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THE LITTLE SISTERS.

EGYPTIAN HISTORY.

BY EUGENE LAWRENCE.

Egypt is the most interesting of countries, because it is probably the oldest. We borrow from it nearly all our arts and sciences, and have only improved upon what the Egyptians taught us. Our alphabet and the art of writing came from the banks of the Nile. It was carried to Phœnicia, then to Greece and Rome, and then to Europe and America. The Egyptians invented the lever, by which[Pg 674] all engines are moved, and electricity and steam made useful. Egyptian glass-makers, goldsmiths, painters, weavers, builders and stone-cutters, miners, gardeners, and even poets and historians, have taught their arts to all the Western nations; Moses studied in the Egyptian colleges, and Joseph and his father looked upon its Pyramids and temples with wonder.

The land of Egypt is a deposit of mud brought down by the floods of the Nile from the mountains of Middle Africa. Every year the river overflows its banks, and renews the fertility of the soil by a new deposit, and these regular inundations have been so provided for by embankments and canals as to be seldom dangerous. The Nile scarcely ever sweeps away the flocks and harvests of the farmers, like the Mississippi. It would be well if the Mississippi could be made as useful as the Nile.

This flat land of mud rests on rocks and sand. On each side of it is a desert, bare, hot, and stifling. A desert divides it from Asia. It is isolated from the world, and here for several thousand years the Egyptian Pharaohs ruled over an obedient people, and their people invented and practiced those useful arts which they were afterward to teach to others. The first King of Egypt is supposed to have been Menes; he reigned about 3000 b.c. Thirty-one dynasties or families of Kings follow Menes, and the Egyptian kingdom had lasted more than two thousand five hundred years when it was conquered by Alexander the Great. The Assyrians, Persians, and even the Ethiopians had conquered it before, but had been driven out by the rising of the people. For two thousand years the Egyptians were free and united. The oldest modern kingdom counts scarcely eight hundred years, and our own government nearly one hundred.

The Egyptians were a dark-colored race, and came probably from Asia. They lived alone upon the banks of the Nile, shut out from the world. All Europe was then a wilderness filled with wild beasts and a few savage men. All was waste and desolate. The savage people who surrounded Egypt were like our American Indians, ignorant and treacherous. Had they been able they would have broken in upon the industrious Egyptians, sacked and burned their cities, and robbed them of all they possessed. They would have destroyed temples and palaces, houses and gardens, ships and factories, and left us without any of the Egyptian inventions and improvements. But fortunately the deserts and the sea for two thousand years at least kept the savages away. The country grew rich and flourishing; the banks of the Nile were lined with fine farms as fertile as those of Kansas or Dakota. The wheat was full and white. The gardens of Egypt produced beans, onions, cabbages, and were filled with flowers. Countless towns and cities sprang up along the Nile. Some of them were as large, perhaps, as Chicago or New York. The rich land swarmed with people. The families of the Egyptians lived in comfortable houses; the children were usually taught in the temples to read and write; all were taught to work; they were well dressed and very neat; and when Joseph governed the land with discretion and good sense, there was no part of the Western world that could equal the intelligence and civilization of Egypt. Its cities, temples, palaces, farms, and gardens were the wonder of the ancient historians.

To-day Egypt is an impoverished country, distracted by civil war. Alexandria, once one of the most magnificent cities of the world, lies in ashes, and the people throughout the land are suffering all the horrors of famine amidst their plundered and ruined homes. Long ages of mis-rule and ignorance have brought the fruitful and prosperous land to this terrible condition. In the days of Joseph the armies of Egypt might have withstood the world. Now the conqueror is at her gates, disorder rages within, and peace and prosperity can return to her borders only under the protection of a foreign power.

A GOOD SWORD-STROKE;

OR, HOW COLONEL DE MALET MET HIS MATCH.

BY DAVID KER.

There was high frolic going on in a small town of Southern France one fine summer morning toward the end of the last century. The great local fair, which only came once in six months, was in full swing, and the queer little market-place of the town, with its old-fashioned fountain in the middle, and its tall dark houses, all round, was crowded to overflowing. Here was a juggler eating fire, or pulling ribbons out of his mouth by the yard, amid a ring of wondering peasants. There an acrobat was turning head over heels, and then walking on his hands with his feet up in the air. A little farther on a show of dancing dogs had gathered a large crowd; and close by a sly-looking fellow in a striped frock, leaning over the front of a wagon, was recommending a certain cure for toothache, which, however, judging from the wry faces of those who ventured to try it, must have been almost as bad as the complaint itself.

The chief attraction of the fair, however, seemed to be a tall, gaunt man, with an unmistakably Italian face, who was standing on a low platform beside the fountain. He had been exhibiting some wonderful feats of swordsmanship, such as throwing an apple into the air and cutting it in two as it fell, tossing up his sword and catching it by the hilt, striking an egg with it so lightly as not even to break the shell, and others equally marvellous. At length, having collected a great throng around him, he stepped forward, and challenged any one present to try a sword bout with him, on the condition that whichever was first disarmed should forfeit to the other half a livre (ten cents).

Several troopers who were swaggering about the market-place, for there was a cavalry regiment quartered in the town, came up one after another to try their hand upon him. But to the great delight of the crowd they all got the worst of it; and one might have guessed from the eagerness with which the poor Italian snatched up the money, as well as from his pale face and hollow cheeks, that he did not often earn so much in one day.

Suddenly the crowd parted to right and left as a handsome young man in a fine gold-laced coat and plumed hat, with a silver-hilted sword by his side, forced his way through the press, and confronted the successful swordsman.

"You handle your blade so well, my friend," cried he, "that I should like to try a bout with you myself, for I'm thought to be something of a swordsman. But before we begin, take these two livres and get yourself some food at the French Lily yonder, for you look tired and hungry, and it's no fair match between a fasting man and a full one."

"Now may Heaven bless you, my lord, whoever you may be!" said the man, fervently; "for you're the first who has given me a kindly word this many a day. I can hardly expect to be a match for you, but if you will be pleased to wait but ten minutes, I'll gladly do my best."

The fencer was as good as his word, and the moment he was seen to remount the platform the lookers-on crowded eagerly around it, expecting a well-fought bout; for they had all seen what he could do, and they now recognized his new opponent as the young Marquis de Malet, who had the name of being the best swordsman in the whole district.

Their expectations were not disappointed. For the first minute or so the watching eyes around could hardly follow the swords, which flickered to and fro like flashes of lightning, feinting, warding, striking, parrying, till they seemed to be everywhere at once. De Malet at first pressed his man vigorously, but finding him more skillful than he had expected, he began to fight more cautiously, and to aim at tiring him out.

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This artful plan seemed likely to succeed, for the Italian at length lowered his weapon for a moment, as if his hand was growing wearied. But as De Malet made a rapid stroke at him, the other suddenly changed the sword from his right to his left hand, and catching the Marquis's blade in reverse, sent it flying among the crowd below.

"Well done!" cried the young man, admiringly. "I thought I knew most tricks of fence, but I never saw one like that before."

"I could teach it to your lordship in a week," said the Italian. "For a man of your skill nothing is needed but practice."

"Say you so?" cried De Malet. "Then the sooner we begin, the better. Come home with me, and stay till you've taught me all you know. One doesn't meet a man like you every day."

And so for a month to come Antonio Spalatro was the guest of Henri de Malet; and the young Marquis learned to perform the feat which had excited his wonder quite as dexterously as the Italian himself.

White lay the snow upon the fields outside the blazing city of Moscow. The Russians had fired their own capital. The veteran bands of Napoleon were fleeing from fire to perish amid ice and snow.

"Down with the French dog!"

"Cut him to pieces!"

"Send a bullet through him!"

A dozen arms were raised at once against the solitary man, who, with his back against a wall, and one foot on the body of his horse, sternly confronted them. Henri de Malet (now Colonel De Malet, of the French Cuirassiers) was still the same dashing fellow as ever, though twenty-three years had passed since he took his first lesson in fencing from Spalatro, the Italian, of whom he had never heard a word all this while. But if Spalatro was gone, his teaching was not, and De Malet's sword seemed to be everywhere at once, keeping the swarming Russians at bay, as it had done many a time already during the terrible retreat which was now approaching its end.

"Leave him to me," cried a deep voice from behind; "he's a man worth fighting, this fellow!"

"Ay, leave him to the Colonel," chorussed the Russians. "He'll soon settle his fine fencing tricks."

A tall dark man, whose close-cropped black hair was just beginning to turn gray, stepped forward, and crossed swords with De Malet, who, feeling at once that he had met his match, stood warily on the defensive. The Russian grenadiers watched eagerly as the swords flashed and fell and rose again, while the combatants, breathing hard, and setting their teeth, struck, parried, advanced, and retreated by turns. At length De Malet, finding himself hard pressed, tried the blow taught him by Spalatro; but the stranger met it with a whirling back stroke that whisked the sword clean out of his hand. Instead of cutting him down, however, the Russian seized him by the hand with a cry of joy.

"There's but one man in the French army who knows that stroke," cried he, "and I'm glad to see you remember so well what I taught you. Now at last Spalatro the officer can repay the kindness shown to Spalatro the vagabond. When I came over here with the Russian Prince to whom you so kindly recommended me, they soon found out that I could handle soldiers as well as swords, and gave me a commission in the army, and here I am, Colonel Spalatro, with the Cross of St. George, and a big estate in Central Russia. Now if you fall into the hands of our soldiers you'll be killed to a certainty, so you'd better come with me to head-quarters, where I'll report you as my prisoner. You will be safe under my charge until there's a chance of sending you home, and then you are welcome to go as soon as you please."

And Colonel Spalatro was as good as his word.

THE RIVER GETS INTO TROUBLE.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.

A short time ago I told you something about a strange fight that took place between a travelling beach and a river. The beach got the best of it, and the river was obliged to turn aside, and find a way out to sea in another direction. No doubt if there were Indians living there at the time, they thought it a great disaster. Perhaps they were in the habit of sailing down the river to the sea in search of fish and oysters. When the beach closed up the mouth of the river, they thought it a strange and terrible event. If it had happened last summer, the people who live up the river would have called it a great calamity. The river would have found a new outlet, and perhaps have torn up the land, swept away farms and houses, and caused great destruction of property. There were no farms there at the time, for it all happened a long time ago.

There are many places in the world where the sea has cast up sand-bars and beaches, and has changed the whole face of the country. These travelling beaches and growing sand-bars sometimes close up the rivers, and sometimes turn bays into lakes, and these lakes in time turn into dry land. The great South Bay, on Long Island, is one of these places where great changes are going on; the meadow back of Chelsea Beach, near Boston, is another.

When a beach makes trouble for a river, the river behaves very strangely. At first it is quiet, and does not say much. It rests awhile, as if to gain strength, and then some day it makes a grand rush, and tries to break down the barrier the beach has thrown across its mouth. If it fails, it turns aside and goes out another way; but it soon settles down into a kind of sullen silence. It seems to be discouraged, and instead of a swift and pleasant river, it turns into a sluggish stream that does not seem to care for anything except to creep along in a lazy fashion.

Now a great and wonderful change begins. Before, it was swift and muddy. Now, the dull water begins to grow clearer, and the mud and fine sand in the water sink softly down to the bottom. The water spreads wider and wider on each side, and instead of a river running into the sea, there is a broad pool or lagoon behind the beach. Then month by month, year after year, the river brings down the mud and sand from the country and drops them far and wide over the broad salt-water lake.

Perhaps the beach in cutting off the river shut in a part of the sea, so that there are fish and oysters, sea-mosses and crabs, shut in behind the beach. They do not seem to care. They grow all the better in the still water, safe from those terrible waves that used to tear them from the sand in storms. The oysters find the quiet water a good home, and they grow there by millions on millions. As the old fellows die or are killed by the star-fish, the young oysters build their homes on top of the shells of their fathers. Millions of other fish, hermit-crabs, lobsters, and clams, live and die there, and they too cover the bottom of the lagoon with their dead shells. Thus it happens that even the fishes begin to fill up the place by covering the bottom with their empty houses.

Far up the river are weeds and grasses growing along the edge of the water. They drop their seeds in the river, and the seeds float down till they reach the smooth water behind the beach. The sea-birds find the warm waters of the lagoon a good feeding-place, and they gather there by hundreds. They too bring seeds from distant places and drop them here. Perhaps in quiet corners where the water is not quite as salt as in the sea these seeds find a chance to grow. They spring up on the banks of mud left here by the tide. The poor things find their new home very different from the place where they were born, and they have a hard struggle to live. Still they make a brave fight for existence, and even if they die, their dead[Pg 676] stalks and leaves serve as a bed for new seeds to live still longer another year.

Then comes another change. The sea plants growing under water find the still water very different from the open sea where they grew before the beach cut them off from their home. The river is all the time bringing down fresh-water, and as the beach cuts off the sea, the water in the lagoon begins to grow fresh. From year to year the water tastes less like sea water, and more like river water. The poor plants were meant for the sea, and the brackish water does not suit them. The beautiful purple mosses, the long brown weeds, and the bright green sea-lettuce fade and die. They fall down, and make a black mould on the bottom of the lake. The poor fish feel it too. The clams and oysters miss the salt-water. Then the terrible mud smothers and chokes them, and they and the other fish die, and their empty shells cover the muddy bottom of the still water.

All this may take years and years, yet the change goes steadily on. The grasses grow higher, and higher, and tiny spears of marsh grass stand up out of water where once it was quite deep. The lake is filling up, and year by year the grass spreads over the water.

OFF BARNEGAT, NEW JERSEY COAST.

In this picture you see just such a place as this near Barnegat, on the coast of New Jersey. The grass has already begun to form islands in the water. The river appears to get discouraged, and wanders about as if it did not know what to do. The grass spreads wider and wider, and the lake begins to look like a green and level meadow. Men come in long boots wading through the shallow water and cut the grass. When it is dried, it is called salt hay. Cattle like to eat it, for it has a flavor of the old, old sea that once rolled over the place.

Every year the black wet soil grows firmer. Men dig trenches through it to let the water drain away. Along the banks of the river they pile the black peaty sods in long rows. This makes a dike or dam to keep the river from spreading over the grass in floods. Now the land begins to dry very fast. Wild cranberries, "cat-o'-nine-tails," and young bushes spring up. Perhaps a road is laid out over the meadows, and then houses are built, and boys and girls come to live on the smooth plain that grew out of the sea.

If you should visit the meadows at Chelsea, in Massachusetts, you would see just such a lagoon shut in by a travelling beach. It is nearly dry now, and in summer you will see the farmers cutting the salt grass. The Great South Bay on Long Island is another place where the change is going on. If you cross the Hackensack Meadows near Jersey City, you will see the work nearly finished. This vast level plain was once all water. The Passaic and the Hackensack rivers still wind through the level fields, but the work has gone so far that the land is now nearly dry. How it happened that all this great lake came to be filled up we can not tell, but we can plainly see that it was once water and is now turning to dry land.

How do we know all this about these meadows along the coast? Some of the places look very nearly the same to-day as two hundred years ago. The Indians never said that the water once flowed here. There is no record of these things. Indeed! There are plenty of records.

In the first place, you can almost always find the beach at the outside of the meadows. Nearly all the beaches on Long Island have meadows behind them. There may not be a river near, but that makes no difference, for sometimes a beach may grow across a bay between two capes.

If we dig a hole deep down into such a meadow we may find the whole story. First we turn up the black sod full of stems and roots of the grass. Under this the soil is finer, for the roots and leaves have moulded away. What's that? The spade strikes something hard. It is flat and rough, and covered with fine black mould. Wash it well, and we find it is a shell—an oyster shell. Strange that it should be there. Dig deeper, and we find more, perhaps a great quantity of them, bedded thickly one over the other. Here's the truth of the matter. This is an old oyster bed. These oysters did not come there by chance. They must have lived there, and as they live under salt-water, it is plain that where we stand was once a part of the sea.

We may dig deeper, and find more records of the old lake. See those black stones. How smooth and round they are! You remember the smooth stones we saw rolling in the surf on the beach? We can not help thinking that these stones were once tumbled about in the surf on some old beach. This is the way the marsh tells its own story, and repeats the wonderful tale of its birth from the sea.

A SEVERE SCHOOL-MASTER.

But your eyes are so big and so bright,
And your spectacles frighten me so!
And I can not remember my lesson
When you look at me that way, you know.

Spell "mouse," did you say? M-O-U—
Oh, you don't know how fierce you do look!
And I think I can see a great claw
Sticking out from the edge of the book.

If you only were not quite so big,
And your nose not so pointed and queer—
M-O-U—I don't know what comes next,
I can not remember. Oh dear!

I am trying to think how to spell it;
My heart just goes thumpity-thump.
M-O-U. Won't you wait just a minute?
Oh, please don't get down off the stump!

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THE CRUISE OF THE CANOE CLUB.[1]

BY W. L. ALDEN,

Author of "The Moral Pirates," "The Cruise of the 'Ghost,'" etc., etc.

Chapter II.

It was some time before the canoes were ready, and in the mean time the young canoeists met with a new difficulty. The canoe-builders wrote to them wishing to know how they would have the canoes rigged. It had never occurred to the boys that there was more than one rig used on canoes, and of course they did not know how to answer the builders' question. So they went to the Commodore, and told him their difficulty.

"I might do," said he, "just as I did when I told you to go and ask four different canoeists which is the best canoe; but I won't put you to that trouble. I rather like the Lord Ross lateen rig better than any other, but as you are going to try different kinds of canoes, it would be a good idea for you to try different rigs. For example, have your 'Rob Roy' rigged with lateen sails; rig the 'Shadow' with a balance lug; the 'Rice Laker' with a sharpie leg-of-mutton, and the canvas canoe with the standing lug. Each one of these rigs has its advocates, who will prove to you that it is better than any other, and you can't do better than to try them all. Only be sure to tell the builders that every canoe must have two masts, and neither of the two sails must be too big to be safely handled."

"How does it happen that every canoeist is so perfectly certain that he has the best canoe and the best rig in existence?" asked Tom.

"That is one of the great merits of canoeing," replied the Commodore. "It makes every man contented, and develops in him decision of character. I've known a canoeist to have a canoe so leaky that he spent half his time bailing her out, and rigged in such a way that she would neither sail nor do anything in a breeze except capsize; and yet he was never tired of boasting of the immense superiority of his canoe. There's a great deal of suffering in canoeing," continued the Commodore, musingly, "but its effects on the moral character are priceless. My dear boys, you have no idea how happy and contented you will be when you are wet through, cramped and blistered, and have to go into camp in a heavy rain, and without any supper except dry crackers."

While the boys were waiting for their canoes, they read all the books on canoeing that they could find; and searched through a dozen volumes of the London Field, which they found in Uncle John's library, for articles and letters on canoeing. They thus learned a good deal, and when their canoes arrived, they were able to discuss their respective merits with a good degree of intelligence.

The "Rob Roy" and the "Shadow" were built with white cedar planks and Spanish cedar decks. They shone with varnish, and their nickel-plated metal-work was as bright as silver. They were decidedly the prettiest of the four canoes, and it would have been very difficult to decide which was the prettier of the two. The "Rice Laker" was built without timbers or a keel, and was formed of two thicknesses of planking riveted together, the grain of the inner planking crossing that of the outer planking at right angles. She looked strong and serviceable, and before Tom had been in possession of her half an hour he was insisting that she was much the handiest canoe of the squadron, simply because she had no deck. The outside planks were of butternut, but they were pierced with so many rivets that they did not present so elegant an appearance as did the planks of the "Shadow" and the "Rob Roy." The canvas canoe consisted of a wooden skeleton frame, covered and decked with painted canvas. She was very much the same in model as the "Shadow," and though she seemed ugly in comparison with her varnished sisters, Charley claimed that he would get more comfort out of his canoe than the other boys would out of theirs, for the reason that scratches that would spoil the beauty of the varnished wood could not injure the painted canvas. Thus each boy was quite contented, and insisted that he would not change canoes with anybody. They were equally contented with the way in which their canoes were rigged, and they no longer wondered at the confident way in which the canoeists to whom the Commodore had introduced them spoke of the merits of their respective boats.

Of course the subject of names for the canoes had been settled long before the canoes arrived. Joe had named his "Rob Roy" the Dawn; Harry's canoe was the Sunshine; Tom's the Twilight; and Charley's the Midnight. The last name did not seem particularly appropriate to a canoe, but it was in keeping with the other names, and as the canoe was painted black, it might have been supposed to have some reference to her color.

The boys had intended to join the American Canoe Association, but Uncle John suggested that they would do well to make a cruise, and to become real canoeists before asking for admission to the association. They then decided to form a canoe club of their own, which they did; and Harry was elected the first Commodore of the Columbian Canoe Club, the flag of which was a pointed burgee of blue silk with a white paddle worked upon it. Each canoe carried its private signal in addition to the club flag, and bore its name in gilt letters on a blue ground on each bow.

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Where to cruise was a question which was decided and reconsidered half a dozen times. From the books which they had read the boys had learned that there is, if anything, more fun in cruising on a narrow stream than in sailing on broad rivers; that running rapids is a delightful sport, and that streams should always be descended instead of ascended in a canoe. They therefore wanted to discover a narrow stream with safe and easy rapids, and also to cruise on some lake or wide river where they could test the canoes under sail and under paddle in rough water. They learned more of the geography of the Eastern States and of Canada, in searching the map for a good cruising route, than they had ever learned at school; and they finally selected a route which seemed to combine all varieties of canoeing.

The cruise was to begin at the southern end of Lake Memphremagog, in Vermont. On this lake, which is thirty miles long, the young canoeists expected to spend several days, and to learn to handle the canoes under sail. From the northern end of the lake, which is in Canada, they intended to descend its outlet, the Magog River, which is a narrow stream emptying into the St. Francis River at Sherbrooke. From Sherbrooke the St. Francis was to be descended to the St. Lawrence, down which the canoes were to sail to Quebec. They wrote to the post-master at Sherbrooke, asking him if the Magog and the St. Francis were navigable by canoes, and when he replied that there was one or two rapids in the Magog, which they could easily run, they were more than ever satisfied with their route.

The previous cruises that the boys had made had taught them what stores and provisions were absolutely necessary, and what could be spared. Each canoe was provided with a water-proof bag to hold a blanket and dry clothes, and with a pair of small cushions stuffed with elastic felt, a material lighter than cork, and incapable of retaining moisture. These cushions were to be used as mattresses at night, and the rubber blankets were to be placed over the canoes and used as shelter tents. Although the mattresses would have made excellent life-preservers, Uncle John presented each canoeist with a rubber life-belt, which could be buckled around the waist in a few seconds in case of danger of a capsize. Harry provided his canoe with a canvas canoe tent, made from drawings published in the London Field, but the others decided not to go to the expense of making similar tents until Harry's should have been thoroughly tested.

When all was ready, the blankets and stores were packed in the Sunshine, the cockpit of which was provided with hatches which could be locked up, thus making the canoe serve the purpose of a trunk. The four canoes were then sent by rail to Newport, at the southern end of Lake Memphremagog, and a week later the boys followed them, carrying their paddles by hand, for the reason that if they had been sent with the canoes, and had been lost or stolen, it would have been impossible to start on the cruise until new paddles had been procured.

Newport was reached, after an all-night journey, at about ten o'clock in the morning. The canoeists went straight to the freight-house to inspect the canoes. They were all there, resting on the heads of a long row of barrels, and were apparently all right. The varnish of the Dawn and the Sunshine was scratched in a few places, and the canvas canoe had a very small hole punched through her deck, as if she had been too intimate with a nail in the course of her journey. The boys were, however, well satisfied with the appearance of the boats, and, being very hungry, walked up to the hotel to get dinner and a supply of sandwiches, bread, and eggs for their supper.

Dinner was all ready, for, under the name of breakfast, it was waiting for the passengers of the train, which made a stop of half an hour at Newport. A band was playing on the deck of a steamer which was just about to start down the lake, and the boys displayed such appetites, and called for so many things, as they sat near the open window looking out on the beautiful landscape, that they astonished the waiter.

A good, quiet place for launching the canoes was found, which was both shady and out of sight of the hotel. It was easy enough to carry the three empty canoes down to the shore; but the Sunshine, with her heavy cargo, proved too great a load, and about half-way between the freight-house and the shore she had to be laid on the ground and partly emptied. Here Joe, who tried to carry the spars and paddles of four canoes on his shoulder, found that there is nothing more exasperating than a load of sticks of different sizes. No matter how firmly he tried to hold them together, they would spread apart at every imaginable angle.

Before he had gone three rods he looked like some new kind of porcupine with gigantic quills sticking out all over him. Then he began to drop things, and, stooping to pick them up, managed to trip himself and fall with a tremendous clatter. He picked himself up, and made sixteen journeys between the spot where he fell and the shore of the lake, carrying only one spar at a time, and grasping that with both hands. His companions sat down on the grass and laughed to see the deliberate way in which he made his successive journeys, but Joe, with a perfectly serious face, said that he was going to get the better of those spars, no matter how much trouble it might cost him, and that he was not going to allow them to get together and play tricks on him again.

It was tiresome stooping over, packing the canoes, but finally they were all in order, and the Commodore gave the order to launch them. The lake was perfectly calm, and the little fleet started under paddle for a long sandy point that jutted out into the lake some three miles from Newport. The Sunshine and the Dawn paddled side by side, and the two other canoes followed close behind them.

"'Boys, isn't this perfectly elegant?" exclaimed Harry, laying down his paddle when the fleet was about a mile from the shore, and bathing his hot head with water from the lake. "Did you ever see anything so lovely as the blue water?"

"Yes," said Charley; "the water's all right outside of the canoes, but I'd rather have a little less inside of mine."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry. "Is she leaking?"

"SHE'S HALF FULL OF WATER."

"She's half full of water, that's all," replied Charley, beginning to bail vigorously with his hat.

"Halloo!" cried Joe, suddenly. "Here's the water up to the top of my cushions."

"We'd better paddle on and get ashore as soon as possible," said Harry; "my boat is leaking a little too."

Charley bailed steadily for ten minutes, and somewhat reduced the amount of water in his canoe. The moment he began paddling, however, the leak increased. He paddled with his utmost strength, knowing that if he did not soon reach land he would be swamped; but the water-logged canoe was very heavy, and he could not drive her rapidly through the water. His companions kept near him, and advised him to drop his paddle and bail, but he knew that the water was coming in faster than he could bail it out, and so he wasted no time in the effort. It soon became evident that his canoe would never keep afloat to reach the sand-spit for which he had been steering, so he turned aside and paddled for a little clump of bushes, where he knew the water must be shallow. Suddenly he stopped paddling, and almost at the same moment his canoe sank under him, and he sprang up to swim clear of her.

[to be continued.]

[Pg 679]

PHRONY JANE'S LAWN PARTY.

BY SYDNEY DAYRE.

"Now, Johnny, leave your saw."

"Ah, mamma, can't I just finish this bracket?"

"No, dear. All your Saturday evening's work is to be done yet."

It was hard, Johnny thought. A half-hour more would finish the beautiful deer bracket; the scroll-saw still had the charm of novelty, and the delicate pattern was a most attractive one. Johnny worked away harder than ever (a way he had of delaying obedience), and was beginning to hope he might yet complete his work, when a bright-faced little colored girl came in. She tied on an apron, and began beating eggs into a foam, adding a new clatter to the din made by Johnny's saw.

"Stop. Johnny, stop, I say!" and Johnny began moving his darling machine back into its corner with rather an ill grace. "Well, Phrony Jane, have you had a pleasant time?"

"Yes, 'm, splendid. Miss Lawton she's a-gwine to do lots o' nice things this summer—gwine to hev a lawn party next week out to her uncle's in the country for we uns."

"Who's we uns?" asked Johnny, teasingly.

"Why, her class—all o' we uns."

"Can't I go, then?"

"No," said Phrony Jane, a little disdainfully; "Miss Lawton don't approve o' boys, I guess. Ain't got a single one in her class."

"Couldn't get one," retorted Johnny, going out.

"Come back, Johnny," called his mother, "and put away your patterns, and pick up your chips." She sat down to look over some blackberries, while Phrony Jane, finishing her egg-beating, and relieved from the disadvantage the noise had placed her under, resumed her talk as she set the table for tea.

"Must 'a ben mighty sca'ce times when der was famines 'round." She looked admiringly at a loaf of bread she was cutting into slices. "Not a mite o' bread 'n' butter, nor beefsteak, nor canned fruit, nor nothin'. Miss Lawton she tole us all 'bout how 'Lijah he went to a po'r woman, 'n' says he, 'Gi' me jus' a little speck o' bread,' 'n' says she, 'Bless yer heart, mas'r, I ain't got but jus' one handful o' co'n meal, 'n' jus' as soon as me 'n' de little chap eats dat up we's gwine to die, sho's you live!' But says he, 'Don't ye be skairt now, aunty; you go 'n' make some co'n-cake fer you uns, 'n' some fer me, 'n' you see ef tings don't hold out.' An' she did, 'n' every day dere was more co'n meal in de bar'l. Now you know, missus, dat was de Lord!"

Mrs. Dent assented.

"How d'you s'pose He done it?"

Phrony Jane looked as if she would like to know very much indeed.

"We can't tell, Phrony Jane. The Lord has His own way of doing wonders."

"'Twould be an awful handy way o' gittin' tings down to our house, whe' de bacon 'n' molasses is all out. But, missus"—Phrony Jane now came to help with the berries, and it was plain there was something more weighty on her mind than bacon and molasses—"d'you s'pose 'twould do to war a gingham dress to a lawn party?" Mrs. Dent laughed.

"Why, Phrony Jane, a lawn party has nothing to do with a lawn dress. It means a party in the open air—on the lawn. People who have pretty grounds often give lawn parties."

"You sho' o' dat, missus? I hearn dat Phylly Jackman tell how she's gwine to w'ar her lawn dress—all ruffles 'n' a over-skirt."

"Well, if you are anxious about it, Phrony Jane, you know I told you I'd give you my brown lawn. Do you think you can alter it in time if I help you?"

"By nex' Friday? Course I can." Phrony Jane's face beamed as she thus happily arrived at what she had been aiming for.

All day long she was in such a state of delight that Mrs. Dent began to fear that her little hand-maiden's wits were quite lost. Milk pails were upset and dishes broken, and when the good lady saw Phrony Jane, in the middle of the afternoon, sitting in the swing with the baby in her arms, and singing

"Nobody knows de trubble I hab"

at the top of her voice, she actually began to tremble lest the little thing might meet with some dreadful accident through her nurse's wild excitement. Toward evening, when the day's labors were ended, Phrony Jane announced confidentially to Johnny:

"I's jus' gwine to run up 'n' tell dat Phyl Jackman she ain't de on'y one's got a lawn dress!"

Early the next morning Phrony Jane received news which struck dismay to her heart. Her mother, living two miles away, had broken her leg by a fall, and wanted her. Mrs. Dent packed a basket of comforts which would surely be needed in the shiftless family, and poor Phrony Jane departed in grief, wishing the news had not reached her until after Sunday-school, when she might have heard more about the lawn party.

Johnny had appeared that morning with a suspicious hobble. He had slightly sprained his foot the day before, and had avoided speaking of it through fear of being forbidden to saw brackets, and he had used it so imprudently as now to be unable to hide it any longer. So with a good supply of Sunday reading, a lunch handy in case of need, and many injunctions on the proper keeping of the day, Johnny's papa and mamma left him, each having a Sunday-school class to attend to.

Johnny meant well, but, as is the case with some other boys, needed a little looking after in order to carry out his good intentions. When the stories in the papers were exhausted, and a marvellous amount of gingerbread and milk consumed, he found that Sunday-school-time was not yet over. Church would not be over until after twelve. Coaxing a quarrel between the dog and cat took up ten minutes more, resulting in the cat's springing to the top of the scroll-saw, and scattering in every direction the pieces of work piled there, covered with a towel.

Johnny jumped to pick them up, much concerned at seeing that a slender point of a leaf was broken off one of his pieces of fine work. He thought it might be remedied by being rounded off with the saw. His foot was near the treadle, and the saw almost rose and fell of itself as he shaved the broken place. Then the other side had to be curved to make things even. Then he happened to be just where he was when he had been obliged to quit work the evening before. His foot did not hurt much as still that saw seemed to cut of its own accord into the graceful leaves. On it went, just going to stop every moment, Johnny inwardly assuring himself he never would think of doing such a wicked thing as saw on Sunday, but still following that enticing pattern until he at last stopped in alarm at seeing there was only one leaf more to do. It could not make things worse to finish that. It was done, and Johnny covered the saw feeling more guilty than ever in his life before, and hoping mamma would not look right into his eyes when she came home.

Phrony Jane came back on Tuesday evening, her wages being important enough in her family to lead them to try to get along without her. She inquired anxiously about the lawn party, but Mrs. Dent, who went to a different Sunday-school, and had not seen Miss Lawton, knew nothing further concerning it. Phrony Jane worked hard, every spare minute at the lawn dress, sitting up late on Thursday night, too busy to run and ask Phylly Jackman about the party. Still no word came from Miss Lawton,[Pg 680] and on Friday afternoon Phrony Jane stood astounded in the back porch as two spring-wagons passed carrying Miss Lawton's class out for their country frolic.

"I never 'd 'a thought she'd 'a used me so dretful cruel." Poor Phrony Jane went to her room and cried.

"You here, Phrony Jane?" asked Miss Lawton, in surprise, as she took her place in class next Sunday.

"Yes, 'm. Didn't you spect me to come no more?" she asked, wondering what could have come over her teacher.

"Why, certainly, always when you're in the neighborhood, but I heard you had gone home."

"I did, 'm, but I come back a-Tuesday."

Miss Lawton called on Phylly Jackman next morning, and after some talk, took her with her down to Mrs. Dent's. Johnny was still kept in by his sprain, which, much to his mother's surprise, had been worse since she had left him at home on Sunday to keep it quiet. Many a rueful glance had he since cast at his saw, reflecting on the amount of enjoyment he had lost for such a poor bit of fun, and wishing he had courage to tell mamma.

"Now, Phyllis," said Miss Lawton, after courtesies were exchanged, "I want you to tell Mrs. Dent exactly what you told the girls about Phrony Jane."

"Well, 'm, I come here Sunday mornin' was a week, right after Sunday-school, to see why Phrony Jane wasn't dar, 'n' when I come to de door I hearn a noise, 'n' dar was dat sinful gal a-workin' away on de sewin'-machine on de holy Sabba' day!" Phylly's head shook virtuously.

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Dent, in great surprise. "Did you come in?"

"No, 'm, I jus' went 'n' peeked in de winder—de w'ite curting was pulled down, but I seen de shadder ob her woolly head on it."

"And what did you tell the girls?"

"I tole 'em dat wicked Phrony Jane was a-workin' at her lawn dress, she felt so stuck up about, on de Sabba' day, 'n' Mis' Dent ought to send her home, 'n' not keep no such trash about. She did, you see!" Phylly was triumphant.

"That was the story which reached me," said Miss Lawton.

"It's a very strange one," said Mrs. Dent. "Phrony Jane left here early on Sunday morning to go to her mother, who had met with an accident, and Johnny was here all the time. Of course no one was at the sewing-machine, Johnny?"

"No, ma'am," said Johnny, very positively.

Phylly was puzzled and crest-fallen, but stuck to her statement in a stubborn fashion, which made both ladies feel out of patience with her. Phrony Jane being called, was not informed of the dark accusation which had been out against her, but was so cheered by her teacher's kindly regrets for her disappointment, growing out of a misunderstanding, as to spend no more regrets over the pleasure she had lost.

But Johnny, after this, became so woe-begone and peak-faced, was so evidently drooping from his confinement to the house, that his mother grew concerned. She cooked nice things for him, read to him, brought boys to see him; but all to no effect. But when she staid at home from Sunday-school with him, alone with her in the quiet of the Sabbath morning, Johnny's reserve broke down, and in a great flood of penitential remorse out came the burden on his conscience. Then listening to his mother's words of sorrowful surprise, forgiveness, and loving admonition, he formed earnest resolutions of never again forgetting the sacredness of Sunday hours.

Then Mrs. Dent began to wonder over this queer unravelling of the mystery of the sewing-machine story, laughing as she remembered the "woolly head" that figured in it.

"No wonder Phylly was so sure poor Phrony Jane was running the machine when she heard the roar of that saw of yours," she said, giving Johnny's curly hair a pull.

"And you see," said Johnny, "the worst of it is, it was me that made Phrony Jane miss going to the lawn party, and I'd like to make it up to her somehow."

"Yes." They laid their heads together, and the outcome of it was that Miss Lawton was spoken to, and she brought out her lively little colored crowd one day, and Phrony Jane had a lawn party of her own—a surprise lawn party, for which Johnny freely spent all his savings for candy, and strode about with a lofty sense of having "made up" for his injury to Phrony Jane in a most magnanimous manner.

"Why didn't you w'ar your style dress wid de ruffles 'n' over-skirt, Phylly?" asked Phrony Jane of that young lady, observing that her attire by no means exhibited the grandeur which might reasonably have been expected.

Phylly had felt guilty over the result of her meddling and gossiping about Phrony Jane. Moreover, Mrs. Dent had just explained to her the mistake which Johnny's Sunday sawing had led her into making, and she felt too proud at this recognition of herself as a truthful character to feel inclined to tell any lies just now.

"Well, de fact ob it is, Phrony Jane," she whispered, confidentially, "I ain't got no such a ting as a lawn dress—'n' it ain't got no ruffles, nor yet no over-skirt."

[Pg 681]

THE FRESH-AIR FUND.

[Pg 682]

THE FRESH-AIR FUND.

BY W. A. ROGERS.

We have in New York city a number of kind-hearted ladies and gentlemen, who have arranged a plan by which the little girls and boys of our streets are taken in great boat-loads to different parts of the country round about, where they spend a week or two playing in the green fields, eating good food and drinking rich milk, and enjoying themselves to their heart's content, gaining meanwhile a stock of health and strength that lasts them many days after their return to the warm city.

On a hot evening in July one of these excursions left the New York pier, bound for the beautiful country bordering on Lake Champlain. A steamer had been chartered for the trip as far as Troy, and from there a railway train was to take the children to the lake.

From end to end the great boat was filled with wonder-eyed and rather awe-stricken little girls, and somewhat subdued but mischievous-looking boys. All of them were provided with luggage for a two weeks' stay in the country, but there seemed to be a great difference in their ideas of how much to bring. A little paper bag tied with a piece of string, and an empty basket, were all one very serene-looking little fellow had brought. Many of the girls brought their wardrobes packed in their school satchels, and one little lass had under her arm such a box as a gentleman's suit generally comes home in from the tailor's.

In the wistful little faces that peered out over the rail could be read stories too sad to be more than hinted at to our young people. Here were little girls and boys who had never felt the green sod under their feet, nor picked a flower, but who had spent all their lives penned up in great towering houses, their only play-ground the burning roof, a hundred feet above the streets.

It did not take the little passengers long to get used to their surroundings, and long before the darkness came the decks of the good steamer Minnie Cornell were alive with such pranks as only city urchins ever think of. At nine o'clock, mattresses were spread upon the cabin floors, and without any special preparation, except that some of the boys took off their hats and stuffed them into their coat pockets, the children lay down to sleep.

Long before the sun came up next morning the forward deck swarmed with little folks eager to catch the first glimpse of green fields and blue hills. It was here that your artist saw a bright little boy holding a very large satchel, on which was painted in eccentric letters, "Jerry Doyle, Avenue A." Beside him a tiny little fellow sat swinging his feet in a very contented manner.

"Me and Tim are havin' a boss time," said Jerry. "We had a state-room on de cabin floor, layin' crosswise on a mattress. We didn't allow any snorin', and when any feller tried it, we hauled him round the deck by the heels till he quit. There was a man there to see we didn't none of us walk in our sleep. I don't believe he enjoyed hisself much."

Here Tim interrupted the thread of his brother's narrative to inquire what that crooked thing was on the bank, and Jerry, who had been up to Tompkins Square once, replied that it was a tree.

At Troy, four hundred and sixty-seven happy but very hungry youngsters left the boat, and marched through the streets, like an invading army, to a public hall, where tables loaded down with good things awaited them.

It would be impossible to tell whether their host, Mr. Shepard Tappan, or his little guests, enjoyed the occasion most. I rather think that one little fellow who climbed up on the platform, and drummed upon the grand piano with his fists, while some of the boys pelted him with biscuits, had the best time of all.

On the way to the dépôt, after breakfast, all the early risers of Troy were out waiting to see the children pass by.

When the special train drew up at a little station on the shore of Lake Champlain, a very lively gentleman, with a note-book in his hand, jumped to the ground, followed by fifty or sixty little folks, who were no sooner off the cars than they rushed into the field of buttercups and daisies that skirted the track to gather bouquets.

After shaking hands very rapidly with the foremost of a group of kind-hearted farmers who had come down to welcome their little guests, and handing one of them a list of the children's names, the lively gentleman was on the cars again, and the train was out of sight in a moment.

My friends Jerry and Tim were among the number to get off at the station, and a few days after, while riding by a fine old farm-house, I was greeted by a "Hi, mister!" from Jerry himself.

"Me and Tim is puttin' up at this hotel," said he. "You oughter see me apartments! Mrs. Bromley is the lady what lives here. Tim calls Mr. Bromley 'Father.' He promised to take Tim out with him to hoe corn or 'taters, or somepin this mornin'; so as soon as breakfast was over, Tim shoulders the hoe, and says he, 'Come, father, if you want to hoe, come with me; you must hurry up.' Didn't they smile! Of course I don't say nothin' to them," continued Jerry, confidentially, "but I think the milk out here is kind of thick. We all went to church Sunday. I rode on horseback this mornin'. The horses here is more frisky than the street-car horses, and there ain't no lumps on their knees. There ain't any milkmen or organ-grinders like there is on Avenue A, but I like to wade in brooks better than our gutter."

Here a little girl came up, with a wreath of daisies around her head, and little Tim ran round her chasing a butterfly. Jerry ran to help him, and the happy children soon disappeared in the tall shrubbery of the farm-yard.

WHAT THE WOLF HID.

BY M. P. HARDY.

We were standing at the window watching Lion, the house-dog, burying a bone in the dead leaves near the fence.

"Why does he do that?" asked my little cousin.

"Animal instinct," replied my father, to whom the question was addressed. "He has more dinner than he cares to eat just now, and so puts away some for the next time. Other animals do the same thing sometimes. I once knew an old lady who when a child had a singular adventure in connection with this same instinct."

Of course there was an immediate demand for the story. Father teased us for a little while, and then he told it, as follows:

"Sixty or seventy years ago, my friend's father was a pioneer in the region bordering on the Ohio River. He and his son were cutting wood in the forest one day, and Polly, then a little girl of five years old or so, was playing near them while they worked. When the time came to go home, Polly was nowhere to be seen.

"'That's strange,' said her father. 'She always obeys so well. I don't see how she could have strayed off.'

"'She wouldn't have gone home without telling us,' said her brother. 'Look! here's her sun-bonnet full of nuts. She must be somewhere around.'

"They looked again and again in every direction, calling, 'Polly! Polly!' all in vain. There were no Indians living near, but wolves and panthers were plenty, and only the winter before the father and son had killed two bears in an attack on the cow-house. So they began to feel seriously alarmed.

"Presently the brother, looking anxiously about, espied an odd-looking heap of leaves on the farther slope of the hill, where no wind could possibly have tossed them. He went to have a closer look at it. Carelessly throwing[Pg 683] aside a portion of the heap, he uncovered, to his joyful surprise, a bit of Polly's red frock.

"'Father, come here,' he called, and in a moment more they had the child safe and sound, but fast asleep, in their arms.

"'That's strange,' said her father once more. 'John, take Polly home. I'm going to stay here, and see if I can't find out what this means. She never covered herself up this way, I'm certain. Come back as quick as you can, and bring your rifle with you. Here, hand me mine before you go.'

"So saying, he piled the leaves up neatly once more, putting a small log of wood into the place where the child had lain. He then crouched down behind a fallen tree near by to see what would happen.

"He did not have long to wait. John had scarcely had time to return, almost out of breath with the haste he had made, when the soft patter of paws was heard on the dry leaves, and they saw three gray wolves approaching at full trot, with another slightly in advance leading the way.

"The wolf in front led his comrades straight to the heap of leaves, and scratching eagerly, quickly uncovered the buried log. His dismay was almost comical to behold. He sniffed and smelled and turned his head this way and that in utter bewilderment. How a dainty little girl, plump and soft, and just suited to the taste of a wolf who enjoys a good dinner, could suddenly turn into a great uneatable log of wood was too much for him to understand. He finally gave the problem up in despair, and turned to his companions, cowering like a beaten hound.

"There were some sharp barks of disappointment, followed by snarls, as the three guests, who had evidently been bidden to a feast which was not forth-coming, expressed their indignation at the supposed hoax.

"The other wolf only whined dolefully, but in vain, for the three fell upon him, and in less time than it takes to tell of it, tore him into pieces, and began to devour him. They did not finish the meal, however, for the two rifles behind the log cracked once and again, and all three wolves lay dead beside the comrade whom they had punished so terribly.

"I have every reason to believe this story literally true," continued my father; "and the other day I told it to Mr. E. S. Ellis, the well-known writer of stories of Western adventure.

"'I have no doubt it happened just as you heard it,' he said. 'The incident is uncommon, but not unknown in natural history. My grandfather knew a lumberman who went to sleep in the woods in Northern New York, and was awakened by a panther covering him with leaves. He lay still till the animal got through and went off, when he jumped up and left too. He didn't wait for the panther to come back.'"

HOMING PIGEONS.

BY C. W. FISHER.

As long ago as the days of the great Roman Empire pigeons were employed as message-bearers. Since that time both the breed and training of carriers have so steadily improved that to-day the accounts of their intelligence and skill are almost marvellous.

In Belgium and Turkey, perhaps, of all the countries of Europe, the most perfect results have been achieved, though Germany and France have established government dépôts, educating the birds for practical use in time of war or other necessity.

In America the carrier is used chiefly for sporting, and pigeon-racing has become quite common. Associations have been formed all over the country for the purpose of perfecting the stock, and having frequent trials of speed, and so lively and wide-spread an interest is taken in the sport that there is a general desire to know more of the birds and the means by which their remarkable instincts are developed.

As the name implies, "homing" pigeons are birds which possess so strong a love for home that their first impulse when free is to return there. They are so keen of sense that they are able to find their way back even from distances of several hundred miles, and in an incredibly short time.

The pigeon now known as the carrier was probably originally used for homing. Its usefulness in that direction, however, has long since departed; it is to-day simply a fancy bird, and a carrier by courtesy only.

The name "homing" is not given to any one variety of pigeons, several kinds possessing the faculty. They are all large in frame, and resemble the carrier in appearance, being undoubtedly descended from the same stock. They are easily raised and easily taught, and the pleasure derived from the teaching amply repays the little care required. A boy can certainly find no more absorbing occupation for his spare hours, and with a little patience can train a bird very successfully.

In the first place, the "loft," as the pigeon-cote is called, should be lofty. The birds are very keen of vision, it is true, but so great a tax is made upon their keenness that we should aid them all we can; therefore build your cote so high that it can be readily distinguished among surrounding objects.

As they are likely to return from a flight at any hour, the loft must be so arranged as to admit the birds at all times, while egress is permitted only at the owner's pleasure. Either or both of two very simple devices will meet this need. One is a square opening in the roof large enough to allow the passage within of a bird with folded wings, but too small to permit its outward flight with wings spread. The other is a wire drop door, which yields easily to pressure from the outside, and falling after the pigeon has entered, keeps him a prisoner.

Having prepared the loft, in buying be careful to select only young birds. Old ones, if good for anything, will upon the first opportunity return to the home from which you have taken them. Remember, in training, that the simple secret of success lies in teaching your bird to know its home and its vicinity thoroughly.

To aid you in this, let your cote be provided with a broad wire-inclosed ledge, from which the pigeons may have an uninterrupted view of the neighborhood even while confined. Their education may begin as soon as they are grown. Commence it by carrying them half a mile from home in a covered basket, and loosing them by tossing well up in the air. If made of the right stuff, they will rise high enough to command a good view, then fly directly to the loft. Should any fail to do so, they are little loss to the brood, and had far better show their uselessness at an early stage of their training than later. So waste no time in regrets over any such good-for-naughts; they are not worth it.

Those that return should be taken out again, the day following, about the same distance, but in a different direction, and this process continued until they are perfectly familiar with all the landmarks within half a mile of home. When this has been accomplished, half the battle is won.

The distances may then be increased, by one or two mile stages, up to ten miles, always loosing the birds hungry. From ten miles advance by five-mile steps to twenty-five miles, and thence by ten-mile increases to fifty miles. Long flights must be gone over by longer or shorter stages, depending upon the smartness of the pigeon in training. It is almost useless to expect one to reach home over a wholly unknown route. The probabilities are that some of the birds will fail to reach the cote in almost every flight. This is to be expected, and the young trainer may be reconciled to their loss by the thought[Pg 684] that those that have returned have proved themselves all the more worthy of his care and instruction.

Their speed is almost beyond belief, thirty, sixty, and even ninety miles an hour being recorded of them—a rate which would carry one across the Atlantic in three days.

Aside from the pure sport derived from their rearing, the practical uses to which their intelligence may be put are very many.

During the siege of Paris a daily pigeon-post was established, by means of which persons within the beleaguered city were enabled to correspond with friends without.

The messages, were printed and photographed microscopically upon a very thin film of paper, which was rolled in a quill, and fastened to the leg or one of the tail feathers. At intervals numbers of the pigeons were returned in balloons, so that constant communication was had. Country doctors in England long employed carriers to convey medicines to distant patients, and only a few days since it was announced that the Prussian government had determined to make use of them in the coasting service to establish communication with the light-ships lying off the coast of the North Sea. Since 1876 experiments with them have been made with great success. Such communication is of the utmost importance not only to the light-ships themselves, but to incoming vessels that may be in distress. Birds are being bred and trained especially for this service, and a number have made the distance from light-ship to shore—thirty-five miles—in thirty minutes, and that in the face of a heavy gale. News of distress can be thus sent to the land with the greatest dispatch and under circumstances when life may depend upon the loss of a moment; a single "homer" may be the means of saving a crew.

At this season of the year particularly very many trials of speed are taking place, and often birds are on the way home a number of days, returning long after they have been given up.

Raising homing pigeons is a pursuit which all who are fond of pets must enjoy, and one which the boys would do well to engage in.

BURIED TREASURES.

In an old country like Japan, which has a history of two thousand years, there must be much treasure buried in the soil. There have been centuries of war, when people lived in continual danger of robbers or soldiers.

In those times money and other valuables were often secreted in the ground, out in the woods or meadows, or under the foundations of a house. The death of the owner would leave the spot unknown, to lie in obscurity forever, or to reward some accidental finder of the prize. In almost all the old settled parts of Japan every spot of ground has been built and burned, farmed and fought over, many times, and the discovery of hidden treasure is a common occurrence. The Japanese government has passed laws declaring that all such treasure belongs to the state. The honest finder is always, however, liberally rewarded.

While living in Japan, from 1870 to 1874, I heard of several cases of buried treasure coming to light. Some of them were old pieces of money, like bullets, or lumps of silver and gold of all shapes, and simply stamped in one place. The happy finder in the picture has struck upon a mass of the thin oval gold coins called obans, which are worth from ten to fifty dollars each in our money. Even his dog shares his glee, while behind him is his envious neighbor, who is vexed because he did not see the coins first.

There are many foolish persons in the United States who have spent great labor and wasted much time to find the pots of gold which Captain Kidd is said to have buried near the sea-shore. So in Japan: I met, while there, several foolish people, whose whole mind was set on getting suddenly rich by finding buried money. The amount of spade-work and field-digging which they accomplished without any success would have sufficed to have made good farmers of them. It is a surer thing in Japan, as in America, to seek to find gold by steady work and a mind on the lookout for opportunities than by digging for it at random.

The Chinese way of talking about a person who is "waiting for something to turn up" is "sitting beside a stump, on the watch for a hare." A farmer in ancient times was ploughing a rice field, when he saw a hare dash itself against a stump that stood in his field; and immediately fall dead. The foolish farmer, leaving his plough, sat down upon the stump and waited for another hare to come and do likewise, which no other hare was foolish enough to do.

[Pg 685]

Do you know where the laurel climbs over the mountain
In great blushing clusters so dewy and sweet?
Do you know where the buttercups laugh in the meadow,
And the daisies shine out on the edge of the wheat?

Come wander with me in the glad sunny morning;
I'll show you where flowers by hundreds are found;
Some up on the hill-tops, some down in the valleys,
And some like stars dropped on the green mossy ground.

Do you know a wise robin with three little children?
Could you find, safely hidden, the humming-bird's nest?
Do you think, if you saw it, you'd guess by the color
The flash of the tanager's beautiful crest?

Come, I know the birdies; they sing for me often;
They fly in and out, and don't mind me at all;
I watch their bright eyes and their quick little motions,
And I know when in anger or trouble they call.

I've an armful of flowers and feathery grasses—
I'm taking them home to my mother, you see;
She'll help me to weave them in baskets and bunches
For pale Susy Rice and for lame Mattie Lee.

I'm so strong and so well, and I never am tired,
And they are so quiet, and often in pain,
That I'm sure they'll be glad when they hear my steps coming,
And ask me to gather them flowers again.

[Pg 686]

A real satisfaction is afforded us in the perusal of such a note as the following from an appreciative reader. We are very glad indeed that while our paper delights the little ones, it also receives the cordial approbation of their parents.

St. Louis, Missouri.

Dear Harpers,—I just want to thank you for publishing Harper's Young People. Though not a youngster—in fact, my oldest son is nineteen, and wears a mustache—I doubt whether anybody gets more solid enjoyment from the periodical than I do. I am what is called a great reader. Even during the busiest period of my life I always allowed myself one hour at least per day for reading. So my enjoyment is not exactly that of a vacant mind. Gratefully yours,

A Friend.

Montrose, Scotland.

I thought you would like to hear from a girl in Scotland who gets your paper, and enjoys it so much. I have had it from the first number. If you would like a bit of heather, I will send it to you when it is in bloom. The next letter I write will be in my native tongue—Scotch; that is to say, if you are pleased with this one. My best love to the Postmistress.

A. M. G.

If by your native tongue you mean the Gaelic, I fear I will just have to keep your next letter as a curiosity; but if the sweet Scottish dialect which rings so tunefully through the songs of the poet Burns is what you are thinking of, dinna forget your promise, dear bairn. And be sure you send the bit of heather, the mere mention of which this summer day sends my thoughts off to breezy moors and purple hills, where sheep graze and goats scramble.

Crawford, Mississippi.

I am a little girl nine years old. I have two little sisters, Saidie and Laura. Saidie is six years old, and Laura is four years old. Grandma lives with us, and teaches Saidie and me. I study geography, arithmetic, spelling, reading, writing, and music. We have a swing and a baby doll apiece. My baby is named Nellie, Saidie's Lily, and Laura's Annie. We have one old cat and three little kittens. The old cat's name is Mammy; she is mine. My kitten's name is Topsy, Saidie's Beauty, and Laura's Nannie. They don't know any tricks, but Mammy broke my cup and saucer that papa and mamma gave me on Christmas. I can sew very well on the machine. I made a dress all by myself. I am making a quilt. I hope you can find room for this in my dear, dear paper, as it is my first letter. I don't know what I would do without my Young People. I live in the country.

Bettie F. Y.

I think it must be very pleasant for three little sisters to go to school to a dear grandma. Mammy was quite tricksy when she broke your cup and saucer, whether she knows any tricks or not. I am always very much pleased when I hear that little girls are learning to sew. Do you know that thimble used to be called thumb-bell, and that those clever people the Dutch brought thumb-bells to England with them in 1605? Finger-cap would be a pretty name for the tiny thimble which, no doubt, fits Bettie's rosy finger-tip to a T.

Success, Missouri.

We subscribed for you again, dear Young People, and you can not imagine with what pleasure the first copies were received. We ran to meet papa on Thursday, and how we shouted when we saw that our books had come! But we made still more noise when we saw our old friends Toby Tyler and Jimmy Brown. We saw one grand improvement in Harper's Young People, and it was the Postmistress. What a dear, kind, patient lady she must be! We have a great many pets. Perhaps we would not have so many if we did not make pets out of almost everything; even the calves and pigs are pets. We have got a very cunning little kitten. She is very playful, but will not make friends with our dog Hunter. Do you think she could be taught to sit up and beg as some dogs do? Kitty can sit up when she wants to, but it seems so easy for her to fall over. We have a pretty little red calf that is a pet, and we named her Baby, because she was smaller than any of the other calves of her age. We have a handsome black colt that is two years old, and he is the greatest pet of all. He is a little orphan. His mother died when he was a very young colt, and my sister and I have raised him by hand. I could fill a whole page telling you how cute he is, but I am afraid you would not want to print so much. We have not any little birds, but we have an empty cage, and could catch a great many wild birds if we wished to; but we don't think they would love us if we took them out of the beautiful woods and shut them in a narrow cage. There are a great many wild birds' nests close around here, and in the morning they make the woods echo with their sweet songs. In the winter the snow-birds come every morning for their breakfast of bread-crumbs; so we always have birds around us, winter or summer. Rosalie P.'s letter was the first I ever saw in Our Post-office Box written by any person that I knew. Now we will close, and, dear Postmistress, we hope we have not made your head ache by such a long chatterbox letter.

Addie and Lulu.

Made my head ache? No indeed; though you did make me blush when I read those complimentary adjectives. You are quite right not to catch and cage the wild birds, and the pets you now have are enough in number to occupy all your spare moments. Probably you can teach kitty to beg if you try; but is it worth while?

Polly and Patty one summer day
To the dentist had to go,
For the little white teeth in Polly's mouth
Were not in an even row.
And Patty had one that ached and hurt,
Until she was fairly wild;
So mother said to her two sweet girls,
"You must each be brave, dear child!"

College Hill, near Cincinnati, Ohio.

The Post-office Box is very interesting to us little folks, and I have long wanted to contribute to it, but my papa tells me to write only when I have something of interest to say, so I have waited until now. Among our many Christmas gifts this year was Harper's Young People, which has given us a great deal of pleasure; indeed, we are so anxious we read it together. "We" means my sister Fanny and myself. My little brother, three years old, saw a circus procession last spring, and was delighted with it. When he came home he said he saw "great big pigs with logs tied on in front, and strings fastened on behind" (meaning the elephants), and "great big horses with lumps on their backs" (meaning the camels).

Daisy D.

Cambridgeborough, Pennsylvania.

I will tell you about our Indian excitement in Arizona last spring. We were living in Galeyville at the time of the Apache outbreak (some of you will remember the letter from there in No. 128). We were dreadfully frightened. We heard the firing one day when one of the men was shot. He went out to look for his horses, when the red-skins saw and killed him. We could see them (the Indians) the same evening as they passed just below town; they had hundreds of stolen horses along. At night the women and children slept in an adobe house which was barricaded. All the men in the camp were armed, and took turns at keeping guard; they expected to have a fight some morning at daybreak.

My papa and another gentleman talked the matter over, and decided to send their families to Tucson. So we got ready very hastily, and on the morning of the 26th of April we said "good-by" to the dear old camp where we had had such good times. It was a drive of twenty-five miles to our station on the Southern Pacific Railroad. There were two ladies, five children, and five riflemen, besides papa, who drove. A mile out of town we came to an encampment of soldiers, about five hundred in number. Two companies were mounted and moving, and the others were drawn up in line, ready to mount; each man stood at his horse's head, and took off his hat as we passed. We boys thought it very fine. But the scouts who accompanied them, about eighty Yuma Indians, looked hideous in their war-paint. They wore but little clothing, and all had red turbans on to show that they belonged to the United States service.

When ten miles from home we crossed a fresh trail, and a few moments later discovered a band of Indians on either side, the one at our right being the larger, and some two miles away. Those at the left—there were twenty—were nearer, and as soon as they saw us, wheeled about, and came dashing after us. Papa whipped Kate and Jennie, and they broke into a regular runaway, which lasted for a mile or more, the Indians, of course, gaining on us all the while, and soon we were almost in shooting distance. Papa then stopped the team to prepare for an attack, when the Indians halted, seeming to hold a council, then turned and rode back as fast as they had come. They no doubt saw we were well armed, and that they might get the worst of it. The large band was mostly composed of stolen horses without riders, but this we could not at first make out. I can never tell you how frightened mamma and Mrs. S. were, and how glad we all were to see the last of the hostiles.

We reached the railroad without any accident, and in time for the train. Mamma, brother, and I were in Tucson ten days, and then came here to my grandpa's house. The folks here had heard that we were all killed. A number of papa's friends were killed, and it was a most dreadful time. There are now no ladies or children at Galeyville, nor will there be for a long time. It makes us homesick to think about it all. My papa came on a few weeks ago, and we intend to stay here all summer. This is a very pleasant town. A river flows through it, bordered by grand old trees and sloping grassy banks, and spanned by a handsome suspension-bridge. We have nice times riding black Charlie, my grandpa's horse.

Georgie B. C.

What a jubilee there must have been at grandpa's when you arrived there safe and sound.

Los Angeles, California.

I never saw a letter from this "City of the Angels," so I thought I would write you one. I am a little girl only ten years old, but I like to read. I am very glad when Tuesday comes, for that is the day I get the Young People. It takes a long time for the paper to get here, and I suppose that while I am reading this week's number some little girls in New York are reading the next number. I expect you would like to hear something about this city so far away. Here the weather is so very fine—just the same the whole year round. We do not have hot days as they do in the East, and the nights are always cool. The winter is the prettiest part of the year, for then everything is green. You ought to see the orange groves and vineyards. They pick oranges every day in the year. I tell you, I love oranges. Papa says he could catch me in a dead fall with oranges—whatever that is. Besides oranges, they grow lemons, figs, cherries, apricots, limes, walnuts, and oh, so many things! And oh, the roses—I do love roses so!—bloom all the time. You must not think that because we are so far away we do not see anything nor have anything that other people see and have. We have everything you have East. My favorite piece is "Toby Tyler." I like Our Post-office Box ever so much. I have no pets; but I have a nice doll, and a mischievous brother who is five years old. His name is Guy.

Louida O'B.

Hamilton, Massachusetts.

I am a little girl ten years old. I have a little tortoise-shell kitten. He is so cunning! I named him Twinkletum Shine, after a star that was in Young People. Tell the Postmistress to tell Jimmy Brown to write some more. This is my second letter, but the other was not printed. I was so sorry!

Ella W. F.

Tampa, Florida.

I am a little girl twelve years old, and have taken Harper's Young People nearly a year, and I enjoy it so much! Papa has a beautiful orange grove, ten miles from Tampa, and we do enjoy the oranges, for they are so sweet. Tampa is beautifully situated on Tampa Bay. We have a splendid view of the Gulf of Mexico. I have eighteen dolls, and a cat named Baby, who eats raw cabbage and turnips, and talks for his dinner. He will let me dress him up in my dolls' clothes, and put him in my dolls' carriage, and take him to ride. I had a nice dog named Spot, but some one poisoned him, and he died. I have only one sister, and she is older than myself. We are the only children. I have tried a great many of your candy receipts, and they have proved to be splendid. I fear my letter will weary you. Much love to the Postmistress.

Minnie W.

Cold Spring, New York.

I was nine years old on April 15. We have two cats named Jack and Tabby, and a dog named Franklin. He can beg, walk, fetch things, jump over a stick, die, and will put things down when you tell him to. I take music lessons, and go to school. I have all the numbers of Harper's Young People from No. 1 to No. 144. I have a croquet set. The wickets are made of wire and corks. The stakes are corks, and for mallets and balls I have sticks and marbles. You can use it in the house, on the table or on the floor. We did not buy the set, but it was made at home. I have more than eleven dolls. I will mention some: Bertha King, Mary King, Eddie King, Susan Stuart, Nellie Stuart, Emma Stuart, Daisy Stuart, Lily King, Maud Stuart, Cherubina Stuart, and others. I have a brother and a sister. My brother is eleven years old, and my sister is sixteen.

Helen B. W.

Perhaps some ingenious boys who read Helen's letter will try to make a croquet set like hers for their sisters.

Texana, Texas.

As brother Tom takes Young People, and we like it so much on account of the good stories it contains, I thought I would write a letter to Our Post-office Box. I am eleven years old, and have been going to school up at Navidad to Mr. S. It is ten miles from here, and my older brother Tom and I come home every Friday evening, and go back Sunday evening. We board with our sister Irene. It is now vacation, and we are at home helping our papa and mamma work. I see so many writing about their pet cats, dogs, birds, etc. I have two cats, one a yellow one, and the[Pg 687] other a white and gray; but papa does not like them much, especially when they come about the table. My business is to hunt up the hens and guineas' nests. Sometimes I find several dozen eggs in the same nest. I also look after the turkeys. We have sixty-two young turkeys, some nearly half grown. They go off every morning, after I feed them with clabber, to the millet patch and prairie after grasshoppers, and at night come home to roost. There are nineteen small ones that we keep in the yard—too small to let out yet. We also have twenty-five young guineas; they are small, and have to be kept in the yard. They have a box to roost in to keep from getting drowned when it rains.

We have not had much rain until yesterday for a long time. Our garden had been parched up, but now I reckon it will revive. There are a great many cracks in the ground here when it gets very dry, large enough to put your foot in, and it is very dangerous then to run a horse on the prairie. I send you two Spanish butterflies (that is what we call them). They are the most voracious things you ever saw. Our railroad is completed to Victoria.

Lucius I. S.

The butterflies are very handsome, and quite formidable-looking.

Atlantic City, New Jersey.

I have just got home from Europe. I was over there one year, so I became quite accustomed to it, but I like America far better than any other land. When we left England all you could hear was about the Egyptian war; it was on every tongue. England may be large and great, but I like Scotland best. It is so beautiful! Everywhere you go it is lovely, and it has such romantic old castles! And, do you know, I saw the place where poor Rizzio was killed. I will tell you how we came to go to Europe. It was my birthday, and papa asked me what I wanted for a present. I did not know, so I said that I would like to go to Europe. All our folks laughed at me, but still papa gave me no present. So one day our carriage stopped at the door just as usual, and mamma, papa, and I got in, as I thought to go riding; but we went down such dirty streets that they attracted my attention, and I asked papa about it, and he said we were going a new way. At last we came in sight of a large vessel. We went on board, for papa said he wanted to show me the Illinois, and as we stepped upon it all our friends and relations were there. They all kissed me in a hurry, and said, "May you well enjoy your birthday present!"

Gertie D.

Very few girls have had a nicer birthday present than the one your papa gave you. What a charming surprise!

Kirkwood, Missouri.

I am eleven years old, and have taken Harper's Young People for three years, but have never attempted to write to you before. I have only been going to school a year, for we have always lived so far out in the country that mamma has been afraid to send me so far from home. It is vacation now, but mine is almost spoiled by my having the whooping-cough, which I do not particularly enjoy. My sister Jessie and I often take turns riding horseback down to the depot to meet our papa, who comes home every evening on the seven-o'clock train. We spent last winter in the city of St. Louis. Jessie and I have each a flower bed of our own. Jessie's is in the shape of a letter J for her name, and has a great many pretty flowers in it, such as pansies, verbenas, phlox, heliotrope, and other plants. Mine is round, and has a great many geraniums, and in the centre is a plant called the hibiscus, which has a very pretty large red flower on it. We have a great deal of fruit now. The peach, pear, apple, and plum trees are so full that we have to prop them up with poles.

Perle.

I think if one must have the whooping-cough, it interferes less with vacation pleasures than with school duties.

Montclair, New Jersey.

I am a little girl, nine years old. We have two dogs; their names are Dan and Frisk. Dan is a pointer. He is very loving and full of fun, and if you throw a ball, he will run and bring it back to you, and he plays hide-and-seek as well as a little girl could. Frisk is a little yellow dog. He is very ugly, but very funny. While I was writing this letter Dan came in and jumped on the paper with muddy paws, so I had to copy it over.

Lily C.

THE FIRST SAIL.

Little Jimmie Evereux stood on the pier looking at a white sail-boat with two seats in it, and wondering if his papa would ever come and give him the long-looked-forward-to first ride in it. Jimmie had on his new blue sailor suit, and it was no wonder that passers-by looked with interest at the "blue-eyed laddie," who had waited so patiently for half an hour. But all things come to an end at last, and Jimmie's patience was no exception. After a long look up and down the shore, Jimmie crossed the street and went up the walk toward the pretty cottage where he and his mamma and papa and auntie lived all summer.

Mamma and auntie sat on the piazza, sewing and talking. Said mamma:

"Mrs. Gray has been ill, I hear. I pity her so much! She doesn't seem to enjoy life one bit."

"Oh, I don't know," said auntie. "Perhaps she needs rest. Why not invite her out here for a little while?"

"I'll let her ride in the new boat," said Jimmie, anxious to be good to Mrs. Gray.

"You wouldn't the first time, would you?" said auntie.

"Y—yes," said Jimmie. "Only—well, she isn't here."

"Jimmie," said mamma, "go down to the post-office and see if there's a letter from grandma there."

"I'm afraid papa will come."

"Well, what if he does? You won't be long."

"All right, then," said Jimmie; and away he went.

At the post-office was a letter for auntie, a paper for mamma, his own Harper's Young People, and the Daily News. Jimmie started home gayly; but when he reached the gate, his joy turned to sorrow, for Mrs. Gray sat on the piazza. Papa beckoned to Jimmie, who followed him into the house.

"Jimmie," said papa, "will you give up your sail-boat ride to Mrs. Gray?"

"Oh, papa!" Then, after thinking a minute: "Yes, I will."

"That's my good little boy," said papa; and in a few minutes they were gone.

Jimmie soon forgot his disappointment in laughing over "Mr. Stubbs's Brother," and mamma helped to console him by a little gold dollar from grandma.

A. R. W.

Frank R. writes about his dog Prince, who protects the chickens against cats, and helps his master catch them when they run away. Ernest D. tells about the quartz mines near his home in California. Richard H. has a dog named Flora, a Newfoundland. This splendid animal weighs 100 pounds, and, harnessed to the baby's carriage, draws that little lady about the town. Thomas M. has a calf which is pure white except its ears, nose, and legs above the hoof, which are red. Alice F. must write a longer letter next time. Jimmie R. has five hives of bees, two Italian and three hybrid, and is very successful in getting large quantities of honey. This Jimmie sends his regards to Jimmy Brown. Winifred C. has a good time practicing with her bow and arrows, and riding her gentle horse Ned. Lillie C., L. C. L., Willie B., and a great many more girls and boys are enjoying this vacation very much. The Postmistress sends her love to all her correspondents. She often wonders what this and that one is doing, and the little fishermen, apple-gatherers, bee-keepers, and home-helpers have her good wishes. Write again, little fingers, and don't be discouraged, even though Our Post-office Box does not print your letters.

C. Y. P. R. U.

TWO AUNTIES.

"So that things are done," says Theo, "it does not matter how they are done."

The Postmistress differs with you, Theo. There are kind-hearted people in this world who spoil the effect of their best actions by cross or surly manners. The most beautiful gift will not please you if thrown in your face. Gifts are valued for the love they signify, and so they need loving looks and words to make them welcome. I have seen a family of young people perfectly devoted to an auntie who never did anything for them except tell them stories, show them her curiosities and treasures, and listen to their perplexities; and they were not in the least fond of another auntie, whose money was spent freely for them. She bought them new dresses and bonnets, sent the boys on vacation trips, and often took the girls to see pictures and hear fine music, yet they did not love her.

The aunt who did so much that was kind had a habit of constantly snubbing her nieces and nephews. If they made a mistake, she spoke of it publicly. If a reproof was given, it was in the severest terms. Her face wore a frown most of the time, and she made everybody around her uncomfortable. And so, though her poor heart was hungry for affection, she got only a crumb of it, while the happy, merry, fun-loving auntie had a whole feast.

Many of you are taking piano lessons. If you are in company, and are asked to play, consent without waiting to be coaxed. If you intend to sing your new song, or perform your last piece, you will do so gracefully by beginning at once without persuasion. If you must decline, let it be because you feel that you do not play well enough to give pleasure to the listeners. Do not, of all things, say, with a little toss of the head and pout of the lips, "I can not play on any piano but my own." That is very ungracious as well as ungraceful, and besides, like most impoliteness, it hurts the feelings of others.

When you have a friend to entertain, let nothing that you do for him or her appear to give you trouble. Keep your difficulties out of sight, and let only the pleasant things come to the front. Watch mamma when she has guests, and you will observe that she never makes a fuss, nor seems to be in a flutter, and still she takes care of them, consults their wishes, and forgets nothing which can add to their happiness while under her roof.

You will learn how to do it, whatever it may stand for, by imitating your mother. Don't you think so?

We would call the attention of the C. Y. P. R. U. to the article on "Egyptian History," and to "A River Gets Into Trouble," by Charles Barnard. The boys will be specially interested in an article on "Homing Pigeons," by Mr. C. W. Fisher.

PUZZLES FROM YOUNG CONTRIBUTORS.

No. 1.

FIVE EASY DIAMONDS.

1.—1. A letter. 2. Part of a fish. 3. A finger. 4. A point. 5. A letter.

2.—1. A letter. 2. A small cushion. 3. Relating to ships. 4. A boy's name. 5. A letter.

3.—1. A letter. 2. A plug. 3. Savory. 4. A trap. 5. A letter.

4.—1. A letter. 2. To caress. 3. Purport. 4. Fashion. 5. A letter.

Sunshade.

5.—1. A letter. 2. Not young. 3. Glitter. 4. Parched. 5. A letter.

S. X.

No. 2.

1. A monkey. 2. A pronoun. 3. To bind. 4. Cunning. 5. A month. 6. A girl's name. 7. A color. 8. Sick. 9. To discover. 10. Timid. 11. A falsehood. 12. A period of time. Centrals spell the name of an important city of the United States.

Laura and Bezette.

No. 3.

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

1. To kill. 2. Part of the dress of a Roman citizen. 3. Frugal. 4. To complete. 5. To dissolve. Primals and finals compose the name of a pleasure-boat.

Edgar B.

No. 4.

ENIGMA.

My first is one hundred. My second is nothing. My third is twice yourself. My fourth is fifty. My whole is a monk's hood.

W. C. L.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN No. 144.

No. 1.

No. 2.

No. 3.

No. 4.

Toby Tyler. Tower of Babel.

Answer to Pictorial Puzzle on page 656—Skipper, Beetle, Walking-stick, Spider, Cricket.

Correct answers to puzzles have been received from Josephine Chesley, Charlie Schilling, "Eureka," A. B. Sinclair, Mary B. Breed, Lulie, Howard O. Smith, John Wallis Clearman, "Sunshade," May Worthington, "I. Scycle," "Ed. U. Cation," James Tipton, Harry Johnston, Arthur Slade, Royal Thompson, Van Dyke Forester, E. G. F., Maggie Simmons, "Fuss and Feathers," Isabella Niven, Richard Winn Courts, Effie R., Kate Marshall, Lillie Clark, Carrie E. Howard, John A. Staats, Walter Brainerd, Eddie S. Hequembourg, Philip McLaun, H. Van Horn, D. C. Wolcott, "Fidelie," Addie and Arthur S., Maggie and Rosa B., Alice Comstock, M. F., J. Payson, Hugh McIntosh, Ada Wheeler, Rosa R., Jack, Fred Smith, and "Bright-Eyes."

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

[Pg 688]

Take the moon from out the sky,
And the same then so apply
That you will see what this saucy puss
Is giving to her cousin Gus.

ORIGINAL RIDDLE.

I am older than the Pyramids, yet continually made new. In infancy I am of a cold disposition, but in youth am heated with passion, and I then usually acquire a permanent blush. My composition is very peculiar: I am made up of the head of an insect and the tail of an alligator joined to an organ, a sea, and part of a monkey. If the insect is exchanged for a vegetable, I may hurt you; if it is replaced by a Chinese plant, I may deceive you. I am found in the homes of the poor and humble, in the palaces of princes, in the temples of religion, and in the low places of the earth. I have assisted in the worship of the true God, and in the extravagant rites of the heathen. I often support insignificant and contemptible undertakings, yet I once took part in the most ambitions and presumptuous enterprise of mankind. Usually peaceful in disposition, I have caused the death of rioters, and once excited a mighty rebellion. Though used to rough treatment at the hands of ignorant men, I am highly esteemed and much sought for by learned scholars. By my aid rivers are spanned, tunnels strengthened, prisoners held in captivity, and iron industries rendered possible; without me, many would lose their livelihood, and London would be desolate. Finally, I am most useful when in bed.

DON.

Don was a retriever that could never be taught to retrieve. A great romp of a fellow, jet black, relieved by a single white star on his throat.

Don is excessively fond of sweets and fruit, notably ripe gooseberries, of which his master grows some fine varieties. During the season a great quantity of ripe, yellow fruit disappeared from the bushes, but no one could discover the thief; at the same time, however, it was noticed that Don's nose was always covered with scratches. His master put two and two together, and resolved to watch the dog. He did so, and saw Don go toward a door in the garden wall, stand on his hind-legs, and press down the latch with his fore-paw.

The door yielded, and in went Don to feast on the yellow gooseberries. He scratched his nose in the operation, but evidently thought the fruit worth suffering for.

The same dog occasionally paid visits with his master, and one lady, knowing his liking for sweets, always gave Don a piece of cake when she offered it, with wine, to her guest.

It happened, however, on a single occasion that the lady's stock of cake was almost exhausted. The piece she had was small and somewhat stale, too shabby to offer to a gentleman; so the wine was brought out alone.

Don's master took no notice of this, but Don, after looking expectant for some time, marched to the lady, placed his great paws on her knee, and cast imploring glances toward the side-board. When this failed, he went to the door and tried to open it.

He was only scolded for scratching it, and in despair of making himself understood, he took advantage of the open house door, and set off home as fast as he could go.

After he was gone, the lady expressed her surprise at Don's unusual conduct. The master smiled, and said the dog had not forgotten that she usually gave him cake, and had been trying to make her understand that when wine was brought out for the master, his share of the dainties ought also to be forth-coming.

"Oh, do, dear Grandma, get in behind, and let us drive you home."

A TOO-CONFIDING GRANDMA.