M. Chambers, Willie Curtis, "Car O. Liney," Bessie Daniels, Happy J. Daniels, Edward L. Hunt, J. L. Hastie, Madge K. Kelly, M. Kelso, A. B. Lothrop, "L. U. Stral," Charles Mullen and "Thought," Paul J. Myler, Gracie Moore, Maud Miller, Charlie Nichols, Jessie Newton, "Oliver Twist," Alice Paige, Augusta Low Parke, Daisy Rand, W. H. Rogers, "Starry Flag," "Tre," Mattie R. Upton, Willie F. Woolard, Kittie Weston, Karl C. Wells, H. Western, Madge S. Wilson.

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

ENIGMA.

In frolic, not in fun.
In rifle, not in gun.
In insect, not in gnat.
In mouse, not in cat
In peat, not in coal.
In wrap, not in roll.
In stain, not in soil.
In labor, not in toil.
In curtain, not in screen.
My whole an ancient queen.

Car O. Liney.

No. 2.

HALF-SQUARE—(To Percy).

A sea. A bitter drug. A business transaction. A number. The present tense of a verb. A letter from Michigan.

No. 3.

EASY DIAMONDS.

2. A letter from New Hampshire. To confine. A musical instrument. The limit. A letter from Idaho.

3. In England. A town of Belgium. A town of Brazil. A town and river of Persia. In England.

No. 4.

ENIGMA—(To Bolus).

In rattle, not in box.
In Reynard, not in fox.
In gable, not in house.
In bittern, not in grouse.
In lion, not in deer.
In port, not in beer.
In master, not in men.
In inkstand, not in pen.
In curtain, not in shade.
In knife, not in blade.
You read of my whole in a famous book,
Into which all children love to look;
It forms a part of a baby's attire,
And takes the place of blankets and fire.

Edith M. W.

No. 5.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC—(To Owlet).

Primals and Finals.

Always opposed, each struggling for his right;
One flings the glove, the other then must fight.

Cross Words.

1. A work of art, admired through ages past,
Yet, after all, is but a tomb at last.

2. An instrument of music no one uses,
Though honored by Apollo and the Muses.

3. When gossips trouble us with tales absurd,
We wish them far away, using this word.

4. A picture we may guard, displayed or hid,
But none may worship—that's a thing forbid.

5. The prophet who rebuked, with words of power,
The king who sinned in an unhappy hour.

6. A creature from whose touch we shrink with dread,
That bears a charmed life—none find it dead.

7. A charming isle in Naples' lovely bay—
There pilgrims worship, and there tourists stray.

8. She cares not for the duties of her nest,
But on her master's hand sits like a crest.

9. Here roamed the deer, and many an Indian band,
Now rarely found throughout our happy land.

Rip Van Winkle.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 71.

No. 1.

No. 2.

No. 3.

No. 4.

No. 5.

HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

Single Copies, 4 cents; One Subscription, one year, $1.50; Five Subscriptions, one year, $7.00—payable in advance, postage free.

The Volumes of Harper's Young People commence with the first Number in November of each year.

Subscriptions may begin with any Number. When no time is specified, it will be understood that the subscriber desires to commence with the Number issued after the receipt of the order.

Remittances should be made by Post-Office Money-Order or Draft, to avoid risk of loss.

A PERSONATION: WHO AM I?

BY E. M.

The first thirty years of my life I lived at ease as a liegeman at a foreign court, where I was treated with favor, and not made to feel my dependence. My own country, of which I was the lawful ruler, suffered from internal wars, and finally my patriotism was aroused by the judicial murder of one of my countrymen, who, fighting not for the hope of the crown, but to free the country from its oppressors, was taken prisoner, and barbarously executed. His unselfish life and death opened my eyes to my cowardice, and incited me to make an effort to regain my freedom, and, with a few whom I thought my friends, I concerted a plan to escape. This plan was betrayed by one of my associates, and being hot-blooded, when I met him by appointment to consult, though it was in a church, I taxed him with his treachery, and our quarrel growing violent, swords were drawn, and I killed him at the foot of the altar. I instantly fled, assumed the title of King, called on my faithful subjects to aid me, and, assisted by my three brothers, soon organized a small army. The force sent against me by the usurper of my crown was so much larger and better disciplined than mine that in the first battle I was defeated, my army scattered, and I fled, with my brothers and a few friends, to the hills for shelter. Being too many to remain together, we separated. I escaped pursuit, but my three dear brothers were captured, and soon after hung, and I was excommunicated by the Pope on account of the murder committed in the church. A few friends joined me in my hiding-place, and whenever we were able we sallied forth, attacking, and often defeating, small bodies of our enemies, and then fleeing to the friendly hills. Little by little my forces increased, and finally my successes became so constant that the usurper himself left his country at the head of a large army, determined to crush me. Fortunately for me, he was taken sick, and died ere he could cross the borders of my kingdom, but charged his son not to bury his bones until he had borne them in triumph through my dominions. This son, unlike his war-like father, preferred a luxurious court life, and for three years I was left unmolested, so that I succeeded in establishing my claim over all the country, and was publicly proclaimed King. This last act aroused my enemy from his apathy, and he sent a force against me; but domestic troubles compelled the army to return home, and the disagreements between the King and his subjects lasted long enough to enable me to recover my lost possessions, until at last only one fortress remained to be reconquered. The governor of this asked for a truce, promising if he were not relieved by the King before the feast of St. John, he would deliver up the castle. He sent word to his royal master, who started as soon as he could raise an army, and the night before the feast (June 24) saw us both encamped in the neighborhood of the fortress. The battle next day resulted in my favor, though the odds were greatly against us, and it has been celebrated in both song and story. I captured so many noble prisoners that I was enabled to exchange them for my wife and relations, who had been held as captives for eight years. I was now able to take the offensive, drive my enemies out of my kingdom, and compel a truce for thirteen years. I was beloved by my people, and so dear is my memory still to them that in 1872, more than five hundred years after my death, a statue was erected to me in the famous castle I conquered on the eve of St. John.

THE TALLY-HO.

Heigh-ho! Here we go,
On top of the famous Tally-ho.
The cracking whip and tooting horn
Ring loud and clear on the frosty morn;
And the iron hoofs make a merry sound
As they clatter over the frozen ground.
Ta ra! Ta ra! Crack! Crack! Heigh-ho!
Then snap the whip, the bugle blow;
For this is the famous Tally-ho.

Our cheeks are red, our noses blue;
But we enjoy it, and so would you.
And we shall have hot pumpkin-pie
And apple-dumplings by-and-by;
A blazing fire to warm our feet,
And a maid to serve us, trim and neat.
Ta ra! Ta ra! Crack! Crack! Heigh-ho!
Then snap the whip, the bugle blow;
For this is the famous Tally-ho.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A fip (the fivepenny bit of Pennsylvania currency) was a silver piece of the value of six and a quarter cents. A levy (a similar contraction for the elevenpenny bit) was twelve and a half cents in value. A few stray fips and levies still appear occasionally from old hordes of silver, but only pass now for dimes and half-dimes.

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Vol. II.—No. 74.	Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.	Price Four Cents.
Tuesday, March 29, 1881.	Copyright, 1881, by Harper & Brothers.	$1.50 per Year, in Advance.

U	pa	S
N	augh	T
I	beri	A
T	rou	T
E	lb	E
D	ipper	S