CHAPTER II.

TOBY RUNS AWAY FROM HOME.

Toby could scarcely restrain himself at the prospect of this golden future that had so suddenly opened before him. He tried to express his gratitude, but could only do so by evincing his willingness to commence work at once.

"No, no, that won't do," said Mr. Lord, cautiously. "If your uncle Daniel should see you working here, he might mistrust something, and then you couldn't get away."

"I don't believe he'd try to stop me," said Toby, confidently; "for he's told me lots of times that it was a sorry day for him when he found me."

"We won't take any chances, my son," was the reply, in a very benevolent tone, as he patted Toby on the head, and at the same time handed him a piece of pasteboard. "There's a ticket for the circus, and you come around to see me about ten o'clock to-night. I'll put you on one of the wagons, and by to-morrow morning your uncle Daniel will have hard work to find you."

If Toby had followed his inclinations, the chances are that he would have fallen on his knees, and kissed Mr. Lord's hands in the excess of his gratitude. But not knowing exactly how such a show of thankfulness might be received, he contented himself by repeatedly promising that he would be punctual to the time and place appointed.

He would have loitered in the vicinity of the candy stand in order that he might gain some insight into the business; but Mr. Lord advised that he remain away, lest his uncle Daniel should see him, and suspect where he had gone when he was missed in the morning.

As Toby walked around the circus grounds, whereon was so much to attract his attention, he could not prevent himself from assuming an air of proprietorship. His interest in all that was going on was redoubled, and in his anxiety that everything should be done correctly and in the proper order he actually, and perhaps for the first time in his life, forgot that he was hungry. He was really to travel with a circus, to become a part, as it were, of the whole, and to be able to see its many wonderful and beautiful attractions every day.

Even the very tent ropes had acquired a new interest for him, and the faces of the men at work seemed suddenly to have become those of friends. How hard it was for him to walk around unconcernedly; and how especially hard to prevent his feet from straying toward that tempting display of dainties which he was to sell to those who came to see and enjoy, and who would look at him with wonder and curiosity! It was very hard not to be allowed to tell his playmates of his wonderfully good fortune; but silence meant success, and he locked his secret in his bosom, not even daring to talk with any one he knew lest he should betray himself by some incautious word.

He did not go home to dinner that day, and once or twice he felt impelled to walk past the candy stand, giving a mysterious shake of the head at the proprietor as he did so. The afternoon performance passed off as usual to all of the spectators save Toby. He imagined that each one of the performers knew that he was about to join them; and even as he passed the cage containing the monkeys he fancied that one particularly old one knew all about his intention of running away.

Of course it was necessary for him to go home at the close of the afternoon's performance, in order to get one or two valuable articles of his own--such as a boat, a kite, and a pair of skates--and in order that his actions might not seem suspicious. Before he left the grounds, however, he stole slyly around to the candy stand, and informed Mr. Job Lord, in a very hoarse whisper, that he would be on hand at the time appointed.

Mr. Lord patted him on the head, gave him two large sticks of candy, and what was more kind and surprising, considering the fact that he wore glasses, and was cross-eyed, he winked at Toby. A wink from Mr. Lord must have been intended to convey a great deal, because, owing to the defect in his eyes, it required no little exertion, and even then could not be considered as a really first-class wink.

That wink, distorted as it was, gladdened Toby's heart immensely, and took away nearly all the sting of the scolding with which Uncle Daniel greeted him when he reached home.

That night, despite the fact that he was going to travel with the circus, despite the fact that his home was not a happy or cheerful one, Toby was not in a pleasant frame of mind. He began to feel for the first time that he was doing wrong; and as he gazed at Uncle Daniel's stern, forbidding-looking face it seemed to have changed somewhat from its severity, and caused a great lump of something to come up in his throat as he thought that perhaps he should never see it again. Just then one or two kind words would have prevented him from running away, bright as the prospect of circus life appeared.

It was almost impossible for him to eat anything, and this very surprising state of affairs attracted the attention of Uncle Daniel.

"Bless my heart! what ails the boy?" asked the old man, as he peered over his glasses at Toby's well-filled plate, which was usually emptied so quickly. "Are ye sick, Toby, or what is the matter with ye?"

"No, I hain't sick," said Toby, with a sigh; "but I've been to the circus, an' I got a good deal to eat."

"Oho, you spent that cent I give ye, eh, an' got so much that it made ye sick?"

Toby thought of the six pea-nuts which he had bought with the penny Uncle Daniel had given him; and, amidst all his homesickness, he could not help wondering if Uncle Daniel ever made himself sick with only six pea-nuts when he was a boy.

As no one paid any further attention to Toby, he pushed back his plate, arose from the table, and went with a heavy heart to attend to his regular evening chores. The cow, the hens, and even the pigs, came in for a share of his unusually kind attention; and as he fed them all, the big tears rolled down his cheeks, as he thought that perhaps never again would he see any of them. These dumb animals had all been Toby's confidants; he had poured out his griefs in their ears, and fancied, when the world or Uncle Daniel had used him unusually hard, that they sympathized with him. Now he was leaving them forever, and as he locked the stable door, he could hear the sounds of music coming from the direction of the circus grounds, and he was angry at it because it represented that which was taking him away from his home, even though it was not as pleasant as it might have been.

Still, he had no thought of breaking the engagement which he had made. He went to his room, made a bundle of his worldly possessions, and crept out of the back door, down the road to the circus.

Mr. Lord saw him as soon as he arrived on the grounds, and as he passed another ticket to Toby, he took his bundle from him, saying as he did so, "I'll pack up your bundle with my things, and then you'll be sure not to lose it. Don't you want some candy?"

Toby shook his head; he had just discovered that there was possibly some connection between his heart and his stomach, for his grief at leaving home had taken from him all desire for good things. It is also more than possible that Mr. Lord had had experience enough with boys to know that they might be homesick on the eve of starting to travel with a circus; and in order to make sure that Toby would keep to his engagement he was unusually kind.

That evening was the longest Toby ever knew. He wandered from one cage of animals to another; then to see the performance in the ring, and back again to the animals, in the vain hope of passing the time pleasantly. But it was of no use; that lump in his throat would remain there, and the thoughts of what he was about to do would trouble him severely. The performance failed to interest him, and the animals did not attract until he had visited the monkey cage for the third or fourth time. Then he fancied that the same venerable monkey who had looked so knowing in the afternoon was gazing at him with a sadness which could only have come from a thorough knowledge of all the grief and doubt that was in his heart.

There was no one around the cages, and Toby got just as near to the iron bars as possible. No sooner had he flattened his little pug-nose against the iron than the aged monkey came down from the ring in which he had been swinging, and, seating himself directly in front of Toby's face, looked at him most compassionately.

It would not have surprised the boy just then if the animal had spoken; but as he did not, Toby did the next best thing, and spoke to him.

"I s'pose you remember that you saw me this afternoon, an' somebody told you that I was goin' to join the circus, didn't they?"

The monkey made no reply, though Toby fancied that he winked an affirmative answer; and he looked so sympathetic that he continued, confidentially:

"Well, I'm the same feller, an' I don't mind telling you that I'm awfully sorry I promised that candy man I'd go with him. Do you know that I came near crying at the supper table to-night; an' Uncle Dan'l looked real good an' nice, though I never thought so before. I wish I wasn't goin', after all, 'cause it don't seem a bit like a good time now; but I s'pose I must, 'cause I promised to, an' 'cause the candy man has got all my things."

The big tears had begun to roll down Toby's cheeks, and as he ceased speaking the monkey reached out one little paw, which Toby took as earnestly as if it had been done purposely to console him.

"You're real good, you are," continued Toby; "an' I hope I shall see you real often, for it seems to me now, when there hain't any folks around, as if you was the only friend I've got in this great big world. It's awful when a feller feels the way I do, an' when he don't seem to want anything to eat. Now if you'll stick to me, I'll stick to you, an' then it won't be half so bad when we feel this way."

During this speech Toby had still clung to the little brown paw, which the monkey now withdrew, and continued to gaze into the boy's face.

"The fellers all say I don't amount to anything," sobbed Toby, "an' Uncle Dan'l says I don't, an' I s'pose they know; but I tell you I feel just as bad, now that I'm goin' away from them all, as if I was as good as any of them."

At this moment Toby saw Mr. Lord enter the tent, and he knew that the summons to start was about to be given.

"Good-by," he said to the monkey, as he vainly tried to take him by the hand again; "remember what I've told you, an' don't forget that Toby Tyler is feelin' worse to-night than if he was twice as big an' twice as good."

Mr. Lord had come to summon him away, and he now told Toby that he would show him with which man he was to ride that night.

Toby looked another good-by at the venerable monkey, who was watching him closely, and then followed his employer out of the tent, among the ropes and poles and general confusion attendant upon the removal of a circus from one place to another.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

CAMBRIDGE SERIES

OF

INFORMATION CARDS FOR SCHOOLS.[1]

* * * * *

No. 4.--About Jack Frost.

BY W. J. ROLFE, A.M.

With the single exception of water, all substances expand, or become larger, when heated, and contract, or become smaller, when cooled. This is seen in metals better than in most other bodies. An iron ball which when cold will just pass through a certain ring will not do so after being put in boiling water. The tires of carriage wheels before being put on are heated in a fire, in order that their contraction in cooling may make them bind more tightly. On a railroad a little space is left between the ends of the rails to allow them to expand. If this were not done, their lengthening in hot weather would bend them outward or inward, so that they would not be exactly parallel, and this might be the cause of serious accidents. It has been proved that Bunker Hill Monument--a granite pile 220 feet high--is bent to one side by the expanding of the opposite side when the sun shines upon it; and similar changes must take place in every tower, or steeple, or other tall structure exposed to the sun's rays.

The least change in the temperature of any material produces a change in its size, though not in its _weight_; and if one part is heated or cooled more than another, the _shape_ of the whole must be somewhat altered.

Water contracts until it is cooled down to 40 degrees Fahrenheit--that is, 40 degrees of our common thermometers, or 8 degrees above the freezing-point--and then it expands until it freezes. This is a wise provision of nature. If water kept on contracting with cold, it would begin to freeze at the bottom, where the coldest portions of it would settle by their weight, and this would go on until it was all frozen, so that in winter our lakes and rivers would become solid masses of ice. This would kill all fishes and other animals in the water, and all the heat of summer would not suffice to liquefy these great bodies of ice. As it is, the water begins to freeze at the surface, and the layer of ice keeps the water below it from freezing; for though the ice is itself cold, a wall of it will keep out the cold as well as a wall of stone or brick.

The force with which water expands in freezing is almost irresistible. The freezing of half a gill of water in a confined space will lift a weight of several tons. A thick iron bomb-shell filled with water will be split open by the freezing of the liquid as it would be by a charge of gunpowder. In winter the water-pipes in our houses are often burst by the freezing of their contents. In some parts of England advantage is taken of this property of water in the slate quarries. Large blocks of slate are placed where the rain will fall upon their edges. The water works its way between the layers, freezes, and splits the mass into thin plates.

Jack Frost has done a good deal of this rock-splitting on his own account. A large part of the soil of our world has been made by the freezing of water in the cracks and crevices of rocks. Mountains have thus been rent asunder and pulverized, and the work goes on every winter. And after the soil has been formed, it is broken up and crumbled by the action of frosts and thaws. Jack Frost is a good helper to the ploughman and the farmer.

He works also on a grander scale than this. In many parts of the earth, as you know, there are great rivers of ice called _glaciers_. They not only look like rivers, but they flow like them, though so slowly that we can not see the motion. In the course of a year they move only a few hundred feet, but with mighty force, grinding the sides and bottom of the valley as they go, breaking off huge masses of rock, and bearing them along, together with smaller stones, earth, and mud. Thus they are gradually tearing down the hills and filling up the valleys.

Ages ago vast glaciers swept in this way over a large portion of the Northern hemisphere, and in many places we can see how they ground and scratched the sides of mountains and surfaces of rocks on their way. The big stones known as "bowlders" that abound in many parts of the country were brought and dropped by these moving masses of ice, and in some cases we can tell just where they came from, perhaps hundreds of miles away.

On the other hand, some of Jack Frost's work is of the minutest and most delicate sort. With what exquisite patterns in ice he adorns the glass of our windows in winter! All that fine tracery is made up of tiny crystals, the lines and angles of which are more exact than a jeweller could cut them on a gem. Every snow-flake is a mass of such crystals, of many forms, yet all variations of one pattern. Let the flakes fall upon a piece of dark cloth, and you can sometimes see with the naked eye that they are regular six-pointed stars, but with a common magnifying-glass you can examine them much better. All ice is composed of these crystals closely packed together; and if a sunbeam is allowed to shine through a piece of it, the melting of the crystals makes the interior look as if it were studded with lovely little transparent flowers with six petals. In Russia a palace was once built of ice, and all the furniture and decorations were of the same material. It was very wonderful and very beautiful, but not so wonderful or so beautiful as the natural structure of the ice itself.

The change from water to ice is a familiar one to us, but to the ignorant natives of the tropics it seems almost like a miracle. It is only within a few years that ice has been imported into these tropical countries, and at first it was as great a curiosity as solid mercury or quicksilver would be here. This liquid metal, which is used in thermometers, does not freeze in our country, except very rarely in the coldest weather of the extreme north; but in the arctic regions this often occurs, and the solid mercury can be hammered and wrought like silver. Spoons might be made of it, but they would instantly melt if put into ice-cold water.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] By special arrangement with the author, the cards contributed to this useful series, by W. J. ROLFE, A.M., formerly Head-Master of the Cambridge High School, will, for the present, first appear in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.

HOW A SAILOR RODE WITH THE CZAR.

A FORECASTLE YARN.

BY DAVID KER.

"The queerest scrape as ever I got into," said old Jack Hawkins, "was when I was quite a young chap, makin' my fourth voyage to Rooshia. _That's_ a queer place, mates, if you like! and the lingo's as queer as the country. I'd larned to talk it a bit by the time I'm tellin' on, for one of our crew was a Rooshian, and I picked it up from him. But I tell ye, 'twas as tough a job as shapin' yer course in a fog, with no sun to take a hobservation by. When you want to say 'Thank you,' you've got to sing out 'Blackguard are you,' which don't sound purlite nohow. Then they call a speech a 'wretch,' and a visitor a 'ghost' (the last sort o' visitor _I_ should like), and instead of 'Indeed!' they say 'Sam Daly'; and some o' their own names are things like 'Comb-his-hair-off,' and 'Blow-my-nose-off.'[2]

"Altogether it's a queer, twistified kind o' lingo, jist what you might expect from foreign lubbers. What riled me most when I fust went over was that everybody kep' on callin' me a _mattrass_, and I'd punched two or three fellers' heads for it afore I found out that 'mattrass' [matross] is their word for a sailor. Jist think o' that, now!

"I can remember as well as if 'twas only yesterday what an outlandish place St. Petersburg seemed when I fust set foot in it. Coachmen in blue frocks and red sashes, nurses with pasteboard crowns on, church towers plated with gold, policemen with swords by their sides, house porters rigged out in sheep-skin, wooden houses painted green and yeller--fact, there was no end to the queer sights all about. And when I got to know their talk a bit, it seemed quite as outlandish to hear 'em call each other 'John the son of Peter,' or 'Paul the son of James,' 'stead o' handlin' one another's names ship-shape.

"And then, again, talk o' bein' _thick_! why, this here plank 'ud be a joke to 'em. If one of our frigates was to be stuck all over with Rooshians' heads, she wouldn't want no armor-platin'! Now I'll jist tell yer a thing as I seed with my own eyes, and you can believe it or not, as you like. One day when we was a-lying in the river alongside o' the Ostroff Quay, our old man calls up a Rooshian lad that used to do odd jobs for him, and gives him two twenty-kopeck pieces (which are much the same as an English sixpence, or a 'Merican dime), tellin' him one on 'em's to go for bread, and t'other for 'baccy--which was all plain sailing enough, one would think.

"Well, away goes Dmitri, and doesn't come back. So then the old man he sings out for me, and he says, 'Hawkins,' says he, 'just go and see what's gone with Dmitri. I'll be bound the young dog has made a mess of that job.'

"So off I goes to the shop where we used to buy our things, and right at the very door I comes upon Mr. Dmitri, scratchin' his head, and lookin' as if he'd clean lost what few wits he ever had.

"Says I to him, 'Hollo, mate, what's up?'

"Says he, 'What ever am I to do? I've gone and _mixed_ the two pieces, and now I don't know which was the one for the bread, and which was the one for the 'baccy.'[3]

"But I must coil up the slack o' my yarn, or I'll never git it all in; so now to tell yer 'bout that scrape o' mine.

"Right on the river-bank, near the Hadmiralty Building, there's a stattey of Peter the Great, put up by the Hempress Catherine 'bout a hundred years ago; and a real grand affair it is--for Rooshia. It stands on a big block o' gray granite, as was dragged all the way from Finland o' purpose. Peter's on a rearin' horse, pointin' across the river to where he fust began buildin' the town; and there's a sarpent crumpled up under his horse's feet, in sign of his ridin' the high horse over the heathenish ways o' the country.

"Well, I was passin' this stattey one night, comin' back from a jollification with some o' my chums, when (I don't know how it was) it came into my head all to once what a joke it 'ud be to climb up and sit upon the horse. So I scrambles over the railin', and up I goes.

"It was no easy job climbin' over the slippery granite, I can tell yer; but presently I got hold o' the sarpent's tail, and then o' the horse's, and worked my way up as if I was climbin' the shrouds. The horse's hind-quarters was a ticklish bit, but I managed it somehow, and there I sat, cheek by jowl with old Peter, as snug as you please.

"But it warn't quite so snug in another minute or two; for a cold wind came sweepin' up from the river, and with that and the cold metal I was sittin' on, my very teeth rattled in my head. Time to be gittin' down agin, thinks I.

"Jist then I diskivered that 'git down' was easier said nor done. I couldn't turn round, and I couldn't see where to put my feet without it; and as for slidin' down at haphazard, 'tain't likely I'd try _that_, with a five-and-twenty foot fall 'tween me and the pavement. Fact, I was in a regular fix; and afore I could make up my mind what to do, I heerd the tramp of a police patrol. Jist as they passed one fellow shouted, 'Hollo!' and they all stopped. I kept mum, hopin' they hadn't seen me; when what must I do but give a sneeze fit to wake the whole town!

"'I thought so,' cries the chap. 'Come down, you fellow, come down directly.'

"'All very fine sayin' come down,' says I, 'but how the dickens am I to do it?'

"'He must be an Englishman,' says one. 'Ivan, go for a ladder.'

"The ladder came, and up scrambled two fellows, and hauled me down like a sack o' flour. I was too numbed by this time to show fight, even if it had been any good; so the fellers jist marched me straight off to the watch-house, and locked me up for the night.

"Next mornin' I was had up afore the Judge; and when the old chap sees me, he says, with a grin, 'Aha! Angliski matross' [an English sailor], as if _that_ was quite enough to account for whatever I might have done. When he'd heard the charge he axed if I spoke Rooshian, and finding I did, arter a fashion, he told me to spin my yarn. So I paid it out pretty much as you have it now.

"At every word I said the old fellow rubbed his hands and chuckled like anythin'; and the minute I'd done, he jist lay back in his chair, and laughed as if he'd bust all to bits.

"'Well,' says he, wipin' his eyes, 'that's the best story I've heard this year, or my name's not Phillipoff. But you really must not play such tricks _here_, my man; so I'll fine you five rubles [$3.75], and mind you don't do it again.'

"'Five rubles!' says I; 'that's a pretty high fare for a ten minutes' ride.'

"'Can't be helped,' says he: 'if you _will_ ride with the Czar, you must expect to pay first-class fare.'

"'All right,' says I, 'here's the money; but the next time I ride with the Czar I'll git out afore they come round for the tickets.'"

FOOTNOTES:

[2] For the benefit of Mr. Hawkins's readers it may be as well to state that the real words are "blagodareu," "retsch," "gosst," "f'samom dalay," "Komisâroff," "Lomonôsoff."--D. K.

[3] A fact.

A WONDERFUL RAILROAD.

BY F. E. FRYATT.

"Oh, children, I have made such a wonderful discovery this afternoon on my shopping tour!" said Miss Thornton, laying off her bonnet and seal-skin, as she addressed an eager group of youngsters.

"What is it? what is it?--do tell us!" chorussed all the little Thorntons, gathering excitedly around her.

"Yes--wait a moment. Here, Nell, take my things up stairs; Harry, shoulder these packages, and go with her, and Bert will stir up the fire, while Edith runs down stairs and tells Bridget to serve dinner precisely at seven. Then we'll have my travels' history."

A little later, as they all sat before the blazing grate, with the red fire-light flickering on their faces, Miss Thornton commenced in a serious manner: "Once upon a time, just about a year ago, a benevolent gentleman was walking through one of the busiest thoroughfares in our city. It was Christmas-eve, and very late, when he saw twenty or thirty little girls and boys hurrying out of a great shop famous for its Christmas toys and gift counters of every description. The poor young things looked so pale and thin, and there was such a haggard expression on their small faces, that a strange pain filled his heart, and a longing to help these little cash boys and girls set him to thinking.

"The gentleman had two wee darlings of his own; he knew they were at this very moment tucked away, rosy and warm, in their snowy bed in the nursery, and he wished these tired young folks were as happily placed.

"'Shameful!' said he to himself; 'every one of you ought to have been in bed four hours ago. Something ought to be done--something _shall_ be!'

"Just by the merest chance I went into that very store this afternoon, and what do you think I saw? The tiniest, prettiest little railroad you could imagine."

"A toy railroad?" queried Bert.

"Not at all; a veritable railroad running all around the store, filled with freight, passengers, and--money."

"Oh, aunty, 'upon your word and honor,' honest, now, was it a _real_ true railroad with cars on it?" cried Harry.

"Yes, it is a real, wide-awake, lively, business, working road, as true as I sit here."

"Oh!" chorussed all the little Thorntons, in amazement.

"What made it go?" asked Harry.

"Who were the passengers?" chimed in Nellie.

"Could I ride on it, aunty?" asked Bert.

"Anyway, I should think it would run over folks, or trip them up," suggested Edith.

"Come, now, if you will give me 'elbow room,' and not crowd so, I'll tell you everything I saw, and explain it as clearly as possible," said Miss Thornton, smiling at the children's eager curiosity. "One day last year I went to that same store to purchase a bonnet; the place was thronged with customers at every counter; the floor-walkers were shouting, the girl clerks screaming 'C-a-a-sh!' 'Che-ck!' cash-girls and cash-boys with little baskets were running in every direction, calling out their numbers in reply. Such a jostling, crowding, noisy place I was never in."

"Well?" said Harry, with an air of deep interest.

"To-day I was very pleasantly surprised to find it as quiet and orderly as one could wish; just as many customers, to be sure, but none of the dreadful noise and confusion of last year--and all owing to this wonderful little railroad."

"Do tell us all about it, aunty," begged Harry, forgetting he was interrupting.

"Well, I heard a soft humming noise somewhere overhead, and looking up, there were a dozen or more little cars with polished wheels running on tracks that shone like silver. Each car was about eight inches long, just big enough for a couple of fairies to ride in. They were the cutest little things, and ran along their shining roads like magic; no horses, pulleys, nor wires to draw them. Some of them went right to the dépôt without stopping; others stopped at their stations just as the big 'elevated' cars do."

"I've guessed it: they went by steam," shouted Bert, triumphantly.

"No, not by steam," said Aunt Elinor.

"Then they're wound up like my mouse clock," cried Harry.

"No, it isn't that."

"I mean to go there and find out," said Bert.

"Some of these cars had curious wire cages hanging beneath them. A dozen of these were running along at full speed to their stations. I ought to tell you just here that the odd little 'cubby-house' where the cashier receives and changes money is the place where these cars take on and deposit their passengers and freight. The double track commences at the north, and sweeps around the store till it comes to the south end of the box which serves as the dépôt. This railway, made of bright steel, is just high enough from the floor to let a tall man pass under without knocking his hat off. These little cages reminded me of the car of a balloon, they swung along so airily. But what do you think? There was an ugly black bear in one of them. He looked ferocious enough to eat one, and his eyes fairly glittered as he rode past me. In the next car was a solemn baby-elephant, with immense ears, funny twinkling little eyes, and a very respectable trunk. Then came a pair of jumping-jacks, a savings-bank, two monkeys, a woolly dog, and some lop-eared rabbits, and these were followed by a company of wooden soldiers, some more elephants, two gray cats, and a sedate-looking parrot. The animals kept coming, till I made up my mind to find out the Noah's ark where they were coming from. I hadn't far to go before I found myself in one of the toy departments, in the midst of which stood a great fat jolly old Santa Claus loaded down with Christmas toys, and all powdered with snow. 'Oho!' thought I, 'my merry old saint, I've found you out: _you're_ the president of this new railroad.' He must have read my thoughts, or else I fancied he gave me a knowing wink out of one of his blue eyes, as much as to say, 'Don't tell the children.'"

"Oh, Aunt Elinor, but you have told us already," screamed Nell, with delight.

"Well, well, after watching another menagerie embark on the railroad, I followed the crowd into the next department. Oh, Nell, you and Edith would have clapped hands for joy: it was like a glimpse into fairy-land--dolls here, dolls there, dolls everywhere. As for the railroad, it was crowded, up-trains and down-trains."

"Oh, aunty, tell us how they were dressed!" cried Edith.

"One was a bride. I begged the clerk to stop the little car, and let me have a good look at her ladyship. She wore a lovely princesse robe of cream-colored satin, trimmed with lace and pearl-bead fringe; an exquisite veil and a wreath of orange blossoms covered her golden curls. In another car sat a very pretty little lady, with a real seal-skin hat, cloak, and muff, and diamond earrings; her cheeks were as red as roses. A baby doll in a long white dress sat in front of her."

"Oh, aunty, a baby doll, without any hair on its head, and only two teeth like Min's?"

"Yes, Nell; and, by-the-way, it didn't look unlike our Min: the same little round eyes and pudgy nose--yes, and the two teeth exactly like hers."

"All this time, Aunt Elinor, you haven't told us what made the cars go, and what stops them," said Edith, thoughtfully.

"What a forgetful aunty I am! This is the way it is done. Harry Thornton wants to buy a dog; he has a fifty-cent piece; he stops at a toy counter over which is marked Station D, and selects a nice black-and-tan--"

"No, a Newfoundland, aunty."

"Well, a Newfoundland. He hands fifty cents to the young woman clerk. What does she do? She takes the car down off the track, using a long-handled contrivance like a fork to do it. She places Mr. Doggy--Carlo, if you please--in the lower wire cage, the money and her cash-book in the top car; then places the car and its baggage on the down-town track, and away it rushes. You see, one end of the track is higher than the other, making a gentle descent, down which the little car glides. A young lad hands Mr. Carlo over to the wrapping clerk, and in a second or two, all wrapped from top to toe in tissue-paper, he makes his appearance in car D, bound on the up-town track for Station D. He makes the trip in ten seconds."

"But what makes him stop just at Station D?" inquires Harry.

"A small steel peg under the car, called a brake, is fixed just where it will fit in a notch on the steel road, and every station car is provided with one."

"I know it now," exclaimed Edith. "It was the benevolent gentleman who said in the beginning of your story that the cash boys and girls ought to have been in bed hours ago. He was the one who invented it--the railroad, I mean. Who was he, aunty?"

"I am sorry I can not tell you his name; but he is a very bashful person," replied Aunt Elinor.

"I'll tell you who it is," shouted Harry, with an air of triumph: "it's old Santa Claus. Hurrah for old Santa Claus!"

"_Some_ one's Santa Claus, undoubtedly, little man; but whose?--that is the question."

[Begun in YOUNG PEOPLE No. 58, December 7.]

MILDRED'S BARGAIN.

A Story for Girls.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

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