Part 1

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VOL. III.--NO. 114. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR CENTS.

Tuesday, January 3, 1882. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per Year, in Advance.

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A CHILD'S PUZZLES.

BY MRS. MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Pray where do the Old Years go, mamma, When their work is over and done? Does somebody tuck them away to sleep, Quite out of the sight of the sun? Or, perhaps, are they shut into crystal jars And set away on a shelf In a beautiful closet behind the stars, Each Year in a place by itself?

Was there ever a Year that made a mistake, And staid when its time was o'er, Till it had to hurry its poor old feet, When the New Year knocked at the door? I wish you a happy New Year, mamma-- I am sure new things are nice-- And this one comes with a merry face, And plenty of snow and ice.

But I only wish I had kept awake Till the Old Year made his bow, For what he said when the clock struck twelve I never shall find out now. Do you think he was tired and glad to rest? Do you think that he said good-by, Or melted away alone in the dark, Without so much as a sigh?

Do I bother you now? Must I run away? Why, that's what you always say; The New Year's just the same as the Old; I might as well go and play. Oh, look at those sparrows so pert and spry! They are waiting to get their crumbs. For the New Year's sake they shall have some cake, And I hope they'll fight for the plums.

MAX RANDER ON A BICYCLE.

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.

We left Germany early in October, and went back to England. Father took lodgings in a pretty little village, where I might have led an untroubled existence, after my thrilling experiences among the Prussians, if it had not been for one thing.

It was this: The pretty little English village was situated very near a large town where bicycles were manufactured, and before I had been there a week the mania to ride one seized me. I knew at once what it must come to, and I will now proceed to relate what it did come to.

One morning father and mother set out for London, leaving Thad and me behind in charge of the landlady, a kind, motherly person who would see that we did not break any bones playing horse with her furniture, or make ourselves sick by eating too much of her jam.

"Now, do be careful, boys," said mother, just as the train was about to start. "Don't get your feet wet, nor try to stop a runaway horse; stay away from the pond; and you, Max, keep a close watch over your brother."

I listened to these instructions with a light heart, and promised a dutiful obedience, for had not the things I was not to do been mentioned by name, and certainly the riding of bicycles was not among them. When the cars rushed off from the station I made up my mind that my destiny could be avoided no longer.

"Maximilian," a voice seemed to mutter within me, "all obstacles have vanished as if by magic from thy path. Four shillings and sixpence hast thou in thy pocket, so seize the opportunity ere it be too late."

And I seized it; that is to say, I went straight home with Thad, and telling him to amuse himself with anything short of pulling the cat's tail or fooling with ink-bottles, I left him there, and hurried off to the bicycle head-quarters to hire a machine.

"What size?" asked the man, when I had made a deposit of my silver watch as a guarantee that I wouldn't run away with his property.

Of course, never having ridden before, I hadn't a very clear idea of what this question meant; so the young fellow, seeing my confusion, promptly whipped a tape-line out of his pocket, and proceeded to find out how long my legs were.

"A forty-six-inch'll do you," he informed me, adding, "Tall of your age, too."

As this implied that he thought me rather young, I put on my gravest look, and pretended I didn't hear him, and while he went to bring out the machine, I resolved that nothing should induce me to ask for any "points" about the management of it. Besides, hadn't I often watched fellows mount, dismount, coast, and take "headers"?

"Only get started, and you're all right," was what I had heard riders say over and over again; so I determined to set the thing going the best way I could, and then stick to the saddle.

But when the man appeared again, pushing before him the bicycle, I must confess the big wheel looked very big, and the little seat very little and terribly far from the ground.

Still, I had no cowardly thoughts of giving way to my fears; for had I not ridden a three-wheeled velocipede for two years around our block home in New York without falling off a single time? And by quickly doing a sum in mental arithmetic, I found that the proportion of seven hundred and thirty days as against one hour was greatly in favor of my not tumbling during the hour.

Considerably strengthened in my purpose by this method of reasoning, I seized the handle with a flourish, and started to trundle the machine out into the road.

"Be careful there," suddenly cried That Man, as my flourish nearly caused the bicycle to take a "header" on its own account.

After pushing the machine as far as I dared without giving rise to the suspicion that that was the only way I could make it go, I brought it to a stand-still, placed both hands on the handles, a foot on the step, and--waited a minute.

I finally nerved myself to take the flying leap, which sent me into the saddle so surely and swiftly that I could not rest there, but in my high ambition kept on going until I found my hands on the ground, the handles knocking against my knees, and both wheels running up my back.

I knew at once that I had taken a "header," and so I did not feel as badly as I would if I had fallen in a manner not dignified by a special name.

I had simply been too eager, and resolving to profit by experience, I began hopping again; then gave a gentle--a very gentle--spring, which landed me on the extreme rear of the saddle, where I hung helpless for a few seconds, with both feet wildly pawing the air in search of the pedals, which of course I could not reach.

There could be but one end to this gymnastic exhibition, and while I lay on the road, with the bicycle on top of me, I vowed I would try but once more, and if the magic third time did not inspire me to success, I would give it up, push the machine back to the shop, and ever afterward look upon the sport as a mere "craze" that would soon die out.

Again I broke into that everlasting hop.

"Not too fast, Nor yet too slow; Gently, quickly, Here I go."

I don't know whether it was owing to the rhyme, but at any rate my next attempt to mount resulted in my sliding nicely into the saddle, while at the same time my feet bore down upon the pedals, which sent me skimming along famously. On and on I went, gliding as smoothly and easily over the fine road as if in a carriage.

Of course the faster I went, the easier it was to balance the machine, so I kept rolling on further and further away from the village, until at last I hadn't the slightest idea where I was or whither I was going.

"This will never do," I finally decided. "It will be lunch-time before I can get back."

Then a brilliant thought struck me. I would turn around at the next cross-roads, where there would be plenty of room.

About five minutes later I reached one, and making a wide circuit, had nearly accomplished my object in safety, when a farmer's wagon appeared upon the scene, almost in front of me.

"Hold on a minute!" I shouted; but it was too late. The horse could not be stopped short enough, and I stopped too short, being sent sprawling on the ground right where the wagon's hind-wheels had been two seconds before.

This final and worst fall of all left me so bruised and sprained and strained that I found it impossible to get into the saddle again.

If I had been in America I might have climbed up by the help of a fence, but in England the fences are all hedges. So there was nothing left for me to do but push the bicycle back to the village again, and walk myself every step of the way. I don't know how far it was, but going out it seemed about a mile, and coming back I thought it must be five.

That Man did not ask me if I had had a pleasant run, but when I had paid him for the two hours I had been out, and he was handing me back my watch, I saw him look down at the dust on my shoes in a way that made me hurry off home, feeling like the dying swan I've read about somewhere that only sings one song in its life, for I had ridden a bicycle for the first and last time in mine.

THE TALKING LEAVES.[1]

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

An Indian Story.

BY W. O. STODDARD.

CHAPTER XIII.

For a moment Murray and Steve stood looking after the retreating forms of Red Wolf and his sisters.

"I say," exclaimed Bill, "you're a pretty pair of white men. Do you mean to turn us three over to them Apaches?"

"Who are you, anyway? Tell me a straight story, and I'll make up my mind."

"Well, there's no use tryin' to cover our tracks, I s'pose. We belong to the outfit that set up thar own marks on your ledge thar last night. It wasn't any more our blame than any of the rest."

"And you thought you'd make your outfit safe by picking a quarrel with the Apaches."

"Now, stranger, you've got me thar. 'Twas a fool thing to do."

"Well, I'll tell you what we'll do. You three stand up and swear you bear no malice or ill-will to me and my mate, and you and your crowd'll do us no harm, and I'll let you go."

"How about the mine?"

"Never mind about the mine. If your Captain and the rest are as big fools as you three, there won't any of you come back to meddle with the mine. The Apaches'll look out for that. There'll be worse than they are behind you, too."

He was speaking of the Lipans, but Bill's face grew longer, and so did the faces of his two friends.

"You know about that, do ye?"

"I know enough to warn you."

"Well, all I kin say is, we've got that dust, bars, nuggets and all, and we fit hard for it, and we're gwine to keep it."

"What can you do with it here?"

"Here? We're gwine to Mexico. It'll take a good while to spend a pile like that. It took the Chinees a year and a half to stack it up."

"Well, if you don't start back up the pass pretty soon, you won't have any chance. Do you think you can keep your word with us?"

"Reckon we kin with white men like you. So'll all the rest, when we tell 'em it don't cover the mine. You take your own chances on that?"

"We do."

"Tell you what now, old man, there's something about you that ain't so bad, arter all."

"You and your mates travel!" was the only reply.

They plunged into the thicket for their horses, and when they came out again Murray and Steve had disappeared.

"Gone, have they?" said Bill. "And we don't know any more about 'em than we did before. What'll Captain Skinner say?"

"What'll we say to him? That's what beats me. And to the boys? I don't keer to tell 'em we was whipped in a minute and tied up by an old man, a boy, two girl squaws, and a red-skin."

"It don't tell well, that's a fact."

Murray had beckoned to Steve to follow him.

"They might have kept their word, Steve, and they might not. We were at their mercy, standing out there. They could have shot us from the cover. That's the kind of white men that stir up nine-tenths of all the troubles with the Indians, let alone the Apaches; that tribe never did keep a treaty."

"The one we saw to-day looked like a Lipan."

"So he did. And he stood right up for the girls. Steve, one of those young squaws was no more an Indian than you or I be. It makes my heart sore and sick to think of it. A fine young girl like that, with such an awful life before her!"'

"The other one was bright and pretty too, and she can use her bow and arrows. Murray, what do you think we'd better do?"

"Do? I wish I could say. My head's all in a whirl. But I'll tell you what, Steve, my mind won't be easy till I've had another look at that ledge. I want to know what they've done."

"The Buckhorn Mine? I'd like to see it too."

"Then we'll let their outfit go by us, and ride straight back to it. Might as well save time and follow those fellows up the pass. Plenty of hiding-places."

It was a bold thing to do, but they did it, and they were lying safely in a deep ravine that led out of the pass, a few hours later, when the "mining outfit" slowly trundled on its downward way.

Long before that, however, Bill and his two friends had made their report to Captain Skinner.

They had a well made up story to tell him, but it was not very easy for him to believe it.

"Met the two mining fellers, did ye? And they're friends with the 'Paches. Wouldn't let 'em do ye any harm. How many red-skins was there?"

"Three. We never fired a shot at 'em nor struck a blow, but one of thar squaws fired an arrer through my arm."

"It's the onlikeliest yarn I ever listened to," said the Captain.

"Thar's the hole in my arm."

"Not that; it isn't queer an Apache wanted to shoot ye--I can believe that. But that you had sense enough not to fire first at a red-skin. You never had so much before in all your life."

"Here we are, safe--all three."

"That's pretty good proof. If there'd been a fight, they'd ha' been too much for you, with two white men like them to help. Well, we'll go right on down. It's our only show."

"That isn't all, Cap."

"What more is there?"

"The old feller told me to warn you that thar was danger comin' behind us. He seems to know all about us, and about what we did to the ledge."

"We're followed, are we? What did he say about the mine?"

"Said he'd take his chances about that. We agreed to be friends if we met him and his mate again."

"You did? Now, Bill, you've shown good sense again. What's the matter with you to-day? I never heard of such a thing. It's like finding that mine just where I didn't expect to."

Danger behind them; they did not know exactly what. Danger before them in the shape of wandering Apaches; but they had expected to meet that sort of thing, and were ready for it. Only they hoped to be able to dodge it in some way, and to get safely across the border into Mexico with their stolen treasure. They had at least made sure of their wonderful mine, and that was something. Sooner or later they would all come back and claim it again, and dig fortunes out of it. The two miners would not be able to prove anything. There was no danger from them.

Perhaps not; and yet, as soon as they had disappeared down the pass, below the spot where Steve and Murray were hiding, the latter exclaimed, "Now, Steve, we won't rest our horses till we get there."

They would be quite likely to need rest by that time, for the old man seemed to be in a tremendous hurry. Steve would hardly have believed anything could excite the veteran to such a pitch, if it had not been that he felt so much of the "gold fever" in his own veins. It seemed to him as if he were really thirsty for another look at that wonderful ledge. They turned their horses out to feed on the sweet fresh grass at last, and pushed forward on foot to the mine.

"They've done it, Steve."

"I see they have. Our title's all gone."

He spoke mournfully and angrily; but Murray replied,

"Gone? why, my boy, those rascals have only been doing our work for us."

"For us? How's that?"

"It was ours. They've set up our monuments, and dug our shafts, and put in a blast for us. They haven't taken anything away from us. I'll show you."

He had taken from a pocket of his buck-skins a small, narrow chisel as he spoke, and now he picked up a round stone to serve as a hammer.

"I'm going to make a record, Steve. I'll tell you what to do about it as I go along."

Captain Skinner's miners had been hard workers, but Steve had never seen anybody ply a chisel as Murray did. He was not trying to make "pretty letters," but they were all deeply cut and clearly legible.

On the largest stone of the central monument, and on the side monuments, and then on the face of the cliff near the ledge, he cut the name of the mine, "The Buckhorn," and below that on the cliff and one monument he cut the date of discovery and Steve Harrison's name.

"Put on yours too, Murray."

"Well, if you say so. It may be safer. Only I turn all my rights over to you. I'll do it on paper if I ever get a chance."

"I only want my share."

All the while he was chiselling so skillfully and swiftly, Murray was explaining to Steve how he was to act when he reached "the settlements," and how he should make a legal record of his ownership of that property.

"You must be careful to describe all these marks exactly; the ruins, too, the cañons, the lay of the land, the points of the compass--everything. After all, it may be you'll never be able to work it. But you're young, and there's no telling. The first thing for you to do is to get out of the scrape you're in now."

Steve felt as if there were no longer any doubt of that.

During the busy hours spent on the ledge by their masters the two horses had been feeding and resting, and both Murray and Steve felt like following their example.

"Start a fire, Steve; it'll be perfectly safe. I'll try for a deer, and we'll cook enough to last us for two days."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

SPONGES.

BY SARAH COOPER.

Sponges are so common and so familiar that many of us have used them all our lives without stopping to admire their curious and interesting structure, or to inquire into the history of their past lives. We may, indeed, have noticed that they can be squeezed into a very small space, and that they will return to their natural shape when the pressure is removed. We have perhaps noticed also that they are full of little holes or pores, and that they will absorb an astonishing quantity of water.

You know there has been a doubt whether sponges belong to the animal or to the vegetable kingdom. For a long time naturalists were in doubt about the matter, but it is now settled that they are animals, living and growing on the bottom of the ocean. The only part of the sponge that reaches us is the skeleton. The living sponge is a very different object. Shall we see what we can find out about it?

Upon naming the word "animal," a picture comes before our minds of some creature having a mouth to eat with, and eyes to see with, and possessing feet or wings, or some other means of moving about; but the sponges are far from this. They are probably the lowest animals with which you are acquainted. They have no nerves, no heart, no lungs, no mouth, and no stomach.

Live sponges consist of jelly-like bodies united in a mass, and supported by a frame-work of horny fibres, and needle-shaped objects called "spicules,", which you will see in Fig. 1, and which we must examine further after a while. This jelly-like flesh, covering all parts of the skeleton, is about as thick as the white of an egg, but it decays immediately after the death of the sponge. During life the flesh presents many bright colors; in some species it is of a brilliant green, while in others it is orange, red, yellow, etc.

The frame-work varies in different kinds of sponge. In those which are valuable for our use it consists of horny fibres interwoven in all directions until they form a mass of lacy net-work. This you can easily see with the naked eye, but by looking through a microscope you will see beauty you had not imagined, and which but for this valuable instrument would never have been dreamed of. In our ordinary sponges these fibres are all that remain of the former living-animal, the soft flesh having been removed. It is found that the horny fibres are composed of a substance very similar to the silk of a silk-worm's cocoon. They are exceedingly tough and durable. Most of us have discovered that a good sponge becomes like an old and tried friend, and that unless it is abused it seems as if it might never wear out.

In looking at any sponge you will notice large holes through it, with many small pores scattered between them. The living sponge is constantly drawing in water at the small pores. This water passes through a set of branching canals, and is thrown out from the large holes on the surface, as seen in Fig. 2. (The arrows show the direction of the current.) With a microscope little fountains may be seen constantly playing from the large holes of a living sponge. The circulation is kept up in the canals by the movement of "cilia," which are delicate threads waving gently but continually. The word cilia means "eyelashes"; let us remember it, for this is a name we shall often want to use. The cilia are shown in those cup-like hollow places in the canals (Fig. 2). The stream of water thus passing through the sponge brings to every part of it small particles of food, and all the air it needs for breathing purposes.

Everything that lives must eat and breathe, but how is the sponge to eat without a mouth? When the food touches any part of its body, the soft, jelly-like flesh sinks in to form a little bag; at the same time the surrounding parts creep out over the morsel of food, until it is entirely covered and digested. After this the flesh returns to its original position, and any shell or other refuse that remains from the meal is washed away.

Sponges have a curious manner of producing their young. At certain seasons very small oval masses of jelly are formed on the inner surface of the canals, which finally drop off. They remain in the canals for a time, and become perfect eggs, after which they are thrown out by the stream issuing from the fountains, and instead of falling to the bottom, as we might suppose such helpless masses of jelly would do, they swim around as if they meant to have a little sport before commencing the sober realities of life.

You will be interested to know that while these jelly-like eggs were resting in the canals of the parent sponge, delicate cilia (which we learned about just now) were forming at one end of the egg. These cilia strike the water with a rapid motion, and the eggs are rowed about through it until they settle down and attach themselves to some rock or shell on the bottom of the ocean, and finally grow up into the perfect sponge. The waters are swarming with these eggs at certain seasons, and great quantities of them are eaten by larger animals.

Sponges are common in nearly all parts of the world, and they differ greatly in size and quality, but few species being useful to man. Some species are nearly round, others are always cup-shaped, some top-shaped, and some branched. A fresh-water sponge is frequently found in our streams, growing upon sticks and stones. It is of a bright green, and when seen under the water in a flood of sunlight it is very pretty.

The spicules of sponges grow in a variety of elegant shapes, but they are visible only with a microscope. They are composed of lime or flint, and are generally sharp-pointed. They are imbedded in the flesh as well as in the horny fibres, thus serving to protect the helpless creatures from being devoured by fish and other animals. In our fine sponges, the skeleton is almost destitute of spicules, while in some others the flesh is supported wholly by spicules, giving them so loose a texture that they are of no value for domestic purposes.