Part 2

The hill-sides of the southern part of France are covered with vineyards, where the luscious grapes round out under the late summer sunshine into globes of delicious sweetness. When the grapes are ripe, the peasants--men, women, and children--may be seen gayly trooping to the vineyards to pick them for wine. In the famous Steinburger vineyard the pickers are all girls about eighteen years old. Each girl has a row to pick, and they begin together, and move forward as steadily and evenly as a regiment of soldiers. With their gay petticoats looped up so that they may not brush off the ripe grapes, and their bright stockings and mittens, they make a very pretty picture moving along between the rows, snipping the ripe grapes, and letting them drop into their baskets. When the baskets are full they are emptied into a tub, which the men lift by leathern straps and carry to the road-side press. The juice which comes spurting out of the press is placed in vats or barrels, and there left to ferment, which changes the juice, or _must_, into wine. When the cook wants her bread to ferment, or rise, she plants it with yeast; but the wine has nothing planted in it, and yet it ferments.

Pasteur, the great French chemist, made up his mind to find why this was. He was convinced from all his studies in fermentation that the reason would be found in some little plant which was growing in the juice and helping itself to whatever it needed to eat or to breathe. He set to work to find out where the plants came from which turned the grape juice into wine. All his experiments are so fully and clearly explained that any one who is willing to take the pains can try them for himself.

He found that there was no fungus growing inside the little closed bag (which we call skin) in which the pulp, seed, and juice of the grape is sealed up. There is no opening anywhere in a sound grape through which spores (which are the fungus seed) could enter. But he found on the skin of the grape, and thickly over the stem, little plants, something like yeast and something like mould; these make up, in part, what is called the bloom of the grape. He put some water, with these plants mixed through it, into one tightly sealed bottle, and into another he put the pure juice of the grapes which had none of the little plants through it, and then waited to see what would happen. In a few days the water was all yeasty, and the grape juice was unchanged. (Fig. 1.) He tried this same thing over, and over, and over again, and in various ways, to be sure that he was right. He thus found that the little magician that turns the juice into wine is always waiting at the door of the sealed chamber, ready to work its miracle as soon as it can reach the juice.

It is very different with beer. Pasteur gave a great deal of time and attention to finding out why so many millions of gallons of beer were every year spoiled in the making. The brewers could not tell why. They prepared their wort in just the same way, and planted just the same amount of yeast into the good beer as they did in what turned out to be bad. He brought that wonderful microscope of his to bear upon the subject. He found that whenever the wort was planted with yeast which had certain curious little glassy rods mixed through it, the beer turned sour. The brewer, when he put such yeast as this into his wort, was planting, along with the seeds of the yeast plant, seeds of a troublesome weed. The sour beer was really only a very queer kind of a liquid garden, growing more weeds than useful plants.

Vinegar is another thing made by these little fairy fungi. The cider out of which it is made is set away in a cask to ferment. The spores that work the change in this case are floating in the air, and manage somehow to get into the open cask. Did you never notice the flakes of muddy-looking substance at the bottom of a vinegar cruet? That is the _mother_, the little plant that has made the cider into vinegar.

These are some of the useful things that are done by the fungi, and they are certainly very valuable services. We owe to them our bread, and wine, and beer, and vinegar. But they are not always benevolent fairies by any means. Sometimes we are inclined to think that they are at the bottom of pretty much all the mischief in the world. If they were not sailing about in every breath of wind, getting into all sorts of places where they are not wanted, we probably would never have any chills and fever or diphtheria, and the yellow fever would not sweep off its thousands and tens of thousands. If these little floating spores did not get into every crack and cranny, wounds would not fester, damp linen would not mildew, preserves and pickles would not mould, milk would not sour, nothing would spoil or ferment or decay. There is an old proverb that "the mother of mischief is no bigger than a midge's wing." I sometimes wonder if the old-time people that made the proverbs did not know something of these tiny mischiefs that only seem to be waiting the chance to work their naughty will.

There is one case where this change takes place which you have probably often seen. When I was a child I used to be very fond of getting from the woods close to the house, or from the wood-pile, bits of shining wood and bark, which we called "fox fire." The wood was always old and decaying, and we thought it was shining because it was dying. But really the perishing wood was covered all over with tiny mushrooms, which shone with a light something like the glimmer of a fire-fly. In some countries this brightness is very wonderful. In Australia people have been able to read by the light of a shining stump overgrown with luminous fungi.

Some of the fungi have not even the manners to wait until their victims are dead. They take possession of living plants and animals, and never rest until they have destroyed them. The disease among potatoes called the potato blight (Fig. 2), of which we hear so much, is caused by the growth of a little fungous plant in the mouths, or breathing holes, on the skin of the potato, and the blight and mildew (Fig. 3) and smut of wheat and corn and rye (Fig. 4) are all due to the same cause. The mouldy look upon vine leaves is nothing else. I put a leaf of Virginia creeper which looked whitish and ugly under the microscope one day, and found the whole surface covered with a net-work of silvery threads, with a wonderful, fruit growing upon it. The fruits looked like peeled oranges surrounded with threads of spun sugar, or occasionally like a gigantic blackberry sparkling with crystals. This was only a common mildew, but under the magnifier it seemed a wonderful garden, growing conserves and fairy fruits, and was beautiful, beyond description. (Fig. 5.)

The silk-worm is attacked by a fungous plant (Fig. 6). It takes possession of the worm just before it begins to spin its cocoon, and some years ago it destroyed such multitudes that the French silk trade was seriously threatened. The microscope was again brought into use, and the cause of the trouble discovered, and the cure effected.

The untiring Pasteur studied up this and other diseases of the silk-worm as he did those of wine and beer, and helped the silk-worm growers to stamp out the disease when it appeared. It perhaps seems a small thing for a man of genius like Pasteur to give his whole life to studying these little plants through the microscope, but never was a life more helpfully and patriotically spent. Hundreds of thousands of the French peasants depended for daily food and shelter upon what they earned in the wine and beer and silk trades, and these trades Pasteur's work has saved from destruction or great loss. It has been said that his work with the microscope has saved to France more than the awful French Revolution cost her.

DOT'S CHIMNEY.

BY MRS. A. E. THOMAS.

Briskly fell the snow's white plumage, Tossing o'er the barren moor, While Kris Kringle's jolly features So belied the weight he bore. Fast the pearly flakes were falling, Glad his hoary head to crown. Making darkness light about him, As though angels dropped them down.

Sings his heart its sweetest carol. Twinkles his gray eyes so bright, As he pictures the sweet children In their happy homes to-night. What cares he that snow is drifting, And the cold is so intense, When he sees dear Dottie's chimney Peeping over yonder fence?

Down the chimney now he's creeping, Dark and sooty, dim and drear, Yet his heart is light, though heavy On his back lies Christmas cheer. "Quite a journey I've accomplished," As he shook himself quite free From the soot. "Now where's Dot's stocking? Here 'tis. But what do I see?

"Whose is this, and this, and that one? One last year, but now three more. I am old, just turned of eighty, But can count--one, two, three, four. Well, I'll fill them," said Kris Kringle; "Maybe Dottie wants a pile Of nice goodies. Here they go in. Now, my boy, you're fixed in style."

He guessed rightly; Dot was greedy, For he did love candies so. This was why he hung so shyly Four bright stockings in a row. Morning came; Dot was in raptures. What a pile of luscious things Hung within that old black chimney! But hark! now the door-bell rings.

In came Neighbor Gray a-sighing. Times, he said, were very dull; And his little Sam grew weaker. Oh! his heart was very full. Wife, he said, had watched beside him Through the cold and bitter night, And he came to ask for something-- Only "just a little mite."

Up jumped Dottie with a stocking, Bursting with its festive bliss. "Here," he said, to that poor neighbor, "Give dear little Sammy this." Just then came the widow's children-- Pretty, but so very poor-- Mag and Mamie, nearly frozen. Travelling o'er the barren moor.

"Come in quick," said little Dottie. "What's the matter? pray explain." "We are going for the doctor, 'Cause the baby's got a pain." Mag and May each had a stocking When they left the farmer's door. Oh! 'twas well that little Dottie In his chimney hung up four.

A NOVEL PRESENT.

BY BERTHA WATSON.

Before you girls put on your thimbles, thread your needles, and puzzle your brains about something to make for Christmas, let me tell you of a beautiful present I once received, and how it was made.

It was an old woman who lived in a shoe, with so many children she didn't know what to do.

The only part at all difficult to make is the shoe or boot itself. My boot was ten inches high, and eight from the toe to the heel, and it was composed of five pieces of very stiff pasteboard, the two sides shaped like No. 1, enlarged, the back like No. 2, and the sole like No. 3. No. 4 is the little strip in front of the heel. Each piece must be covered with black velvet or cloth, all the pieces sewed strongly together, and the top of the boot lined with green silk for three or four inches down. Then bind the top and sides of the front with red braid, and tack a strip of black velvet in the sides of the front for a tongue. Then take a piece of the red braid, and catch it back and forth, like ordinary shoe lacing.

As the boot is so long and narrow, it would be apt to tip over, so, to steady it, put a bag of shot in the toe, and fill the rest with paper.

Now you have the house, and for the garden get a square pasteboard box cover, and spread over it green silk to represent grass. As no ordinary doll's face would be wrinkled and care-worn enough for this poor lady, get one of the long-nosed, long-chinned, old women who sometimes come in Jack-in-the-boxes. Cut her out, springs and all, and cover the springs with a dark calico dress. Put a white kerchief round her neck, a white cap on her head, and a bundle of switches in her hand.

You want as many children as you have the patience to dress; the more the merrier. Get the little china dolls that come for a penny apiece, and the larger wooden dolls that come, I think, for the same price. If you can get two or three very small woolly dogs, they will look cunning standing in the "garden." Dress the dolls in all the bright colors you can find, and put them anywhere and everywhere, on the box cover, climbing up the shoe lacing, in the mother's lap, and behind her back.

A very pretty addition to the whole is a small ladder leaning against the side of the boot, with a doll on each round.

OUR NEW WALK.

BY JIMMY BROWN.

For once I have done right. I always used to think that if I stuck to it, and tried to do what was right, I would hit it some day; but at last I pretty nearly gave up all hope, and was beginning to believe that no matter what I did, some of the grown-up folks would tell me that my conduct was such. But I have done a real useful thing that was just what father wanted, and he has said that he would overlook it this time. Perhaps you think that this was not very encouraging to a boy; but if you had been told to come up stairs with me my son as often as I have been, just because you had tried to do right, and hadn't exactly managed to suit people, you would be very glad to hear your father say that for once he would overlook it.

Did you ever play you were a ghost? I don't think much of ghosts, and wouldn't be a bit afraid if I was to see one. There was once a ghost that used to frighten people dreadfully by hanging himself to a hook in the wall. He was one of those tall white ghosts, and they are the very worst kind there is. This one used to come into the spare bedroom of the house where he lived before he was dead, and after walking round the room, and making as if he was in dreadfully low spirits, he would take a rope out of his pocket, and hang himself to a clothes-hook just opposite the bed, and the person who was in the bed would faint away with fright, and pull the bedclothes over his head, and lie in the most dreadful agony until morning, when he would get up, and people would say, "Why how dreadful you look your hair is all gray and you are whiternany sheet." One time a man came to stay at the house who wasn't afraid of anything, and he said, "I'll fix that ghost of yours; I'm a terror on wooden wheels when any ghosts are around. I am." So he was put to sleep in the room, and before he went to bed he loosened the hook, so that it would come down very easy, and then he sat up in bed and read till twelve o'clock. Just when the clock struck, the ghost came in and walked up and down as usual, and finally got out his rope and hung himself; but as soon as he kicked away the chair he stood on when he hung himself, down came the hook, and the ghost fell all in a heap on the floor, and sprained his ankle, and got up and limped away, dreadfully ashamed, and nobody ever saw him again.

Father has been having the front garden walk fixed with an askfelt pavement. Askfelt is something like molasses, only four times as sticky when it is new. After a while it grows real hard, only ours hasn't grown very hard yet. I watched the men put it down, and father said, "Be careful and don't step on it until it gets hard or you'll stick fast in it and can't ever get out again. I'd like to see half a dozen meddlesome boys stuck in it and serve them right." As soon as I heard dear father mention what he'd like, I determined that he should have his wish, for there is nothing that is more delightful to a good boy than to please his father.

That afternoon I mentioned to two or three boys that I knew were pretty bad boys that our melons were ripe, and that father was going to pick them in a day or two. The melon patch is at the back of the house, and after dark I dressed myself in one of mother's night-gowns, and hid in the wood-shed. About eleven o'clock I heard a noise, and looked out, and there were six boys coming in the back gate, and going for the melon patch. I waited till they were just ready to begin, and then I came out and said, in a hollow and protuberant voice, "Beware!"

They dropped the melons, and started to run, but they couldn't get to the back gate without passing close to me, and I knew they wouldn't try that. So they started to run round the house to the front gate, and I ran after them. When they reached the new front walk, they seemed to stop all of a sudden, and two or three of them fell down. I didn't wait to hear what they had to say, but went quietly back, and got into the house through the kitchen window, and went up stairs to my room. I could hear them whispering, and now and then one or two of them would cry a little; but I thought it wouldn't be honorable to listen to them, so I went to sleep.

In the morning there were five boys stuck in the askfelt, and frightened 'most to death. I got up early, and called father, and told him that there seemed to be something the matter with his new walk. When he came out and saw five boys caught in the pavement, and an extra pair of shoes that belonged to another boy who had wriggled out of them and gone away and left them, he was the most astonished man you ever saw. I told him how I had caught the boys stealing melons, and had played I was a ghost and frightened them away, and he said that if I'd help the coachman pry the boys out, he would overlook it. So he sat upon the piazza and overlooked the coachman and me while we pried the boys out, and they came out awfully hard, and the askfelt is full of pieces of trousers and things. I don't believe it will ever be a handsome walk; but whenever father looks at it he will think what a good boy I have been, which will give him more pleasure than a hundred new askfelt walks.

CHILDREN OF THE PANTOMIME.

In the great city of London one of the pleasures and delights of the merry Christmas season, to which the children look forward with almost as much eagerness as to the advent of Santa Claus, is the pantomime.

What a fairy-land is revealed to youthful eyes by this holiday amusement! All the stories of Mother Goose become living realities. Jack and Jill roll down the hill; Tom, the piper's son, suffers no end of misfortunes as a punishment for his theft of the pig; Little Jack Horner eats his Christmas pie; and in company with all these nursery heroes are wonderful crowds of all-powerful fairies, who by a wave of their wands give birds and beasts human intelligence, and render pots, kettles, and pans animated. This gay assemblage appears in fairy grottoes glistening with brilliant colors, sylvan dells flooded with soft moonlight, and meadows on which fairies trace the magic ring and weave the figures of their mystic dance.

The other side of the picture is less radiant. All these fairies with spangled hair, these animated kettles and saucepans, these birds and beasts which dance and hop about in such mirthful fashion, are the little children of the poor, who in this way seek to earn a few shillings for the sick mother, or the starving baby brother or sister, in the dreary and desolate apartments which these poor families call home.

Weeks before Christmas the parents of these children, and often the children themselves, beg to be enrolled in the infantile army needed for the pantomime. The number of applications is so large that the first selection is made by height alone, no child over four feet being received for examination. The smaller the child, the better, so long as it is old enough to learn the duties required of it. The children thus selected are then placed in a line, and told to put forward their left feet and hold up their right hands.

Strange as it may seem, there are many poor children so ignorant as to be unable to do this simple thing. All these are rejected; for a child who does not know its right hand from its left would probably never be able to learn the feats required of it in the pantomime. When the final selection is made and the parts assigned, a crowd of the prettiest and most graceful are set aside for dainty little fairies and elves. Others are destined for hideous little gnomes, for animated vegetables and utensils of all kinds, for cats, monkeys, beetles, and other creatures, while to the most intelligent are assigned more important parts.

Then begins the task of training this youthful band for its work. The drill-masters are, as a rule, as good-natured as possible under the circumstances, but they are very strict, and require the most implicit obedience to their directions. Many of these little boys and girls grow very weary in the work of learning to act like fairies and elves, to jump about as starlings, tomtits, or monkeys, or to march around as kettles, saucepans, cabbages, and other odd figures which go to make up the _dramatis personæ_ of a pantomime.

To the children, clad in soft warm garments, who watch all this brilliant show, everything is beauty and happiness. The little audience, which gathers with delight to witness the glittering spectacle, knows nothing of the labor and suffering which these less fortunate children have endured before everything could be in readiness for the grand holiday performances. The Christmas holidays for them are a season of work and anxiety.

The home of the poor children of the pantomime is not like the homes of the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE, warm and comfortable, and at Christmas-time gay with wreaths and branches of evergreen, with gifts from Santa Claus, and with dinner tables groaning under the weight of great turkeys and steaming plum-puddings; but it is some dismal little room up flights of rickety stairs, where the cold wind blows through the cracks of the uncarpeted floor, and where want and sorrow and misery are always present.

These children rise to a day of toil. Honest little hard workers, many of them do their best to assist the tired and weary mother to keep the dismal home as clean and comfortable as possible. The hour for the pantomime approaches, and clad in their scanty garments, these little ones hurry away through the snow to appear as sparkling fairies, carrying delight to thousands of hearts. Where are the fairies who bring delight to them? When the performance is over, they leave the glistening grottoes, go back to their comfortless homes, and sleep only to rise again to new toils and anxieties.

There are poor children everywhere. They are the most numerous in great cities like London and New York, but there is scarcely a village so small where some can not be found. Christmas is near. Will the children blessed with happy homes, and kind parents able to gratify their slightest wish, leave these little ones with "empty stockings" on Christmas morning? Remember how small a thing will make their eyes sparkle with pleasure; and when your own Christmas gifts are showered upon you by loving hands do not fail to learn by happy experience the grandeur and truth of the words of the Lord Jesus: "It is more blessed to give than to receive."

THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

An Indian Story.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER XI.

[1] Begun in No. 101, HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

How easy it would be even for large bodies of men to be quite near each other without knowing it will be readily understood when the nature of the country, full of sudden changes from mountain and table-land to valleys and plains, is considered. Unless, indeed, they should send out sharp-eyed scouts to find out about their neighbors, as did the miners under Captain Skinner, and the Lipans of To-la-go-to-de, such a thing might easily happen.