Part 2

Fine sponges are used by physicians in surgical operations, and are sometimes very expensive. Should you at any time take a fancy to a dainty little sponge in the druggist's window, and step in, thinking to buy it, you will probably be surprised at the price asked for it. Our finest sponges come from the Mediterranean Sea and the Red Sea. They are obtained by divers, who search for them under rocks and cliffs, and who remove them carefully with a knife, that they may not be injured; The Turks, who carry on the trade, have between four and five thousand men employed in collecting sponges. The value of the sponges annually collected is estimated at ninety thousand dollars. Coarse varieties are found in the Gulf of Mexico and the Bahama Islands. They are scraped off the rocks with forked instruments, and consequently they are often torn.

The demand for sponges has increased so much during the last few years that there is cause to fear the supply will be exhausted, unless some way can be found to cultivate them by artificial means. With this view, attempts have recently been made to raise sponges in the Adriatic Sea by taking cuttings from full-grown ones, and fastening them upon stones on the bottom of the ocean until they attach themselves. These experiments have been successful, but the operation is a delicate one, requiring great care not to bruise the soft flesh. It is necessary to keep the sponge under sea-water during the process.

Some of the glass sponges are exceedingly beautiful. The delicate "Venus's flower-basket" grows in the deep sea near the Philippine Islands. It looks like spun glass woven into a beautiful pattern, and is so exquisite we can scarcely believe that it is the skeleton of a sponge. Fig. 3 shows a remarkable specimen of the sponge family, taken between Gibraltar and the island of Madeira by the scientific party on board the famous _Challenger_, which ship was sent out for the express purpose of exploring the animal and vegetable wonders of the great deep.

This sponge, reduced in the illustration to one-third its size, is composed of bands of spicules running lengthwise from end to end, with cross bands at right angles. The corners are filled up with a pale brown corky-looking substance, reducing the spaces to little tube-like holes, and rising into spirally arranged ridges between them. The ridges, instead of having a continuous glassy skeleton, have their soft substance supported by a multitude of delicate six-rayed spicules interspersed with what under the microscope look like little stars and rosettes. The whole sponge is covered with fine hairs, and the mouth is closed by a net-work of a jelly-like substance supported by sheaves of fine needles. The glass-rope sponge roots itself in the mud by twisted fibres.

The boring sponge spreads itself over the shells of oysters and mussels, boring them through and through, and dissolving the shell. It even bores into solid marble, and will, in time, utterly destroy it.

Flints are exceedingly hard substances--so hard that when we wish to be emphatic, we sometimes say that a thing is as hard as flint. Yet all the flints in the world are supposed to have been formed from soft sponges. By examining small pieces of flint under a microscope the texture of the sponge, in a fossil condition, is often clearly seen, and the spicules peculiar to sponges are recognized.

MARJORIE'S NEW-YEAR'S EVE.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

I.

Marjorie was sitting curled up in a big easy-chair before the fire. The room was her own school-room, and the fire-light danced and played on all sorts of beautiful, luxurious objects--everything for making the young mistress of the big house comfortable. But Marjorie had come to believe herself the most wretched of all young people, and while the fire-light seemed to redden and glow with happy beams on everything else, it darkened the look on Marjorie's little face. Now and then she tossed her little curls; sometimes she puckered her lips, and frowned and nodded; evidently she was thinking very hard and very unpleasantly. If her thoughts had been expressed, they would have shown that she thought Christmas week had been "just perfectly _horrid_--not one nice thing about it. Uncle John away--gone to see those miserable Williamsons, who had taken this time of all others to be ill. And Miss Marbery talk about her having so many blessings! A lot of horrid old presents, no tree, and Miss Marbery"--the governess--"looking so tired all the time! And after all she had said to Uncle John, he hadn't got her a new French doll, and her old one looked like a perfect fright."

Poor silly little Marjorie! After she had gone on thinking half an hour or so, she gradually concluded she was a victim of the cruelest circumstances, and that in spite of all the love and beauty and tender thought in the life around her, she just had nothing at all done for her comfort, happiness, or well-being.

Marjorie glanced about the room as the twilight gathered. Snow was falling outside the luxuriously curtained windows, so that the cheer within ought to have been peculiarly noticeable; but to Marjorie nothing looked very pleasant anywhere just then. Her toys were scattered about, the despised doll was nowhere to be seen, the rocking-horse of last year was in the centre of the room. The big map Uncle John had had made to interest her in geography loomed up on one side of the wall in a way Marjorie didn't think at all agreeable. This map could be taken all to pieces; even the rivers were made so that they could be taken out, and made to bend little joints here and there in and out of the countries. Marjorie had thought it the greatest fun imaginable to play with this map when it first came home, but she had tired of this as soon as of everything else. Somehow, as she sat in the fire-light, it fascinated her to try and read the various names of the countries. She was looking very steadily toward what she certainly thought was China, when suddenly the letters seemed to change curiously. "Is that China?" Marjorie said, half aloud. China on Marjorie's map was a yellow country, and so, certainly, was the piece she was looking at; but the name gradually seemed to unfold itself before her wondering eyes. "Why," said Marjorie, really speaking out loud this time--"why, it's Christmas-land! How funny I should always have thought it was China!"

"Didn't you know that?" said a queer voice near by. It was more a sort of squeak than a voice; but Marjorie turned her head, and saw her rocking-horse rocking violently.

"Did you speak?" she asked, a little startled.

"I rocked a few words," answered the horse, without altering the very decided expression of his eyes. "I asked you if you had never known that before."

"Known what?" said Marjorie.

"Look and see," rocked the horse, and so Marjorie turned her eyes back to the map. Another change had occurred--indeed, not one, but many. The windows seemed to have melted away into the snow-storm outside, and the map, which usually hung between them, had slowly changed, every country and every river fading away, until Christmas-land only seemed to remain. But even that was changing too, for now it no longer looked like a picture on the map, but a real country. Marjorie started forward toward it. Fir-trees were loaded with icicles; a snowy road seemed to stretch away ahead of her out of the place where the windows and the map had been; and the horse? He too had undergone a change, even while Marjorie's eyes were looking at the windows. Instead of his usual old harness, he had a comfortable saddle and substantial bridle. Then his hair had grown thicker, and he had a splendid blanket, and a collar of bells.

"Dear me!" ejaculated Marjorie.

"I don't see that it's particularly 'dear me,'" said the horse. "I came from Christmas-land last year, and now I'm going back--that's all. New-Year's Eve is our time. Come, hurry up; if you want to go, you must be quick about it."

"Oh, I'm all ready!" Marjorie exclaimed; and with what seemed no trouble at all she sprang into the saddle, and was delighted to find the horse turning carefully about toward the windows.

Well, it was a queer experience. They seemed only to float out--out into the frosty, snowy air. The motion was delightful; but what were they riding on?

"Excuse me," said Marjorie to the horse; "what are we riding on?"

"Why, don't you see?" he answered--"on the snow-flakes. They always hold me up going back to Christmas-land."

"Isn't it delightful!" sighed Marjorie. And so it seemed. On they floated, past church towers, snowy streets, and open country. The bells grew fainter and fainter; Marjorie felt more and more comfortable. It seemed to her as if they were entering a beautiful snowy forest--the same she had seen slowly growing on the map, now so far away, at home.

Then she seemed to doze a little, but only to be roused up by a swift rushing of three or four rocking-horses apparently floating on in the same delicious fashion. At the same time Marjorie observed they were in one of the long aisles of the forest, at the end of which lights from a thousand windows were twinkling. She tried to discover who were the strange-looking people on the rocking-horses flying past her, but although she saw familiar signs about them, she could not quite remember where she had seen them before. Finally, with a whirring noise, she saw one of the dissections of her map right beside her; but how queerly it was changed! It was certainly "Augusta, on the Kennebec"; she was sure of that; but instead of just being a little town mark, she was a funny little figure with round eyes, and a good-humored expression, only it was certainly _on the Kennebec_. Almost at the same time a second figure on another horse flew by. This figure seemed to be made up of round balls, and it nodded to Marjorie's horse laughingly, saying, "How much am I?"

"I know," cried Marjorie; "you're Nine-times-naught."

"It's well you knew," said the horse, "for where we are going you may be asked that a great many times."

"Where are we going?" said Marjorie, a little timidly; "and isn't this Christmas-land?"

"Of course it is," answered the horse, "and we are going right to Santa Claus's castle."

By this time Marjorie saw that there appeared on all sides of the wood, a great many strange characters. It was five or six moments before she could place them, and then she remembered having seen them in various houses or toy-shops, and one or two looked as if they had come from her own play-room. They were all sorts of toys, mostly broken down and decrepit; but they moved about, talking and laughing with each other, and every one seemed to recognize Marjorie's horse as he skimmed past.

"Well," thought Marjorie, "if I hadn't seen it, I never should have believed it."

But her wonderment was not to end there, for the next minute the horse had ridden up to a heavy gate in a high wall, where with his mouth he clanged a great bell. Marjorie's heart stood still. Back flew the gate. Marjorie saw that it had been unbolted by a little dwarf, to whom the horse nodded in a friendly way.

"Are we late?" said the horse, drawing a long breath.

"Not very," said the dwarf. "But hurry in."

And in they went. For a moment Marjorie almost screamed with delight. Never had she seen anything so beautiful. She was in a garden which seemed to be hung with every possible flower that ever grew, lighted by every soft light; and yet it was winter-time. Around the garden wall the fir-trees from the forest reared their heads laden with snow, and above all shone the radiance of moon and stars.

Marjorie seemed to be lifted by unconscious hands from her saddle, and to find herself on a smooth, springing turf, where little violets lay nestling under the starlight.

"Why, how can they grow?" she exclaimed, in shy delight.

"Shall I tell her?" said the horse.

"You may if you like," answered the dwarf. "Only I am afraid she never would understand it."

The horse waited a moment, and giving one or two rocks, said:

"Well, these flowers grow for every kindly Christmas deed done by any child out of Christmas-land, no matter how poor or simple the child is. Do you see that rose-bush?"

Marjorie looked and saw a lovely garland of red roses filling the air with fragrance.

"Well," pursued the horse, "that grew when a little child in a hospital shared its toys on Christmas-eve with one who had nothing."

"And the winter frost does not hurt them?"

"How can it, when a good deed has given them life? Their kind of perfume can't be touched by snow or frost."

Marjorie paused a minute; then she half-whispered, "No flower ever grew here for me?"

The horse rocked rather angrily. "No, it didn't," he answered. "Now good-night. Follow the dwarf. If I am allowed to take you back, I'll be here at midnight."

In a moment he had rocked himself out of sight. Marjorie looked about for the dwarf, and followed him down the garden to a second gateway. From this they reached the castle steps. Lights blazed everywhere. Marjorie followed the dwarf up the steps, and into a huge hallway glittering with icicles and snowy branches of fir. She was given no time for wonderment. The dwarf pulled a huge key from his pocket, and unlocking a safe, drew out a number of smaller keys with labels attached. He chose one, and handed it to Marjorie, saying, "Go down the corridor to the left until you come to the room labelled as this key is. Go in there, and wait until you are sent for."

Marjorie took the key in rather trembling fingers, and turned in the direction he had commanded. It was a wide icicle-hung corridor, with doors on either side. They were all labelled. Marjorie went down comparing each name she read with that on her key. The name written there was "Unworthy."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

WINTER QUARTERS.

Look at me here in my mistress's muff; My proper name is Vanity Puff; My striped coat is, of course, very fair, But silver-fox has a stylish air.

The muff, you see, is jolly and warm, And suits a cat that's afraid of storm. Snow is a nuisance, and cold I hate; It suits me exactly to sit in state

On a damask chair with a robe silk-lined, And comfort take with an easy mind, While I feel myself an aristocrat, And not a commonplace household cat.

HOW TO PLAY.

BY HUGH CRAIG.

The first thing one ought to do after learning the multiplication table is to learn some good honest out-of-door game.

I put the multiplication table first, because in all games one has to count and add up the score. You can not be always asking your playfellows, "How many am I?"

In most cases they can not tell, for if they are sensible fellows, they have enough to do in minding their own business; that is, in keeping their own score. Of course they will keep an account of all that you win, but they do so for their own guidance, and to check any false claim. And it is only fair that you should be able to check them.

Some people say boys and girls play too much nowadays. I do not believe them. I think both boys and girls do nothing a great deal too much. Looking at your friends playing and talking about their play is nothing but laziness. Anybody can sit on the grass and sing out, "Butterfingers!--missed an easy catch like that." I like the boy who tries, even if he misses. You may depend upon it, if he tries often enough, he will not miss it every time.

A good game teaches you many things which you will not find in your lesson books. In the first place you must know the rules of the game. Then you will find that boys can not play unless they comply with the rules. When they become men, they will see that men can not be free unless they comply with the law. You must also know the rules of the game so well as to see at once when anybody is playing unfairly.

The plain English for unfairness is dishonesty. Boys who can not or will not play fair are left out of every game. Men who can not play the game of life go to the poor-house, and men who will not play fair end in State-prisons. Let us say, then, that you know the rules of what you are playing, and play fairly, what else do you learn?

You learn, first of all, how to take a good beating without losing your temper. You may be disappointed, but as everything has been fair, there is nobody you can be vexed with. You must acknowledge your defeat with a good grace, especially as the victors are your friends and playmates.

Another lesson you will learn in time is how to gain a victory without being puffed up, or boasting, or bragging about it. You will see that as there was in the case of defeat no reason for being annoyed at your conquerors, so, in the case of triumph, there is no reason for crowing over your antagonists. You will learn to play your best and fairest at all times without regard to winning or losing. You will admire a good player none the less because he is occasionally beaten, and see how a boy can lose a game without losing his honor. You will see, in fact, that the first thing in this world is to do your best, and to put up with the result, whatever it may be.

Nothing is better training for you than to play a good up-hill game where you are overmatched, and feel sure you can not win. An up-hill game brings out your best points, just as a struggle with adversity brings out a man's best qualities. At the same time that you are compelled to rely on yourself, for nobody but you, let us say, has the bat, still you must remember that there are others on your side, and you must play so that they can do their part also. You must remember that you are one of a society, and that if you are selfish, careless, ignorant, or unfair, all the society will suffer. Above all things, play heartily; then you will study heartily, and when you are men you will work heartily.

EPH'S NEW-YEAR'S BOOTS.

BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.

The ship _Emerald_, under topsails, is plunging and rolling over and through great mountains of storm-tossed wintry sea. Mr. Kendall, the sturdy little second mate, makes his way for'ard by clinging to the weather rail. He casts a glance at the side lights to make sure that they are burning clear, and then, in a cheery voice, hails the look-out.

"Only five minutes longer, Ned," he bawls, encouragingly; for cold as it is on deck, he knows that facing the bitter blast on the exposed forecastle is a hundred times worse.

Ned Rand returns the customary, "Ay, ay, sir," and vaguely wonders if he ever _will_ be warm again. Not only is he drenched and chilled through and through, but the cold, which is growing more intense, has stiffened his soaked oil-clothes until they seem like a suit of tin armor. Like a dream the remembrance of a year ago that very night comes to mind, how, sitting around the glowing grate in the cozy home sitting-room, he, with the family, watched the old year out and the new in.

Ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, sounds faintly from aft.

"'Ring out the old, ring in the new,'"

grimly mutters Ned between his chattering teeth, as he strikes the knell of the old year on the big bell for'ard.

"Hillo-o-o in there! Eight bells, you sleepers! D'ye hear the news?"

As the sleepy, grumbling watch come on deck, the wheel and look-out are relieved.

"Go below, the port watch, but stand ready for a call," says Mr. Marline, the chief mate.

Ned is crawling stiffly down from the look-out, when very unexpectedly the long-legged overgrown boy who, without speaking, had relieved him, bawls in his ear, "Wish you a happy new year, Ned!"

Unexpectedly, I say, for the reason that the two boys, who were room-mates, have not spoken together before for a whole week. Ned hesitates a moment. Suddenly to mind come the familiar lines,

"The year is going, let him go; _Ring out the false--ring in the true_."

"Same to you, old fellow," he exclaims, as well as his chattering jaws will let him, and then creeping cautiously along the slippery, heaving deck, Ned enters the "boys' room" in the after-end of the house. Throwing off his oil-skins and drenched pea-jacket with a shiver, he is about to turn into his bunk, when he sees lying on his gray berth blanket a pair of half-worn rubber boots. Scrawled on a bit of paper tied to one of the loops are these words:

"A new yeres Presunt to ned i was keeping Them for you All the time from your aff shipmate, E Jackson."

As Ned reads this friendly message, his face begins to burn--perhaps from the heat of the coals of fire thus heaped upon his head; for the trouble between himself and his room-mate had begun about these very same rubber boots. Ned's had been accidentally washed overboard by a big sea a few days previous, he having laid them on the main hatch to dry; and vainly had he tried to buy this pair of Eph, who wore thick "cow-hides" in ordinary weather, keeping the rubber ones for extraordinary.

"You're a mean, contemptible skinflint, Eph Jackson," Ned had angrily exclaimed.

"Mebbe I be," returned Eph, as a dull red tinged his homely face; "but, all the same, you can't buy them boots: I've got another use for 'em."

High words followed. Ned called Eph "a hay-seed-haired countryman." Eph, in return, taunted Ned with hanging back when a royal had to be stowed or the flying jib furled; "a sogerin' skulk" was the uncomplimentary epithet which he applied to his room-mate, if I remember aright. Since which time, as I have said, no word had passed between the two until Eph had broken the ice with his New-Year's greeting.

"He's not such a bad lot, after all," said Ned, aloud. "The boots are a couple of sizes too large," he added, as he pulled them on over a pair of dry socks; "but they'll keep out the wet and cold, anyway."

But there was a sort of unconscious patronage in his way of accepting the welcome present, after all; for Ned Rand's father, who owned two-thirds of the _Emerald_, was a wealthy ship-builder of East Boston, while Eph Jackson was an uncultured young fellow from the country. Ned was making this his first sea-voyage "just for the fun of it"; Eph, because he had an old mother up among the Berkshire hills, for whom every cent of his wages was meant.

"Some day I cal'late to be a officer, an' git my forty or fifty dollars a month," said Eph, sturdily, to himself.

Ned had obtained his parents' consent that he should make a trial voyage with Captain Elton. "But don't favor him, Captain," privately suggested Mr. Rand.

"Favor him!" echoed the plain-spoken Captain; "I _guess_ not. There's no favor shown aboard ships. Your boy will be treated the same as that long-legged young chap from the country who shipped yesterday--no better and no worse." Which assurance Ned has found to his extreme disgust is carried out to the very letter.

But the voice of the storm without grows louder and fiercer.

"I thought so!" growls Ned, as two hours later he hears the command to "turn out and shorten sail."

Ugh-h-h! It is ten degrees colder at least than when he went below. Mast and spar, brace and rigging, alike are cased in thin ice.

The upper topsails have been lowered on the caps, where they are thrashing as only stiff, half-frozen sails can thrash.

"Jump up there lively, and roll up the main topsail first," bellows Mr. Marline, and in a moment wiry little Mr. Kendall is in the main-rigging. Closely following him is Ned Rand, but not from any desire to show unusual activity. He has learned that in furling a sail the extremity of the yard is the easiest place, for here he has nothing particular to do except to hold on by the "lift" with one hand, and pass the yard-arm gasket to the man who stands next inside.