[Pg 385]

TRAINING THE OLD BLIND HORSE.

MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER.[1]

BY JAMES OTIS,

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

Chapter III.

ABNER BOLTON.

"Now I'll see about makin' the saddle," said Bob, "'cause I've seen 'em a good many times in a circus, an' I know jest how they're made. While I'm doin' that, you fellers must be fixin' 'bout who else we'll have in the show. Leander Leighton will come up here to-morrow, so's we can hear how he plays, an' we must have everything fixed by then."

"Why didn't he come to-day?" asked Ben, thinking that all the members of the firm should have been present at this first rehearsal.

LEANDER IS ENGAGED AT HOME.

"Well, you see, he had to split some wood, an' he had to take care of the baby. I offered to help him with the wood; but he said he couldn't get away any quicker if I did, for just as soon as the baby saw another feller waitin' 'round, she'd yell so awful hard he'd have to stay in all day."

This explanation as to the absence of the band appeared to be perfectly satisfactory to those present, and they began to discuss the merits of certain of their companions in order to decide upon the proper ones to enlist as members, since the number of their performers was not so large as they thought it should be in a show where an admission fee of three cents was to be charged.

Just as they were getting well into their discussion,[Pg 386] and, of course, speaking of such matters as managers should keep a profound secret from the public, Bob cried out:

"There comes Abner Bolton! He's always runnin' 'round where he ain't wanted; an' I wonder how he come to know we was here? I'll send him off mighty quick, now you see."

The boy who had disturbed Bob so greatly was so near when he was first discovered that by the time the threat had been uttered he was close upon them. He was a small boy, not more than eight years old, and hardly as large as a boy of six should be; he walked on crutches because of his deformed legs, which hung withered and almost useless, barely capable of supporting his slight weight.

"Now, what do you want?" asked Bob, in an angry tone.

"I don't want anything," was the mild reply, as the cripple halted just outside the shade, as if not daring to come any farther until invited. "I heard you was goin' to get up a circus, an' I thought perhaps you'd let me watch you, 'cause I wouldn't bother you any."

"You would bother us, an' you can't stay 'round here, for we ain't goin' to have anybody watchin' us. You may come to the show if you can get three cents."

"I don't s'pose I could do that," said the boy, looking longingly toward the shade, but still standing in the sun. "I don't have any chance to get money, an' I do wish you boys would let me stay where you are, for it's so awful lonesome out to the poor-farm, an' I can't run around as you can."

"Well, you can't stay here, an' the sooner you go back to the farm the better we'll like it, for we don't want anybody to know what we're talkin' about."

Toby had attempted to speak once or twice while Bob was engaged with the cripple from the poor-farm; but he did not get an opportunity until Abner turned to go away, looking thoroughly sad and disheartened.

"Don't go, Abner, but come and set down here where it's cool, an' perhaps we can fix it for you."

The cripple turned as Toby spoke, and the look which came into his face went right to the heart of the boy, who for ten long weeks had known what it was to be almost without a friend.

"I don't see what you want him 'round here for," said Bob, petulantly, as Abner seated himself by Toby's side, thoroughly exhausted by his long walk. "He can't do nothin'; an' if he could, we don't want no fellers from the poor-farm mixed up with the show."

"It don't make any difference if he does live to the poor-farm," said Toby, as he put his little brown hand on Abner's thin fingers. "He can belong to the show jest as well as not; an' if you fellers will let him, I'll give you my part of all the money we make."

This proposition of Toby's put the matter on a very different basis, and both Ben and Bob now looked favorably inclined toward it.

"Don't you do that, Toby," said Abner, his eyes filling with tears because of the kindness shown him. "I'll go right away, an' I won't come into the village again to bother you."

"You shall come into the village every day, Abner, an' you won't bother us at all, for you shall go 'long of me everywhere I do, an' I won't never walk any faster'n you can;" and Toby moved his seat nearer Abner, to show that he took him under his especial care.

"He might help tend the door," said Joe, kindly, anxious to please Toby, "an' that'll give me a chance to do more howlin' for the hyenas, 'cause that'll be about all I oughter do if I have to hold the hoops."

"Yes, he can do that;" and Toby was very eager now. "An' we can get him a stool to sit on, an' he can do jest as much as if he could stand up."

By this time Bob and Ben had decided that, in consideration of Toby's offer, Abner should be counted as one of the company, and the matters under discussion that had been interrupted by the cripple's coming were again taken up.

Owing to the possible chance that Joe could not succeed in training the blind horse sufficiently to make him useful in the ring, it was necessary to know just what animals they could procure, and Bob offered to see Chandler Merrill for the purpose of securing the services of his Mexican pony, which had never allowed any one to ride him without first having a severe battle.

"We can train him down all right," said Bob; "an' you fellers come down now while I find out 'bout the pony, so's we can come back here after dinner."

As it was very important that this matter should be settled as soon as possible, Bob's advice was acted upon; and as the boys started to go, Toby said:

"Come, Abner, you come home with me an' get some dinner, an' then you can come back here when I do."

Bob was disposed to make sport of this sudden friendship; but Toby paid no attention to what he said, and if any of them wanted to talk to him, they too were obliged to walk with the boy from the poor-farm.

By the time they arrived at Uncle Daniel's, Toby had formed many plans for making the life of the homeless boy more cheerful than it ever had been.

Toby's interest in the crippled boy whom he had taken under his charge was considerably greater than in the contemplated circus; and both Bob and Ben felt angry and injured when, in the midst of some brilliant plan for startling those of the good people of Guilford who should come to their circus, Toby would stop to say something to Abner, who was hobbling along as fast as possible in order that he might not oblige the party to wait for him.

For a number of years Toby had known that there was a crippled orphan at the poor-farm; but it so happened that he had not met him very often, and even then he had no idea of the lonely life the boy was obliged to lead.

On the way to the village he had formed several plans by which he might aid Abner; but none of them could be put into operation until after he had consulted Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive.

It was nearly noon, and the understanding was that each one should get his dinner and go to the pasture again, when it would be known whether they were to be able to number Chandler Merrill's pony among the attractions of their show, or be wholly dependent upon the disabled horses that as yet made up their collection.

"You're comin' to get dinner with me, Abner," said Toby, as he stopped in front of Uncle Daniel's gate, while the little fellow was continuing on his way to the only place he could call home, there to get his dinner with the other paupers.

"I'm afraid your aunt won't want me," he said, shyly, while it was plain to be seen that he would be more than well pleased to accept the invitation.

"Aunt Olive won't care a bit, an' she'll be glad to have you, I know, 'cause she says it always does her good to see hungry people eat, though if that's so, I must have done her an awful sight of good lots of times, for it don't seem to me I ever set down to the table in my life but what I was awful hungry. Come on now, so's we'll have time to get our hands an' faces washed before the dinner-bell rings."

Abner followed Toby in a hesitating way, much as if he expected each moment to be ordered back; and when they arrived at the door he stood on the threshold, not daring to enter until permission had been given.

"This is Abner Bolton, Uncle Dan'l," said Toby, as he saw that his newly made friend would not come in without an invitation from some one besides himself. "He lives out to the poor-farm, an' he don't have any such nice home as I've got, so I thought you wouldn't care if I brought him in to dinner."

[Pg 387]

"You've got a good heart, Toby, boy, and the Lord will reward you for it," said Uncle Daniel, as he stroked the boy's refractory hair. And then he said to Abner, "Come in, my lad, and share Toby's dinner; nor need you ever hesitate about accepting any such invitation when it leads you here."

Then Aunt Olive greeted Abner so kindly that the poor boy hardly knew whether it was reality or a dream, so strange was it all to him.

During the dinner Toby told of the difficulty he had had in getting his partners to consent to Abner's being one of the company, and Aunt Olive, who had shown considerable interest in the circus scheme, said:

"Why don't you let him keep a stand, and then he can make some money for himself. I will bake him a lot of doughnuts and ginger-snaps, and your uncle Dan'l will lend him money enough to buy lemons an' sugar. It will be a deal better than to have Nahum Baker there with his pies that are as heavy as lead, an' doughnuts that have soaked up all the fat in the pan."

Toby was delighted with the plan, and Abner's eyes glistened at the mere idea that it might be possible for him to do, once in his life at least, as did other and more fortunate boys.

[to be continued.]

THE POET'S EMPTY CHAIR.[2]

BY MRS. MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

From the chair the children gave him, where he sat as on a throne,
While they clustered round him fondly, claiming him as all their own,
He has gone, the poet stately, aureoled with snowy hair;
If we looked, we could not find him in this wide world anywhere.

If we called, he would not answer—he, so swift to smile and bless
Every little child who sought him with a gracious tenderness;
Though we wept, he would not hear us; he has gone too far away,
And the children's chair in Cambridge is a vacant throne to-day.

But we'll hie to fair Mount Auburn, hand in hand with April days,
There to wreathe the children's garland, 'mid the green immortal bays;
Shy arbutus, valley-lilies, violets breaking into bloom,
Sparkling with the children's tear-drops, shall adorn the poet's tomb.

There he slumbers, oh, so deeply! all his earthly labors done,
Never more a care to vex him 'neath the ever-circling sun;
Of all sweet things said about him, this shall farthest fragrance send,
That the poet, sage, and scholar was the children's loving friend.

Like his Master, he would suffer tiny hands to pluck his gown;
Fearlessly the small feet thronged him, unrebuked by word or frown;
Surely he was met in heaven by a white-robed shining band,
Since before Our Father alway do the children's angels stand.

TOM FAIRWEATHER'S VISIT TO THE SULTAN OF BORNEO.

BY LIEUTENANT E. W. STURDY, U.S.N.

Our sailor-boy, Tom Fairweather, leaned over the ship's side, watching the return of the steam-launch.

A message had been sent to no less a personage than the Sultan of Borneo, or perhaps I should have said an embassy. So grand a personage as a Sultan calls for such a ceremonious term. Don't you think so, young people?

The ship lay in the Chinese Sea off the coast of the island of Borneo, and some fifteen miles from the town of Bruni, or Borneo, as it is sometimes called.

As Tom stood there, a succession of wise thoughts coursed through his head; wise, that is, for a young gentleman of his age—twelve, by-the-way. These thoughts included the position of the equator. Tom felt himself to be quite old friends with the equator by this time, so often had he "crossed the line."

When he had first studied geography he had regarded such a performance as quite remarkable, and on a par with sailing or sledging to either pole. The thoughts of geography brought to his mind the book he had used at school, Maury's Manual, which contained a number of illustrations. Tom distinctly recalled a picture in this book, beneath which was written "The Sultan of Borneo." The Sultan was resplendent in a flowing flowered robe, which Tom supposed to be of brocade. He wore Turkish trousers, a turban on his head, and mutton-chop whiskers. The only touch of carelessness about his costume was his bare feet. He reposed in a grove of palms, and in one hand held a long hookah. Take him all in all, he bore a strong resemblance to the Sultans in the Arabian Nights Entertainment, one of Tom's favorite volumes, and who, as other boys and girls are well aware, were all very wealthy and lordly people indeed.

As Tom had never seen a live Sultan before, he was most anxious to visit his Sultanship of Borneo. He therefore broke out in a whistle of pleased expectation, for it was distinctly understood that he was to be of the party making the formal visit.

The Sultan, it appeared, had graciously signified his entire willingness to be called upon; so Tom made a few additions to his toilet, which he considered were called for by the magnificence of the occasion; that is to say, he put on his watch and chain, as well as a ring with a large red stone, which the man in Ceylon of whom he had bought it had told him was a ruby. He felt extremely important and a little overawed when he was seated in the launch on his way to the Sultan's abode.

To begin with, he was somewhat surprised at the appearance of Bruni as they neared it. "Huts!" he said, in astonishment. "With thatched roofs. Are all the houses like these? Why, this doesn't look like a city at all. Maury's Geography said this was the capital. This is a high old capital, I must say."

"There are capitals and capitals," returned his father. "Did you expect something like Washington? I must admit that the splendor of Borneo is rather down at heels—but so it goes."

The residence of the Sultan was a thatched hut, very much like those of which the rest of the town was composed. It was built on piles driven into the river-bed, and was entered by steps leading down to the water. There were other houses thus set up on piles, and behind those still others, until finally the rest of the town straggled against and on top of the river-bank.

Tom followed his father up the steps with feelings in which disappointment struggled with curiosity. His expectations had already received a series of shocks, but this was too much. A King's palace to have dwindled down to this shabby little hut!

They entered into the royal presence. Captain Fairweather[Pg 388] and his officers were received by two interpreters, who made them welcome in very broken English, and then led the way to the head of the room, where stood the Sultan. He was almost a hundred years old. Don't suppose from this that such is the average age of Sultans. But this particular one, Abdul Momin, had actually attained that ripe old age, from which we may gather that his dignities agreed with him. There is something impressive in old age, whether it be that of prince or peasant; but beyond this the old man before whom Tom found himself bowing politely was certainly not in the least remarkable. He was a very shabby old man indeed. He wore a single soiled garment—a gown which reached to his feet. As though to make him as unlike the Sultan in Maury's Manual as possible, he wore slippers (such as they were); and finally there was a common little cap on his head instead of the silken turban, bound with pearls, of Tom's imagination.

The Sultan could not speak English, and the officers could not understand him, so that the conversation would have flagged had it not been for the interpreters referred to above. One of these was the Funny Man one meets all over the world, who sees a joke in everything, and laughs at it himself, whether you are amused or not. But this man was really very funny. He rubbed his hands and bowed and laughed over everything that was said, until it was impossible not to be in good spirits. He evidently considered it quite a good joke that so many fine gentlemen in uniform, with gold epaulets and clanking swords, should have taken the trouble to look up such a seedy old Sultan as Abdul Momin. Having made the presentations in due form, he proceeded to do the honors of the one-roomed palace. There was very, very little furniture to look at; but the officers showed a determination to be pleased, and admired all that this interpreter, in his flourishing way, pointed out to their notice.

"That's a nice rug," said Lieutenant Jollytarre.

"Yes; Sultan borrow that when he know you coming," replied the interpreter.

"Those are nice pipes," proceeded Tom, following in the wake, as he was in the habit of doing, of his friend Lieutenant Jollytarre.

"Borrowed too," rejoined the interpreter, with a wink.

Coffee was handed around, served in pretty little cups of Japanese ware. Captain Fairweather, by way of making conversation, in his turn, admired these cups. "Ah! Kioto ware?" said he.

"Kioto; yes, yes," replied the interpreter, to whom the remark was addressed. "Chinaman keep shop in Bruni. Sultan borrow cups of him." Thereupon he winked more decidedly than before.

"Well!" exclaimed Tom; "don't the Sultan own anything? I suppose the slippers on his feet are his at least."

"Borrowed," ejaculated the interpreter, with a chuckle.

Tom was now convulsed with laughter; seeing which, the interpreter winked again—this time gravely.

Captain Fairweather finally took out his watch, and remarked, "We must be off if we wish to see anything more of Bruni."

With ceremonious politeness the officers took leave of the Sultan, all of which impressed Tom as highly absurd. On shore there were, as stated, more thatched huts—these too were set on piles in order to prevent the venomous reptiles native to these shores from crawling in and out the open doors.

"Lots of tribes in Borneo," piped up the interpreter. "This tribe Muruts—head-hunters."

THE HEAD-HUNTERS OF BORNEO.

Tom stood transfixed in mute, horrified astonishment in front of the nearest hut. Its steep projecting roof had fallen somewhat into decay; the thatching in some places had fallen quite off. Before the doorway a group of natives were gathered, attracted by the strangers. They stared at the strangers, who in turn stared back with equal curiosity. Suspended across the doorway was a string of human heads—yes, horrible to relate—of human heads in different states of decomposition. "He great head-hunter," said the interpreter, pointing to the owner of the hut. "Count heads—one—two—three—"

"Twenty," announced Tom, solemnly, completing the count.

"These fellows bring home a head as a token of their prowess, just as a North American Indian brings home a scalp," explained Mr. Jollytarre. "They make a raid into another tribe, kill a man, and back they come with it as an evidence of their courage and skill. The more heads a man takes, the greater distinction he attains in his tribe. Nothing is thought of him by his own people until he chops off a head."

Tom looked again at the string of heads, and exclaimed, "Faugh! it makes me ill. I almost wish I hadn't come."

But disagreeable things are short-lived in a boy's mind. The head-hunters and their ghastly trophies faded away as he asked questions upon questions about Borneo, on his way back to the ship.

"The third largest island in the world," he repeated to himself. "Australia, New Guinea, Borneo—and if you don't count Australia an island, it's the second. Well, well, it's a queer place anyway, and I don't think much of it, whatever its size may be."

[Pg 389]

AT THE DOGS' HOSPITAL.

BY MISS F. E. FRYATT.

All the family were present and took part in the council; even grandmamma, who was dozing in the corner, expressed an opinion in her sleep.

The subject was a grave one, suggesting alarming possibilities, for if a hot, dry nose, dull eyes, a general droop of the body, and aversion to food meant anything, Pepper's was a serious illness—and what was to come of it?

"I, for one," said Aunt Maria, "am fearful that it is hydropho—"

"Please don't say that," pleaded Dick, piteously. "Papa would have him shot."

"Oh dear!" cried Harry, his eyes filling at the mere thought.

"Maria, can not you think of something or other?" exclaimed Aunt Phebe, helplessly.

"Put his feet in hot water with plenty of mustard in it, and a dose of rhubarb and magnesia," advised grandmamma, in her sleep.

"It isn't the baby, mother; it's Pepper that's sick," replied Aunt Maria.

At this moment Uncle Fritz's welcome voice was heard at the hall door. The boys darted up stairs to tell their griefs, and ask a hundred questions.

"Oh, brother, that dreadful dog has gone and made himself ill!" was Miss Maria's greeting.

"What shall we do for him?" was Miss Phebe's.

"Mustard draughts and hive syrup best thing in the world," murmured the old lady, uneasily.

"Don't fret, mother; no one's ill but Pepper," said Mr. Hayes, following his sisters to where the invalid was lying.

Four faces brightened visibly as Uncle Fritz pronounced it a case of distemper, and not hydrophobia, and recommended removal to the hospital.

"The hospital!" exclaimed both boys in wonder.

"Yes, children; and the sooner, the more hope for his recovery. By-the-way, Maria, if you have a covered basket, a piece of carpet, and Pepper's basin ready, we'll get him off at once."

The boys were wild with excitement. Pepper would not be shot after all; he was going to be cured.

After stroking his glossy sides, to which he responded by a feeble wag of his tail, they took off his silver collar and bells, lifted him tenderly into the basket, called the family to bid him good-by, and departed with their uncle.

"It's a mercy he has gone. Suppose he had bitten Smoke?" remarked Miss Maria, closing the hall door.

"I shall miss him, for all that," sighed Miss Phebe.

Soon Pepper, curled up in the basket on Uncle Fritz's knee in the elevated car, was rushing toward his destination. Where that was he little cared, he was so truly miserable.

A black-and-tan of "high degree," his dainty paws had never trodden rougher ways than the velvet carpets of his mistress's mansion, or the smooth lawns of his master's garden. He slept on silken cushions, took his airings in Miss Maria's carriage, and had his food served in porcelain. Not even Smoke, the petted Maltese, dared to put her nose within a foot of his basin. Alas! how much of this was to be changed!

A few minutes' ride and a short walk brought the boys and Mr. Hayes to the gate of a low, curious, but gayly painted cottage; on either side of the entrance were piled cages of birds and animals.

On the top of the porch Dick saw, with an uncomfortable sinking at his heart, a stuffed dog that looked much the worse for continual exposure to the weather. Below hung a framed picture of odd-looking dogs, labelled "Famous," while a sign hanging near announced that Dr. Blank, Importer, Doctor, and Taxidermist, was prepared to sell, board, cure, and stuff all kinds of birds and domestic animals.

Dick was greatly re-assured when, peeping through the palings, he saw several little dogs comfortably basking in the sunshine before the door, but was fairly delighted at[Pg 390] the frolicking company that greeted them on entering the cottage. As he afterward said, he could not tell which jumped the highest, wagged their tails the hardest, barked the loudest, or cut the funniest capers, the Yorkshire terriers, the Skyes, or the English pugs.

In the midst of the uproar a back door opened, and in came the Doctor, a sharp-faced little man, with a troop of dogs at his heels.

"Down with you, Tiger. Be quiet, Meg. Off with you, Bess. Don't be frightened, young gentlemen, they're all educated dogs."

As soon as he could make himself heard, Mr. Hayes explained the purpose of their visit.

DR. BLANK GIVING PEPPER HIS MEDICINE.

Pepper was drawn forth from the basket, held up by the nape of his neck, and examined. The Doctor felt his body, rubbed his nose, and lifted his eyelids; then said solemnly: "A very sick dog; heart's affected; pulse irregular; lungs bad. But while there's life, there's hope, sir. I'll engage to cure him if any one can."

At this unexpected close to this ominous speech, the boys grew cheerful again, and ventured to ask where Pepper would sleep.

A large clean cage was selected, and Dick allowed to spread the carpet, put the basin in, and lay Pepper upon his bed. Thus he was installed as a regular boarder patient in the Dogs' Hospital.

"Misery loves company," it is said. If that is true, Pepper must have been pleased, for there were half a dozen sick dogs in the cages near him.

Their pet once comfortably settled, Dick and Harry, like true boys, expressed their curiosity to see and hear the histories of the other boarders. Dr. Blank condescended to gratify them.

"This one," said the Doctor, indicating a glossy red bantam, "is Dandy, a performing rooster.

"These Angora rabbits in the next cage are Bunny and Belle, the pantomimists; play in Humpty Dumpty; owned by a lady in Europe, sir.

"In this cage, sir, is Binney, owned by a banker; he's a fine Maltese, three months old, and weighs seventeen pounds.

"This next one, this fine tabby, is Jim, an editor's cat, worth a thousand dollars!"

"Whew!" exclaimed Dick, "I didn't know any cat was worth that."

"Now, gentlemen, look at these beauties. Kate and Mollie, carrier-pigeons, owned by a sailor. These in the lower row are tumblers, puffers, and fantails—for sale, gentlemen."

Dick commenced counting his savings mentally; wondered which would be the nicer to buy, pigeons or rabbits. Being introduced to a family of guinea-pigs a moment later, was puzzled, and finally decided to buy one of each.

"Now for the dogs, sir," continued the Doctor, with the air of a showman. "Here, Flirt, stand up and show how you can dance."

In a twinkling a pretty silver terrier, with its hair "banged" beautifully above the eyes, stood up on its hind-legs, held its head sideways, and holding its fore-paws like a young kangaroo, danced around the room to the boys' wondering delight.

"That'll do, Flirt," commanded the Doctor. "Now, Baron, show how you can jump."

Baron was the queerest-looking small creature, an English pug with a fawn-colored body, and a knotted-up, wrinkled, sooty little visage expressive of the greatest contempt and ill-nature—a visage that greatly belied him, for he was the gentlest of all dogs.

At the word "over," he leaped to the top of the half-door, and thence into the yard.

"Well done, you little hero!" cried Dick.

Queenie and Rosie, a pair of tiny Yorkshires, and Snap, a black-and-tan, who "could kill forty rats in a minute," were next introduced. Dick thought the latter almost equal to Pepper, who, by-the-way, never killed any.

"Now, come out-doors, gentlemen, and look at our other boarders before supper-time," said the Doctor.

In an instant Mr. Hayes and the boys were surrounded by dogs great and small. A fine blood-hound thrust its cold nose against Harry's cheek, a red Irish setter licked his hand, and a pair of white bull-dogs, by clumsy antics and friendly nudgings, tried to make his acquaintance, while a number of bull-terriers, Newfoundland, and pointer pups engaged in a rough-and-tumble play that was very amusing.

In a shed at one corner of the yard the boys spied a young man preparing the dogs' supper. Dick whispered, "There'll be fun by-and-by."

The boys had just time, after they examined two or three families of terrier puppies, to peep between the bars at two very distinguished boarders who had recently arrived from Europe—an English mastiff and a Scotch collie or shepherd dog—who had separate apartments and dined alone, when supper was announced by a long, shrill whistle.

"Now they'll fight," said Dick, in a tone of expectation; but he was mistaken.

The dogs marched to supper like a company of soldiers. Two lads presided over the tubs and troughs from which the larger ones ate, while a young woman fed the smaller ones daintier fare from earthen dishes.

Although there were neither napkins nor finger-bowls, and not one of the dogs had ever heard of, much less read, Lord Chesterfield on Politeness, they all behaved with as much decorum as so many boys and girls at a tea party.

"At any rate," said Miss Maria that evening, "Pepper will not lose his manners there, and if he dies we can let the Doctor stuff him."

THE QUEEN'S REPARATION.

In 1822, the Society Islands, which had previously been governed by chiefs according to their own pleasure, came under the influence of the Christian religion. One of the first things the islanders did was to assemble and agree upon a code of laws, which were to be equally binding upon the King and his lowest subject.

A few months after the adoption of this code the Queen of Tahiti visited Huahine. Her attendants requiring a piece of timber, she directed them to cut down a bread-fruit-tree which grew in a garden near the place where she was resting with her people.

In the evening, when the owner came home from his work in the fields, he saw what had been done. There lay the branches strewn around. There was the bleeding stump. But the tree, his pride and delight, was gone.

Informed by his neighbors that the Queen's men had cut it down, he went at once to the magistrate and lodged a complaint against her Majesty. The magistrate directed him to appear at sunrise the next morning, and bring witnesses to prove his charge. The Queen also received a summons to attend.

At the appointed hour, Ori, the Judge, was seated on the ground beneath a mighty tree. On a finely woven mat before him reclined the Queen, surrounded by attendants. Beside her stood the peasant, her accuser, and back of them, all a number of men who seemed to be police officers.

Turning to the plaintiff, whose name was Teuhe, Ori asked for what purpose they were assembled. The poor man replied:

"O magistrate, in my garden there grew a bread-fruit-tree. Its shelter was thrown over my cottage. Its fruit supported my children. Yesterday some one came and cut it down. They tell me the Queen sent him to do so.[Pg 391] What I desire to ask is, whether the law was made only for kings, or for poor men too?"

The magistrate, turning to the Queen, asked if she had ordered this. She answered, "Yes." He then asked if she did not know that they had laws. She said, "Yes"; but she was not aware that they applied to her. The magistrate asked if in those laws—a copy of which he held in his hand—there were any exceptions in favor of chiefs, or kings, or queens. She answered, "No," and dispatched one of her attendants to her house, who soon returned with a bag of money, which she threw down before the poor man, as a recompense for his loss.

"Stop," said the Justice; "we have not done yet." The Queen began to weep. "Do you think it right that you should have cut down the tree without asking the owner's permission?" continued the magistrate. "It was not right," said the Queen. Then turning to the poor man, he asked, "What remuneration do you require?" Teuhe answered, "If the Queen is convinced that it was not right to take a little man's tree without his permission, I am sure she will not do so again. I am satisfied; I require no other recompense." His disinterestedness was applauded, the assembly dispersed, and afterward, I think, the Queen sent him privately a present equal to the value of his tree.

CAPTAIN EDWARDS'S BIG WHALE.

BY EESUNG EYLISS.

"Uncle Horace, I have just been down to the foot of Wall Street to see the whale."

"I am very glad you have done so, Bennie. What did you think of it, and what did it look like?"

"When I went in, the great creature was lying on a board floor under a large canvas tent, and about twenty persons were examining it. Oh, it was so fat! Great gashes had been made in its sides, and through them you could see what they called the 'blubber.' I saw Captain Edwards there too. He was talking to another gentleman, and telling him all about how he caught the whale."

"Well, and how was it?"

CAPTAIN EDWARDS.

"Why, you see, the Captain was aboard his ship, the Fanny Sprague, and they were sailing along the coast of Long Island, between Amagansett and East Hampton. This whale had been seen about there several times, and they were just after it. Well, one morning—I remember the very date; it was March 15—they caught sight of it. The boats were lowered, and away the whalemen went in pursuit. As they came alongside, Mr. Fee, the mate, who was in the bow of one of the boats, ready with harpoon in hand, hurled it in deep just below where the shoulder-blade would be. This astonished the whale, and it dived at once, splashing the water all around, and staving in the side of the boat with one of its flukes. The water was shallow, though, and the fish soon came up again to spout, and then started to run up the coast at the rate of sixty miles an hour. This was about ten o'clock in the morning. They had also thrown another harpoon into the fish, and the boat was being towed almost alongside, near the tail. After towing them some fifty miles, the whale began to grow tired, and then they stabbed it several times with the lance. It soon died."

"Bravo, Bennie! Now how did you remember all that?"

"Why, I was perfectly certain you and auntie would want to know all about it, and I just listened with all my might, so as I could tell you. I do wish, though, you could have seen it for yourself."

"Suppose now that I did. I have seen many whales, both living and dead, but such things always interest me, and I went in yesterday also to look at this one."

"Oh, Uncle Horace! What did you think of the monster? Did you ever see any other fish so big as that?"

"I am glad you asked your question in that shape, Ben. We will have a little talk about whales. People generally have such incorrect ideas concerning them that I think it is really worth while to give you some instruction, and at all events to start you right, for we shall have time now to make a start, and no more. In the first place, Bennie, always remember a whale is not a fish, and in no way allied to fishes."

"Why, Uncle Horace! What do you mean? Not a fish? I am sure I have read about whale-fishing, and I know they live in the water like fish."

"There is where you are wrong, Ben. They live in the water, but not like fish. Fish breathe under water, and die if taken out of it; whales can not breathe under water any better than you could, and if kept there would be drowned without fail. Whales have warm blood like ours; the blood of fishes is cold."

"But how do whales breathe, then, Uncle Horace?"

"You have read of whales spouting, I am sure, Bennie. Their spouting is their breathing. They go under water for their food, etc., holding their breath while they are below. A sperm-whale can hold his breath an hour at a time; a right-whale only about fifteen to twenty minutes. When he comes to the surface he blows out his breath through his 'blow-holes,' which in the right-whale are on the top of the head. This blowing is of course done with great force, and makes a sound which can be heard at quite a long distance, and the water and mucus which the blow-holes contained are driven out in a cloud of spray many feet in height. That is the spout of a whale. You see always in pictures a column of water represented; that is all foolishness. There is no such thing; there is a puff of spray, and nothing more."

"I should think it was a hard way to live, Uncle Horace, to have to come up to the surface every time I wanted to breathe."

"Perhaps the whale does not think so, Bennie. He comes to the surface as naturally as you open your mouth. All his motion is made by the strokes of his tail, which the whalemen call his 'flukes.' Now look at this drawing of his flukes. It is shaped, you see, somewhat like a fish's tail, but then it is not placed like one. The tail of a fish always has its flat sides 'up and down,' so that when he strikes with it he swims ahead or to either side as he chooses, and if he wishes to come to the surface, he has to turn his tail in order to do it. The flukes of a whale lie 'flat,' and every blow drives him ahead, or upward or downward. A blow upward sends him flying toward the surface like a shot, and he doubtless has no more idea of hardship in breathing than you have."

"Did you ever see any other whale as large as this one, Uncle Horace?"

"This is one of very good size for its kind, but compared with many that I have seen, it is small. And I am glad to correct for you, Bennie, the statements which have been made about the size of this whale. It was said to be sixty-nine feet long, and forty-five feet in circumference. I measured it. Its length is not quite forty-nine feet, and its circumference a little less than twenty-five. It was also said that there were three kinds of whales, sperm-whales, fin-backs, and right-whales; this one was called a right-whale. Now, Bennie, I can count up over thirty species of whales at this moment, and there are probably several others. There are two groups of them, bone-whales and toothed whales, the first having whalebone, and the second, teeth instead."

"But, Uncle Horace, have not all whales bones?"

"Yes; but that may not mean whalebone."

"That is queer. What other kind of bones can a whale have, I should like to know? I should think they would be whalebone any way."

SIDE VIEW OF THE MOUTH.

"I put it in that way, Ben, so as to draw your attention sharply to it. Whalebone is not bone at all; it is a[Pg 392] totally different substance. Look at these two drawings of the mouth of the whale you have just seen. The first is made from the front, looking into the great opening, and the figure of a child is placed there. This has been done to show you how large it really is. And by-the-way, Bennie, in the mouth of a whale of the largest size a grown man would appear no larger in proportion than this child does now. The other is a side view of the mouth, lips, etc.; inside the lips you can see the whalebone. This consists of a series of flat plates, attached to the skull in the roof of the mouth, and hanging down in a long row on each side between the great fat tongue and the lip. They are longest in the middle of the length of the mouth, and grow shorter toward the front and toward the rear. In the one here represented I thought the longest plates would measure between five and six feet, but I have seen many of them, taken from the whales of the Northwest coast, which were fourteen to fifteen feet long. Each 'slab' of bone is broadest at the top, and tapers downward, and its edge is split into a sort of fringe, and it is by means of that that the bonewhales secure their food. Look at those enormous lips standing up. The whale drops his lips until they lie flat, and then, swimming slowly along, the small molluscous animals on which he lives drift into his mouth. When he thinks he has enough for a mouthful, he raises his lips, and with his great tongue forces out the water between the plates of bone, through the mat of fibres. The mollusca are caught on the fringe, licked off, and swallowed. Seems like small food for such great animals, perhaps, but this is their mode of living."

FRONT VIEW OF THE MOUTH.

"Is this one a right-whale, Uncle Horace?"

"No, it is not. They call it so, and they probably are honest in their statement, for the two species are very much alike. But the right-whale is an arctic species, and is larger, being sometimes sixty-five feet long; this species is, I think, never over fifty, and lives in the Atlantic Ocean, not the arctic."

"Is sixty-five feet as long as any whales grow?"

"Oh no. Some of the fin-backs have been measured which were one hundred and ten feet long, and I am sure I have seen them as long as that. Whalemen, however, seldom kill them, for they make but little oil, and they fight sometimes very fiercely when they are attacked."

"But isn't it strange, Uncle Horace, that such monstrous animals can be killed. I should think they would kill the men who tried to fight them."

"So they do sometimes, but not very often. You have learned from Captain Edwards of the instruments that are used to kill them—a harpoon and a lance. When the whale-boat comes near enough to the whale, the harpoon, to which a long rope is fastened, is thrown into him. The barb on the harpoon prevents its being pulled out, and the poor whale swims off, dragging the boat by the rope. When he becomes tired, the boat is drawn up, and he is killed with a thrust of the lance. Sometimes the blow of the harpoon kills him, but not often. Bomb-lances are now often used; they are fired from a heavy gun, and explode after entering the body of the whale, and of course kill him."

REAR VIEW, SHOWING THE FLUKES.

[Pg 393]

TOLLING THE BELL.

[Pg 394]

HOW THE SWALLOWS STOPPED THE CLOCK.

Two newly married swallows, with the important business of building a nest, on their minds, stopped to rest one morning on the hands of a great church clock in the town of Newark, New Jersey. Presently they noticed a little hole on its face just large enough for a swallow to enter. They looked in, and saw a lovely place for a nest among a collection of wheels that seemed perfectly quiet.

There is a great difference, you must know, in the movement of the wheels of the great clocks. Some turn swiftly, while the larger ones move so slowly that, unless they are watched for a long time, they seem to be standing still.

The swallows thought it would be delicious to live in the clock. No boys could disturb them, and unless some one should invent a new kind of flying cat, they would never have any unwelcome and dangerous visitors.

So they began to build. They carried hay and grass and cotton into the clock, and by night their nest was half finished. They slept in a neighboring tree, and in the morning flew back with fresh building materials.

Something very strange had happened. The nest that they had partly built had nearly disappeared. They had to begin again. All that day they worked hard. The next morning they found that the same cruel trick had been played on them.

They now became very indignant, and that night they perched on the hands of the clock, so as to be near in case any one should try to destroy their nest. In the course of the night the hands of the clock turned around and tumbled them off, but in the morning they saw that their nest had only been slightly disturbed. They repaired the damage, finished their work, and moved in that night.

For two days they were very happy, but on the third day a man climbed into the tower to see why the clock had stopped. He found nearly a peck of straw and grass and cotton that had been drawn by the wheels into the inmost recesses of the clock, and had finally so clogged the wheels that they could move no more. Then he found the nest that the swallows had made, and threw it away, and stopped up the hole in the clock face.

And so it happened that the swallows had to go and build a nest under the eaves after all.

THE TALKING LEAVES.[3]

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Chapter XXVIII.

olores's suggestion that he should purchase Rita from the Indian chief had made a great impression upon Murray's mind. Steve's advice also helped him to the conclusion that the plan was the best that could be devised.

Many Bears had taken a great fancy both to Send Warning and to Knotted Cord. The chief had indeed proposed more than once that his pale-face friends should remain among the Apache band, and cast in their lots with them. Meanwhile Murray held many an anxious consultation with Steve over their plan.

"It's an idea, Steve; it's a good one," he said, finally, "and I'm going to try and carry it out."

Still, it was a delicate piece of business, and Murray went at it very carefully.

That afternoon, as they were riding along, Many Bears again remarked to him that he would be better off among his Apache friends than anywhere else. "Have lodge. Have squaw. Be chief a little. Be great brave."

"Got good lodge now."

"Yes, but lodge empty. Want squaw."

"Send Warning is old. No child. Rather have daughter. He has taken the Knotted Cord for a son. All he needs now is a young squaw."

"Ugh! Good. All Apaches say Send Warning is wise. Know what he likes best. Buy young squaw. Braves get killed in fight. Plenty young squaws have no father. All glad to come into good lodge. Have plenty meat. Plenty nice blanket. Good for squaw."

The notion of Many Bears was one that fitted him very well, for, as chief of the band, it was his duty to keep an eye upon the fortunes of its "orphans." There could be no better "asylum" for one of them than the lodge of a wise old brave like Send Warning.

"No," said Murray, after a moment of silence. "Only one young squaw in camp for me. The great chief must let me have Rita."

Many Bears was as nearly startled as an Indian chief could be by this sudden and daring proposal. He shook his head. Only a chief who could bring rich presents could expect to buy the daughter of a great man like Many Bears. Something far beyond the power of a seemingly poor warrior like Send Warning.

"Good," said Murray, calmly. "Heap give. Suppose you say what you think. How big heap?"

There was a grim smile on the face of Many Bears as he turned and looked in the face of his friend.

"How much? Ugh. Suppose chief bring fifty ponies?"

"Good," said Murray. "Go on."

"Fifty new blanket?"

"Good. All right."

"Five new gun. Fifty knife. Much heap powder. Big roll cloth for squaws. What say?"

"Good. All right."

"Much pistol too. Suppose chief think of something more?"

"All right. Send Warning give it all."

"Ugh! No got 'em. No find 'em. Send Warning laugh at chief. Bad."

There was an offended look in his eyes, but Murray laid his hand on his arm, saying:

"Listen. Send Warning is white. He is a great man among his own people. He can give heap to chief. Can't find all here. Go to fort. See blue-coat chief. See traders. Get all he wants there."

"Ugh! Good. Make Talking Leaf. Send it to fort. Young brave carry it. All things come back."

Many Bears had seen something like that, and had never ceased envying the white man's power to obtain presents by means of a little piece of paper. Murray replied:

"No. Send Warning in no hurry. Wait till we get to fort."

That would not be for many days, and the more Many Bears thought of all the good things he had mentioned, the more anxious he became to see his adopted daughter set up in a lodge of her own, or at least under the care of a warrior who was willing to give such a "big heap" for the privilege. He "thought of something more" almost every hour from that time on, but his demands were mainly for items of moderate cost, and he did not feel at liberty to mention any larger number of ponies or blankets.

"We can buy the blankets easily enough," said Steve, when he was told the terms of the bargain, "but what about the ponies?"

[Pg 395]

"Cheaper than blankets, my boy. I've seen droves of them going for ten dollars a head. We won't have to give more than twenty. As to the other things, there are always traders around the posts."

They had already counted the contents of their little buckskin bags, and Steve had been surprised to find how much money there was in little more than twenty pounds of gold coin. He had found, indeed, a strange pleasure in counting it over and over, while Murray told him of his beautiful home away across the sea.

"You'll be a rich man there."

"Have three or four times as much as this every year. You must come and visit with me, Steve. As soon as you've seen your own people."

"I dare not think much of them, Murray. I can't talk about them. It will be time enough when I learn if any of them are yet alive."

"Your father and mother?"

"Don't, Murray. I'd rather talk about Rita and our plans here."

Ni-ha-be was indignant at the proposed change. Rita had never imagined until that moment how much she was beloved by the earnest-hearted Apache girl. Ni-ha-be's arms were twining around her neck, and she was weeping fiercely as she exclaimed:

"He shall not take you away from me. You are not a pale-face any more. You are Apache."

Rita could not help crying, and the two friends were glad to go into the lodge, as they were told, and mingle their tears together.

The nearest United States post at which there were likely to be any traders was still a "two days' journey" to the northward, but Many Bears had actually now received a message from his tribe that there would be "heap presents" for those who should come in time to get them, and he was more than ever anxious to discover if Send Warning had been telling him the truth. His first proposition had been, as before, that Murray should send for what he wanted, and have it brought to the Apache camp, but that had been declared out of the question.

"Ugh! Good. Then Send Warning go with chief. Buy pony. Buy heap other things. Come back and take young squaw to lodge."

"No. The great chief can bring young squaw with him. Send Warning take then what he pay for. Give pony, take young squaw."

After some little argument, this was agreed to, but there were almost as serious objections made to Steve Harrison's joining the party who were to visit the post.

"Tell them I'm going anyhow," said Steve to Red Wolf, "whether they like it or not. You come too. I'll buy you a new rifle. Best there is at the fort." That settled the matter.

Both Dolores and Ni-ha-be were to be of the party.

"Rita," said Murray, in a low voice, the morning they rode out of the village camp, "take a good look back. That's the last you will ever see of it."

Then for the first time it came into the mind of Rita that she loved not only Ni-ha-be, but all those wild, dark, savage people among whom she had been living ever since she was a little girl.

"Father, will I never see any of them again?"

"I think not, Rita."

"You will let me send them presents, will you not?"

"As many as you please, Rita."

"Then I will make the whole village happy some day."

On arriving at the fort they were fortunate in finding a trader who had bought a great many more ponies than he knew what to do with. Fifty of them were promptly secured and turned over to Many Bears.

Even while that was being cared for, Murray sought and obtained two or three important interviews. One was with the United States army officer in command of the post, to whom he told his story.

"It's a little the biggest romance I ever heard of," said the gallant Major. "I'll tell you what—you'd better have the final transfer made in my presence."

"Thank you heartily. That will be just the thing."

The Major told the story as a great secret to his wife, and she told it to the other ladies at the fort, and they all went wild together over a grand new wardrobe for Rita. Never had any daughter of the Apaches owned a tenth of the varied material the enthusiastic ladies prepared in less than twenty-four hours after their first glimpse of Rita.

"We must make quite an affair," said the Major to Murray, "of your making the payment. Then they will not think of trying to back out."

"There would be danger to Rita, I fear, if I were to make the truth known publicly too soon."

Major Norris was an experienced "Indian fighter," and just the man to be in command of such a post, for the reason that he had learned how much cheaper it was to have the red men as friends than as enemies. He sent word at once to Many Bears and a number of other "great chiefs" that Send Warning was also a "great chief," and that proper honor must be shown him by his pale-face friends on so great an occasion.

It was quite a procession that marched out of the fort barracks with Rita on the day appointed. The Apache warriors and squaws who were looking on felt that a high compliment was paid to their nation. There were the troops drawn up in splendid array, with flags and cannon and music, and the "white chiefs" in their bright uniforms.

There were the great warriors of several bands of the Apaches in their paint and feathers. There were the beautiful white squaws in their strange dresses. Many Bears had been looking very intently at a collection of things just in front of where Major Norris was standing with Murray and Steve Harrison. Ponies, blankets, guns—all, and more than all, that had been agreed upon. No chief who was looking on could say he had ever received more than that for one of his daughters, and the heart of Many Bears swelled proudly within him. There was a cloud upon his haughty face, however, and another on that of Red Wolf, who was standing at his side. The clouds did not go away when they searched the approaching party of ladies with their eyes for Rita.

Rita? Could that be the adopted daughter of Many Bears walking there behind Mrs. Norris and Mother Dolores—the beautiful young lady whose face was so very pale, and who was dressed so splendidly? They had never before seen her look anything like that.

The band played, the soldiers "presented arms," the officers touched their hats, and Murray stepped forward and held out his right hand to Many Bears, pointing with his left to the ponies and things.

"There they are. Send Warning has kept his word. Rita is mine."

"Ugh! Good. Presents all right. Young squaw is the daughter of Send Warning."

He shook hands heartily as he said it; but Murray had something more on his mind, and was only waiting for the music to stop.

"Listen," he said. "I tell you a big truth. Rita is my own daughter. When you burn ranche in Mexico many summers ago, burn mine, take horses, cattle, mules, take away little girl—all that was mine. Got little girl back now. Apaches all good friends of mine."

"Send Warning not come back to lodge?"

"Not now. Go to my own people for a while. Show them my daughter. Say found her again."

"Ugh! Send Warning is a wise man. Cunning chief. Throw dust in the eyes of the Apaches."

It was plain that the chief was troubled in his mind;[Pg 396] he hardly knew whether to be angry or not. But there was no reasonable objection to Murray's doing as he pleased with his own daughter after she had cost him so many ponies.

Murray spoke again. "Send Warning say what great chief do. Let Ni-ha-be come with Rita to pale-face lodges. Stay awhile. Learn to hear Talking Leaves. Then come back to her friends. What say?"

The chief pondered a moment, but Ni-ha-be had heard and understood, and a scared look arose in her face.

"Rita! Rita! you are going away? you will not be an Apache girl any more?"

"'OH, NI-HA-BE, COME WITH ME!'"

"Oh, Ni-ha-be, come with me!"

Their arms were around each other, and they were both weeping; but Ni-ha-be's mind was made up instantly.

"No. You are born white. You will go with your father. I am an Apache, and I will go with my father."

Many Bears was listening. "Send Warning hear what young squaw say? All Apaches say, good. She will stay with her own people."

Murray and Steve were anxious to begin their return to civilization, but it would be several days before a "train" would go with an escort, and they did not care to run any further risks. So the "farewell" was spread over sufficient time to make all sorts of explanations and promises, and Rita's mind became so full of dreams of her new life that she could easily give up the old one.

Ni-ha-be had never seen so much of the pale-faces before, and Rita tried again and again to persuade her to change her mind, but on the very last morning of all she resolutely responded: "No, Rita, you are all pale-face. All over. Head and heart both belong with white friends. Feel happy. Ni-ha-be only little Indian girl here. Out there on plains, among mountains, Ni-ha-be is the daughter of a great chief. She is an Apache."

No doubt she was right, but she and Rita had a good long cry over it then, and probably more than one afterward.

As for Dolores, she came to the fort to say good-by, but neither Many Bears nor Red Wolf came with her.

"The heart of the great chief is sore," she said, "and he mourns for his pale-face daughter. Not want to speak."

Out from the gates of the fort that morning wheeled the cavalry escort of the waiting "train" of supply wagons and traders' "outfits," and behind the cavalry rode a little group of three.

The ladies of the garrison, with the Major and the rest, had said their last farewells at the gates, and the homeward journey had begun.

"Steve," said Murray, "are you a Lipan or an Apache to-day?"

"Seems to me that is all ever so long ago. I am white again."

"So am I. At one time I had little hope that I ever should be. I never would if I had not found Rita. Oh, my daughter!"

"Father! Father, see—there she is! Oh, Ni-ha-be!"

A swift and beautiful mustang was bounding toward them across the plain from a sort of cloud of wild-looking figures at a little distance, and on its back was a form they all knew well.

Nearer it came, and nearer.

"She wants to say good-by again."

Nearer still, so near that they could almost look into her dark streaming eyes, and Rita held out her arms beseechingly; but at that moment the mustang was suddenly reined in and wheeled to the right about, while Ni-ha-be clasped both hands upon her face.

"Ni-ha-be! Oh, Ni-ha-be!"

But she was gone like the wind, and she did not come again.

"There, Rita," said her father. "It is all for the best. All your Indian life is gone, like mine and Steve's. We have something better before us now."

the end.

MORE ABOUT KITES.

Last week, boys, I told you how to make a very simple kite. Now for a few variations from the usual commonplace plan. There are a number of novel designs in the way of kites that it only requires a little ingenuity to carry out.

Suppose that you want your kite for a travelling companion; It would be a very awkward piece of baggage, would it not? Well, you can make a very good kite of the shape shown in the illustration, covered with muslin, and the frame made to work upon a pivot, so that it can be folded and carried in a case. The muslin must be fastened permanently to one piece of the frame only; it must be simply tied to the others with small pieces of string. Thus, on being released, the laths may be worked[Pg 397] round on the pivot until they are in a straight line, and the muslin wrapped round them. Sometimes they are made with only two pieces, an upright and a cross-piece, but the principle is the same. If expense is of no consideration, oiled silk is far better than muslin, since it is so much lighter.

In China, the boys about the streets of Hong-Kong have a very amusing and simply constructed kite, which can be made to perform the most astonishing gyrations in the air. You might be inclined at first to doubt if the thing could go up at all; but just give it a fair trial, and see. You will be surprised at the ease with which it catches the air and mounts upward.

The kite is composed of two very thin slips of rattan, or bamboo, properly smoothed, and a piece of colored tissue-paper cut in the form shown in the above diagram. The middle stick is flat on one side, and should be eighteen and a half inches long; the bow stick should be twenty-five inches long, and nearly round. The paper should be cut to measure fourteen inches on each side.

Lay the middle stick, well covered on the flat side with good stiff flour paste, diagonally across the paper, fastening it at both ends with bands across, and let it stand till dry; then fold down the upper corners of the paper over the bow stick, pasting it down firmly. Add a small fan-shaped piece of tissue-paper for the "bob-tail," and the kite is ready. Fasten one end of the "belly-band" to the two sticks where they cross, and the other end about the same distance from the tail of the kite. Be careful about adjusting the balance when tying on the string, as if that is not right the kite will not fly upward.

As to the decorations of his kite, each boy must follow his own fancy, remembering that, since the effect is to be produced from a distance, only the most glaring colors can be used, and that fine and finished details will be of no use whatever. One of the prettiest kites now in use is that which represents a hawk with outspread wings, and it can be purchased at almost any toy store. But if any boy will be careful in his work, he can easily make one. The frame must be made of cane or some very light and flexible wood. When in the air it will sweep backward and forward with movements exactly like those of a hawk when wheeling about in search of prey.

THE RATS AND THE MEAL.

BY PALMER COX.

One summer's night when all was still,
And motionless the wheel,
Some rats ran through the village mill,
And stole a bag of meal.

And hurry-scurry, tooth and nail,
They dragged it to the door,
And then upon their shoulders soon
Away the treasure bore.

But as they hastened from the room,
Along a narrow plank,
The heavy load went in the flume,
And to the bottom sank.

And downward with the bag of meal,
Ere they could loose their hold,
With many a frightened squeak and squeal.
The thieves together rolled.

So then for life they had to swim,
But when they reached the shore,
They dried themselves around a fire,
And vowed to steal no more.

[Pg 398]

When the showers of April
Are falling so fast,
Just think, little dears,
That they soon will be past,

And the grass will be springing,
The birds will be gay,
And soon, little dears,
We'll have flowers and May.

Little hands up! Who has found the darling trailing arbutus? You, little Susie, and you live in Virginia? What New England girl will report first about the wild flowers that grow near her home? Which of the boys has seen the robins building? and who has been working out-doors with father, doing that hard spring work which will be so well repaid when summer and autumn come? Here are some more jingles for the wee ones:

Rain, rain, go away,
Come again another day.

A sunshiny shower
Won't last half an hour.

Patter, patter, patter—see the dancing drops!
Clatter, clatter, clatter—and the shower stops.

Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, there's the sun again!
April is a pleasant month, spite of sudden rain.

I am a boy eleven years old, and my home is in Indiana, a mile from the State line of Ohio. My papa owns a farm here, and we are farmers, so that I have plenty to do in the summer-time working in the garden and around, and evenings and mornings I help to milk the cows. In the winter I go to school. I like to go first rate, especially when Miss Y. is our teacher. When we do not go to school, my brother Elmar and I and some more boys and girls who live near by go over to my grandpa's an evening or two in every week, and grandma teaches us. I like to study geography especially. My brother Elmar is older than I, and we take Harper's Young People together. When we meet at grandpa's, Elmar and I take our Young People along, so that the rest of the children who go can hear the nice stories in it, and after lessons are recited, grandma reads to us all. I liked "A Battle of Icebergs" in No. 124; we all did. And I like the letters in Our Post-office Box, especially where they write from Europe. I should like to sail on the large steamers to Europe. I would want to visit Switzerland, where William Tell and his brave little Albert lived. And I would like to see Lake Geneva, and the tall white peaks of the Alps reflected in the clear water. And I think it would be gay fun to go to Berne in their holidays, and see the people marching around in the streets wrapped in bear-skins, "playing" they are bears. But we have some good times here. My grandma wrote a story, and read it to us last week after lessons. The story was concerning a lady who made a party to please a lot of young people. When the names were announced at the door, they were all our own first names. The surnames were changed. I will ask grandma for the story to send with this letter, and hope the Postmistress will please print both. If they should be printed week after next, I would read them for my piece at our exhibition.

Irving P.

The Postmistress is sorry that she has not room for your grandmamma's story in Our Post-office Box with your letter. She has put it safely away in a drawer of her desk, and perhaps one of these days she will be able to find a niche for it. You were very kind to copy it so plainly. Although you have not visited Europe, your letter shows that you have read and studied about its peoples and places, so if you ever do go there, you will be prepared to enjoy the new scenes intelligently.

We are pleased to hear again from our correspondent Alberto, who has written to us from several places which he has visited in Europe. We are glad that his bright eyes see so well what the little ones at home will find pleasure in reading about:

Verona, Italy.

Perhaps some of the young people would like to hear about the Carnival of Rome. Mamma hired a window in the Corso twice, and also a carriage, so that when we got tired of our balcony we could see all the fun and frolic of the crowd. From the balcony we could see how gay the whole Corso looked, with flags and banners flying, and bright-colored strips of cloth hanging out of all the windows, and over the balconies, which were full of people. The street was filled with carriages going up and down, and a merry crowd on foot darted in and out among them, dressed up in comical costumes.

Then commenced the throwing of the coriandoli, which were little lumps of clay covered with chalk. People seemed to take great pleasure in throwing these at each other. This they followed by showering every one with small bouquets of flowers. I think the flowers were better than the coriandoli, as they did not hurt so much.

The fun every day closed with a horse-race. The horses had no riders, but attached to their flanks were leaden balls with sharp points, which urged them on like spurs. When the signal was given they dashed through the crowd, which just opened a moment to let them pass, and tore along until they were stopped at the other end of the Corso, where the judge sat to proclaim the winner. But the last night was very gay, for then every one had little candles, and the fun was to keep one's own light burning and blow out one's neighbor's. Some held a taper in one hand, and a fan made of feathers in the other for blowing out the candles. When the tapers were blown out all would cry "Senza moccolo," which means without light. The Carnival finished with a grand procession; maskers carried colored lanterns, which represented fruit, flowers, animals, moon, and stars; finally, a huge car came, in which was the King of the Carnival in a dying state, and a crowd of people behind weeping over him. It was a grand sight, and I wish that some of the readers of Young People could have seen it also.

Alberto dal Molin.

Monticello, Illinois.

I have a doll, and it wears No. 1 baby's shoes and baby dresses. My sister has a canary that will sing just as loud as it can when she plays the music it likes. I had a little dog eight years old, and some one poisoned him. His name was Dick. I have a boy doll. He was dressed in a little black velvet suit when I got him; I named him George. I think Harper's Young People is the nicest little paper I ever had. My brother Willie has a wagon, and he takes me out riding every day; but the wagon is broken now, and he can not take me. I do wish Jimmy Brown would write some more funny pieces; I like to read them so much! I would like to get acquainted with him. We used to have three white rabbits, but a stray cat caught them.

Lena W.

Brother Willie must get the wagon mended.

The little sentence which inspired this graceful poem was written by Victor Hugo, the venerable poet of France, in the album of a young girl who had begged for his autograph. Victor Hugo is a lover of children, as our own Longfellow was. Shall we translate the French for those who do not read that beautiful language? It means "like glass to quiver," or answer back to the touch; "like brass to resist." The poem will help you to understand the meaning of this sentiment. "À vos pieds, mademoiselle," means "At your feet," or, as we would say, "Your most obedient, miss."

FROM YOUTH TO AGE.

BY AGNES M. ALDEN.

"De verre pour frémir, d'airain pour résister."
"À vos pieds, mademoiselle."
"Hugo Victor."

Maiden, with thine eyes of blue,
Flow'ret gemmed with morning dew,
Let thy stalk grow hard and strong,
That when fiends of hate and wrong
Bluster through thy youth's domain,
Thou mayst well thyself maintain:
Pour résister, sois l'airain.

When pure angels of delight
O'er thy garden wend their flight,
Show'ring magic gifts on thee,
Music, art, and poesie,
Then thy dewy heart lay bare
To the loving, vibrant air:
Alors, frémis comme le verre.

Maryville, Tennessee.

My papa gave me Harper's Young People for a birthday present. I like it very much indeed. L. Pearlie S. said she had a hen that killed all but the black ones in her brood. Mamma says she once had a hen that did not like black chickens, so she tried to kill all she saw in her brood, and others too. I like chickens very much. I have twenty-one chickens—nine hens, one rooster, and eleven little chicks. One year I had thirty-eight chickens, two turkeys, and four Pintados.

I don't see how any one can help liking sweet, gentle, loving cats. I have a cat nearly four years old. She can't do any tricks; she only curls up under the stove when she can't get into my lap. But I like her very much; she is the only pet I have. I have no brother nor sister, except a grown sister who is married.

I have a flower and a vegetable garden. I like to go to school very much, but I do not go now, as I was sick and had to stop. I think Jimmy Brown's adventures are so very funny! I make a good many Wiggles, but I have never sent any. I often see some just like mine, though.

I am making two quilts. One is made out of the pieces that are too little for the other, and the other is a "memory quilt." Maybe some of the little readers would like to know what a memory quilt is. It can be of any pattern, provided it has a light-colored piece in the middle. The little girl who has it makes a square, and gives it to one of her friends, who makes another like it for her. The name can be worked or printed in the middle. When all her friends have made one, she puts them together, and has a quilt.

I would be very glad to see this in print, as no one knows I am writing it except mamma. Good-by.

Susie S. B.

The birthday verses which follow were written by a little girl to please her sister, and the Postmistress thinks they are very sweet. Mother did quite right in advising Maggie to send them to Our Post-office Box:

Behold our little darling
In gorgeous garb arrayed!
Her presents are before her,
On the table nicely laid.

She smiles so sweetly upon all—
She's neither proud nor haughty;
She's sometimes very mischievous,
But hardly ever naughty.

Her lustrous eyes, of a dark brown hue,
Are a match for her wavy hair;
And of birthday queens our Annie dear
Is the fairest of the fair.

Maggie J. L.
Jericho, Long Island.

Sioux River, Wisconsin.

I am a little girl ten years old, and live nine miles from Bayfield. There is no school, church, or Sunday-school here. My sisters are older than I, and they stay in Bayfield and go to school. I am pretty lonely when they are all away and I am here with papa and mamma. But I have my pets as well as some other girls. I have a black cat which I call Pussy. I play with her, and I like her ever so much. I have ten dolls, and mamma says some of them are dilapidated. My oldest doll is a rag doll, which my aunt gave me when I was six months old. We live in Sioux River Valley, and the river is full of trout. I caught one in a little brook that runs past the door. A great many people come here in the summer to fish. There are some very large hills, all around us, covered with pine-trees, and pretty both in summer and winter. I never saw any hills, pine-trees, or rocks until we came here two years ago. About a mile from here is what we call the rapids. It is just beautiful! Such large rocks, covered with such pretty green mosses! I wish you could all see them, for I can not describe them. From the sitting-room we can see a "slide," and I love to watch the logs come tumbling and crashing down until they fall in the river.

Alberta S.

Hackensack, New Jersey.

Mamma says I may tell you two funny stories, because they are true:

There are two old colored people living at Fort L., near the school-house. Their names are Toby and Isabel. Toby keeps the school-house clean, but Isabel is so old and fat that she can not work much. One day my aunt met her on the road, and asked her where she had been. She said, "Oh, I've been helpin' Tobe in de school." "Why, you can't help him sweep, can you?" said auntie. "No; but Tobe he make so much dust when he sweep, an' it make him cough so, I t'ought I would go an' stand by him, so some of de dust would go down my froat, an' den Tobe wouldn't get so much on his lungs to make him cough so."

My sister teaches a school in the country, and one of her pupils is a little colored boy by the name of Nick. The other day he came into the room, crying bitterly, and said, "Teacher, the boys are all the time calling me names." She said, "What do they call you?" "They call me Nicholas, and that isn't my name; it's Nicky."

Emma S.

Thanks for your stories, dear. Isabel was very kind to Toby; and as for little Nick, we hope the boys were prevailed upon to stop teasing him.

Whitstable, Kent, England.

My uncle, who lives in New York, sends us Harper's Young People and Harper's Weekly, both of which we like very much. I must tell you about my pets. I have a black-and-tan terrier named Tiny, and a jackdaw which talks quite plainly. My sister has a tabby cat and a canary-bird. We have not had any snow this winter. We have had primroses and daisies in bloom all the time.

I went over the Canterbury Cathedral, and saw the tomb of Edward the Black Prince, and the shrine of Thomas à Becket, the murdered Archbishop of Canterbury. The stone in front of the altar is worn into hollows where the pilgrims used to kneel. Last Saturday Colonel Brine and Mr. Simmons went up in a large balloon from Canterbury, to cross the Channel from Dover to[Pg 399] Calais. The wind changed, and they came down in the middle of the Channel, and were picked up by the mail-packet, and brought back to Dover. We are very sorry Barnum has bought our elephant Jumbo. I hope he will be stubborn, and won't go, for I'm sure we want him more than the little American boys and girls do. I hope I have not made my letter too long to go in your Post-office Box.

Fred P.

Going up in a balloon would be much better fun if people could only be sure that they would not come plunging down on the top of a high mountain, into the depths of a wood, or, like those unfortunate gentlemen, plump into the middle of a body of water. Why did you feel so badly about letting your little American friends see Jumbo? By the time you read this perhaps we will understand how it was that the English children were so fond of this big elephant that they grieved over sparing him to us. We wish we had some huge American pet to send over the Atlantic to take his place in your affections.

Irvinwood, Virginia.

I am fourteen, and a fond reader of Harper's Young People. I have been papa and mamma's little housekeeper for four or five years, as mamma is often not able to leave her bed.

I never went from home to school in my life. Mamma has always taught us at home. Besides my other studies, I have map-drawing, French, Latin, and music, with an abundance of excellent reading, so I'm very busy.

Do you like to darn stockings, Postmistress? I don't enjoy it, though I have done it for four years, and mamma says I do it beautifully.

I have just read Ellen McC.'s letter, of Palmyra, Missouri, and am so sorry for her. I "always sew the paper." I hope she will be able to get out in the open air when the "leaves and flowers come." I should like to take her with me in some of my nice long walks to the tops of these high hills; to one especially, from which we can see a great deal of the country, and the mountains in the distance which bound the Shenandoah Valley—the beautiful Blue Ridge east, and the Alleghany Mountains west. Our farm is in a pretty miniature valley, with woods in front and in the rear, great oak-trees that wave and toss their huge arms in this raging March wind. Massannuten Mountain bounds our view on the north, and South Mountain on the south. About ten miles distant is the "Old Stone Church," the first Presbyterian church in the Valley of Virginia, built in colonial times, and used as a fort of defense against the Indians, and also as a "meeting-house." It is known now as Augusta Church, and is situated in a beautiful oak grove. In the suburbs of Staunton there is a large old-fashioned house that was occupied for a while by the Hessians during the Revolution. We live about three miles from Staunton.

May H. S.

Yes, dear, strange as it may seem to you, the Postmistress is fond of darning stockings, and when she is tired of other things, she finds it a restful occupation which composes her nerves. She hopes your nerves do not need to be soothed. It is pleasant for you to be your mamma's housekeeper, and she is to be congratulated on having so useful a little daughter. Your home is in a very beautiful part of our country. You must enjoy your walks and rides over the charming roads in the valley of the winding Shenandoah.

Rapidan, Minnesota.

I think "The Talking Leaves" has been so nice. So many write about pets, but the only pet I have is my baby sister Maggie. I read about the violets that the little boy in Texas sent you. Last winter I went into my grandma's garden when the snow was about a foot deep, and pushing it away, found pansies as bright as in the summer. Papa, mamma, and I got that Monogram Puzzle right. I know three real nice games for playing in the house. One is "Forty Questions and Three Guesses." One player thinks of something; for example, the player chooses the word "Steel," but does not name it aloud; then the others ask questions about it—what it looks like, what its use is, and everything they can think of. By-and-by they find that it is a mineral, and they may guess three times as to what mineral it is. Another nice game is "Geographical Spelling." The first player spells the name of a city, river, lake, or whatever the players decide on. The next one spells the name of a lake (if it has been decided to have all lakes) the first letter of which is the last letter of the name that the first player spelled, and so they go around until the lakes are exhausted, after which you can take something else. The other game is called "Stillwater." One person is blindfolded, and stands and counts twenty. By that time the rest must have taken places, and must keep perfectly still until some one is found. The one who is first found takes the place of the one who was blindfolded. Good-by.

Edith C.

We always feel a little timid about games which require the blindfolding of anybody, as accidents sometimes happen when little performers grow too merry in their excitement. We have tried the other games, and agree with Edith in recommending them.

West Chester, Pennsylvania.

I am eight years old, and the youngest of the family except my little brother Lionel, who has just begun to go to school, and he thinks he is a man because he wears long boots, a soldier cap, and can spell "my cat."

We have a dear little canary that Aunt Belle gave my sister Fanny. We call him Peter the Great; and indeed he makes a great noise sometimes, if he is little. We have a dog too, a setter, and my brother Charlie Ross, who is now at school in Rhode Island, named him Ivan the Terrible. He can shut the door, walk on his hind-legs, sit up and beg, and can jump a stick ever so high, and only has to be told a few times.

I must tell you now about my sister Fanny, who is three years older than I am. Her birthday came February 27, the same day that Mr. Longfellow's did, so she said she would write him a letter, and she did; and—would you believe it?—he sent her a dear little printed letter (for he was too ill to write), with his autograph and the date in it.

Now don't you think he was a dear good man to do that for only a little girl? Fanny is so pleased! She says she will keep it until she is old and gray, but she don't look much like it now. We have taken Harper's Young People all its life, and expect to forever. I have written all this letter myself, and hope you will like it.

Ethel D.

Leon M. Fobes, 22 Cushman Street, Portland, Maine, wishes the address of Arch Carson, in order that he may return the latter his stamps.

William W. D.—Why not say, "I have a half-apple, or a quarter"? Than is not necessary if you wish to show that you have only part of any whole number.

C. Y. P. R. U.

How Girls may Entertain each Other.—The idea that in order to entertain company it is necessary to go to a great deal of trouble and expense prevents many young people from really enjoying themselves together. The other day I was present when Florilla asked her mother for permission to invite a number of her girl friends to a birthday party.

"I am quite willing, dear, to let you invite your favorite school-mates to luncheon or to tea, and I will provide a simple entertainment for them," said the mother, pleasantly, "but I can not consent to your having a regular evening company."

Florilla thought she could not be contented with a daytime party of any kind, so her birthday is to pass unmarked, and a dozen girls, who might have had some charming hours with each other, will all stay at home just as usual.

When you think of it, dears, it is not upon dainty eatables nor pretty dresses that you depend for enjoyment, but on the spirit which prevails, on bright talk, music, games, fun, and gay good-humor, all of which are within reach of everybody.

I have a friend who lives in a quiet little place near a beautiful sheltered bay. Her brother owns a boat. Sometimes, on a summer day, at the noonday meal, it will occur to one of the family that it would be pleasant to have a picnic in the afternoon. One child is sent off to notify the cousins up the street, and another messenger goes for Emily, or John, or Lucy, who is a favorite on such occasions. A basket of sandwiches and gingerbread is provided, and at three or four o'clock the large boat is filled, the white sail is spread, and away goes a merry party to enjoy the shining water, the salt air, and the hard, smooth beach.

A little mountain party might be arranged by girls who live among the hills, in just such an easy fashion as this.

In the city, most girls would find, now that fine weather is here, great pleasure in a morning spent in the parks, or the rural suburbs which are within a short distance of most towns. It would always be well on such occasions to ask mamma or some grown-up friend to accompany the party.

A hostess must never forget that it is her duty to see that her guests enjoy themselves. For instance, one girl may have travelled. Let her have an opportunity of telling about the lovely places she has visited. A good hostess would ask her beforehand to bring views and photographs with her. Another, who plays well, might be asked for music; but as everybody is not alike fond of even this accomplishment, the whole time should not be taken up with songs and pieces. Neglect nobody, if you wish your company to be a pleasant one, and if strangers are present, introduce them to those they are likely to find most agreeable.

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. this week to Lieutenant Sturdy's account of "Tom Fairweather's Visit to the Sultan of Borneo," and to the story of "Captain Edwards's Big Whale," as told by Eesung Eyliss. Then there are some suggestions as to fancy kites, which will interest the boys this breezy weather.

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

1. Highest. 2. One of the United States. 3. To vex. 4. Part of a plant. 5. Pertaining to letters. 6. A species of mineral. Primals and finals stand for idle talk.

Icicle.

No. 2.

THREE ENIGMAS.

1.

Empire City.

2.

Mary E. D. W.

3.

Julie R. D.

No. 3.

A WORD SQUARE.

1. A plume. 2. To attain. 3. Ardent. 4. A show. 5. A number.

Empire City.

No. 4.

THREE DIAMONDS.

1.—1. In pea-nut. 2. An animal. 3. A piece of furniture. 4. An animal. 5. In owl.

W. B. J.

2.—1. A letter. 2. An article. 3. A country. 4. The conclusion. 5. A letter.

3.—1. In snipe. 2. A cushion. 3. A fright. 4. Clamor. 5. In clams.

John P.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 126.

No. 1.

No. 2.

No. 3.

No. 4.

Ostrich. Victoria.

Successful Wiggler—G. F. Weller.

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Lottie and Arthur, Anna Whitey, A. E. Cressingham, Samuel Bronson, Wroton Kenney, William A. Lewis, Jennie Day, Elsie T. Carr, Laura Richards, Johnnie Bigelow, Fred Smith, "Icicle," Georgie Wardell, Kittie Lerois, Percy Stuart, Elsie D., Grace Cooley, Eva M. Stevenson, Martin Best, Francis, "Lodestar," May Sherman, Dean Crawford, Robert Tice, and Jacob Rollauer.

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

[Pg 400]

SOME ANSWERS TO WIGGLE No. 25, OUR ARTIST'S IDEA, AND NEW WIGGLE, No. 26.