Part 3

In many gymnasiums there are striking-bags, filled with sawdust or sand, and hung from above by a cord. The cord is not necessary. One of the pillows of your bed will do just as well as a hanging bag. Throw it up to the ceiling, and as it comes down strike it up again, first with one hand and then with the other, and see how long you can keep it in the air. This pillow fighting is a good and not at all dangerous exercise. Pillow never hits back.

Although nothing has been said about girls doing these exercises, they are all suitable for girls, especially if done before they have finished dressing. Girls must have tumbled hair some time, and what better time than before they have combed it in the morning? Girls do not care much about foot-ball and base-ball, but they do like to have nice figures, and to be strong and healthy, and they will find no better way of becoming so than by practicing these and similar exercises.

Neither girls nor boys should try to do very much at first. Regular practice is very much better than hard work one day, and none at all the next three days. As soon as you feel tired, leave off. That is a sign that you have done enough. Fifteen minutes' exercise every morning will soon tell its tale in strong and lissom limbs and a feeling of health.

Some day you will go to a gymnasium fitted with bars and ladders and poles, and you will find yourself quite at home there. And that will be because your home gymnasium is not so very different from the public one, after all.

THE LITTLE DOLLS' DRESSMAKER.

ADAPTED FROM CHARLES DICKENS.

BY MRS. ZADEL B. GUSTAFSON.--(_Continued._)

A week after their happy holiday, Jenny was once more living alone with only her "bad child," for Lizzie had been engaged to go and nurse a sick man away in the east part of the city of London, and had given up her place in the seaman's outfitter to do it.

The sick man was very ill indeed, and it would be days, and might be weeks, before Lizzie could come back.

Early one foggy evening, when Lizzie had been two or three weeks away, old Mr. Riah came to Church Street and the home of the little dolls' dressmaker. Jenny expected him. He could see her through the window by the light of the candle, sitting in her low chair with her bonnet tied on, waiting for him.

"Good-evening, godmother," said the little creature, opening the door in answer to his knock.

"Are you ready, Cinderella, my dear?"

Jenny laughed, locked the door on the outside, and put the key in her pocket. It was a big key for such a little person, and Mr. Riah offered to carry it.

"No, no, no," said Jenny; "I'll carry it myself. I'm awfully lopsided, you know, and it helps to keep me even. I'll tell you a secret, godmother; I wear my pocket on my high side on purpose."

He took her hand within his arm, and she worked her little crutch along briskly with the other. She had already given him her basket, with a doll in it in evening toilet, to carry, and so they set out through the fog toward London.

When they reached the great city they turned into one of the principal streets, and with the pressure of her little hand on his arm she turned him to the brilliantly lighted toy-shop window. There were dolls of all sizes, with black hair, with white hair, brown hair, and yellow hair, straight hair and curly hair and crimped hair; dressed in all the colors of the rainbow, for presentation at court, for going to balls, for going out driving, for going out on horseback, for going out walking, for going to get married, for going to help other dolls to get married, for all the gay events of life.

"Pretty! pretty! pretty!" said Mr. Riah, clapping his hands lightly. "You have done it very daintily, Cinderella."

"Glad you like them," said Jenny, pleased and proud, her hair sparkling like spun crystal through the gas-lighted fog. "But the fun is when I make the great ladies try my dresses on. It's the hardest work I have to do, too."

"How do you mean?"

"Bless you, godmother, I have to scud about town at all hours to do it. When I sit at my bench cutting out and sewing, that's easy; but the trying on!--_that's_ work."

"How trying on?" asked Mr. Riah, still puzzled.

"Why, godmother, look here. There's a Drawing-room, or a grand day in the Park, or a show, or a fête, or what you like. Very well. I squeeze among the crowd, and I look about. When I see a great lady dressed in the height of the fashion, I say, 'You'll do, my dear,' and I take particular notice of her, and run home and cut her out and baste her. Then another day I come scudding back to try on, and then I take very particular notice of her indeed. Sometimes she looks at me as she thought, 'How that child stares!' and sometimes she seems to like it and sometimes she don't, but more times she does than she don't; and all the time I'm saying to myself, 'I must hollow out a bit here, I must slope away there'; and you see I'm making a perfect slave of her. Evening parties are the hardest for me, because there's only a doorway for a full view, and what with hobbling among the wheels of the carriages and the legs of the horses, I fully expect to be run over some night. But there I have 'em just the same. There was Lady Belinda Whitrose. One night when she came out of her carriage to go in to a party I said, 'You'll do,' and I ran straight home, and cut her out and basted her, and then I hurried back and waited behind the men that called the carriages. Very bad night it was, too. At last they called, 'Lady Belinda Whitrose's carriage!' and didn't I make her try on, and take pains about it too, before she got seated. That's Lady Belinda hanging up by the waist--and much too near the gas-light for a wax one--with her toes turned in."

The little doll in evening toilet in Jenny's basket had been ordered for a rich banker's little daughter; and when they went into the shop, Jenny took it out herself, and wouldn't let the rather pert young man behind the counter touch it.

"Give me a box, young man," said she, with the little hitch of her eyes and chin, and the sharp old look on her tiny face; and when he obeyed, with a sly wink at old Mr. Riah, she cut him short with: "Mind your tricks and your manners, young man. Now tie this up, so, and find out if there's any change to be made in the ladies' wardrobe, and I'll take the order when I come again, and I'll take my pay now."

* * * * *

Jenny had an errand into the city the very next day, and when it was done she went to St. Mary Axe to call on Mr. Riah. She found him standing on the door-step of the yellow house, with a clumsy black bag in his hand. Something in the way he looked up and down the street before he saw her put a quick suspicion in Jenny's keen little mind. In the front window, drawing down the blind, stood the foxy-faced young man, with his mouth stretched as if he laughed, but his eyes squinted as if he did not feel merry at all.

"Boh! you're a beast," exclaimed Jenny, shaking her small fist at him. "I knew it. Well, godmother"--stopping in front of him, with her head on one side, and looking like an owl and wren in one--"so the wolf's been too much for you, and you're thrown on the world?"

"It seems so, Jenny," the old man answered.

"Sudden, ain't it, godmother?"

"Rather." He stepped down into the street, and they moved on together slowly.

"Where are you going to seek your fortune?"

The old man smiled at this question, but Jenny saw that he looked about him as if he had lost his way in life.

"Come," said she, "the best thing you can do now, at any rate, godmother, is to come right home with me. There's nobody there but my bad child, and Lizzie's room's empty."

Mr. Riah had been asked by his employer to help do a mean and wicked thing, and because he would not do it he had been turned instantly from his place. But he had a little money, and could accept the little dressmaker's offer, for a time at least, without making her any poorer; so he went with her willingly, and was as pleased as she.

Now when Jenny had started on her errand into the city she had left her drunken father in the house, where he had promised to stay. But he didn't often keep such promises, or indeed any promises at all, and this time he took some coin he had managed to hide away, and crawled out through the window, and went into the city, and to places where drink could be had.

As Jenny and Mr. Riah were coming up the street toward Westminster Bridge, they met four men carrying a strange bundle between them. Mr. Riah would have passed, but Jenny stopped.

"Oh, let me see what it is! Let us make haste and look, godmother." She broke away, and with one quick look, "Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen, he belongs to me!" she cried, and threw up her little trembling hands.

"Belongs to you!" exclaimed one of them.

"Oh yes. Tell them, godmother, he's my child. Oh, my poor bad boy! And he doesn't know me! Oh, what shall I do?" wildly beating her hands together.

She leaned again over the wretched, ragged figure, and Mr. Riah whispered to the men who held it: "It's her drunken father. She calls him her child, and she has taken care of him ever since she can remember."

"He is dead," they answered, looking at her with eyes full of pity! One of them spread a covering over him, and as they walked on, the little dolls' dressmaker followed, hiding her face in Mr. Riah's coat. The men carried their burden home, and it was put down in the parlor.

Many dolls had to be gayly dressed before Jenny could get money enough to buy the last garments he would ever wear for her father. As old Mr. Riah sat by helping in such ways as he could, he wondered whether she understood that the dead man had been really her father.

"It's so hard to bring up a child well, godmother," she said, as her needle flew along the little seams, "when you have to work, work, work all day! When my child was out of work, I couldn't keep him always near me. He got fretful and nervous, and I had to let him go into the streets. But he never did well out of sight. How often that happens with children! But how can I say what I might have turned out to be myself if my back hadn't been so bad and my legs so queer?" The little dressmaker went on: "I had nothing to do but work. I couldn't play, and it turned out the worse for him."

"Not for him alone, Jenny."

"Well, I don't know, godmother. Perhaps if I could have played with him-- He suffered a great deal, poor child, and I called him names." She shook her head over her work, and tears fell on it, but her needle never stopped for a moment.

And so, talking and weeping and working, the brave little creature had at last dressed dolls enough to pay for all that was needed for the dead father who had so long been her "troublesome child."

"I must have a cry before I can cheer up for good," said little Jenny, coming in from the funeral, a day or two later, "for a child is a child, after all, you know."

She went away by herself, and sunset had faded into evening before she came down and made the tea. Her eyes were red, but she pattered her little crutch across the floor as briskly as ever, and when tea was over, she spread out a quantity of bright silks and lace and beads upon her work bench, and began to work just as usual.

"Cinderella, dear child, will you never rest?"

"Cutting out a pattern isn't much work, godmother," said Jenny, her little scissors snipping into tissue-paper.

A knock was heard at the door, and Mr. Riah rose and opened it.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE FAIRY PLAQUE.

BY FRANK BELLEW.

This game is played as follows: Take as many small pieces of card-board as there are players, and number them 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and so on. Then place them all on the table and shuffle them together. Let each player draw a card. The one who draws the highest number is the manager of the game.

The manager lays the plaque before him on the table, and directs all the players to stand with their faces to the wall. He then takes the pieces of card bearing the numbers, and places one upon each picture--one on the Black Knight in the centre, one on the White Cat, one on the Skylark, and so on. Each player must now choose a number. When all have chosen, the manager announces who has hit on the number representing the White Cat.

Now the White Cat is supposed to be a Princess in disguise, and it is the duty of the Black Prince to rescue her. But if a boy selects the number representing the Princess, he can select any little girl who is playing, and exchange tickets, saying to her, "You shall be my Princess." In the same way, if a little girl selects the number which represents the Black Knight, she changes tickets with any little boy, saying, "You shall be my Black Knight."

When this is arranged, the Princess takes her position on one side of the room, and the Knight on the other, and all the players march three times round the room, each imitating the sound of the animal his number represents. Then they draw themselves up in line in front of the Princess, and facing the Black Knight. The latter takes a handkerchief rolled up in the form of a ball, and throws it toward the Princess.

If he can throw it over the heads of the other players so that the Princess can catch it, then she is released, and all the others have to pay a forfeit, but it is the object of the other players to try to catch the ball without moving from their places. If one catches it, he is released, and so it goes on until either the Princess catches the ball or all of the other players catch it. Then if she and the Knight are left all alone, they both have to pay forfeits, which are cried in the usual manner.

Can it be possible that we have already reached the last day of January? One month of this bright new year has flitted away. You have had time to get used to writing 1882 on your school exercises, and time, we fear, to forget some of the good resolutions it seems so natural to make in the beginning of a year. Well, here is a chance for another start. If any boy is a loiterer, or careless, or passionate, if any girl is untidy or disobliging, begin to fight the bad habits now. February will bring us into the final month of winter.

Will some of our little window-gardeners write to the Postmistress and tell her about the callas that are opening their beautiful cup-like flowers, and the hyacinths that are filling their rooms with fragrance? There will be a snug little corner for plant-lovers in Our Post-office Box during the whole of the next month.

* * * * *

NEW YORK CITY.

I saw in No. 114 an article on sponges, in which you said that sponges were cultivated in Europe. One day as I was passing through Fulton Street I saw in a show case something labelled "cultivated sponge." With your piece fresh in my memory, and having also a great curiosity to see how it looked, I entered the store--a large drug house near William Street--and inquired about it, and they kindly told me that the sponge was raised at Cedar Key, Florida, and that it was of seven months' growth; also that it had been cut and planted without being taken out of the water. The sponge measured seven inches in depth and eight inches across. Thinking that some of your young readers would like to see such a curiosity, I write this letter.

ALFRED M.

* * * * *

WEST CHESTER, PENNSYLVANIA.

I am a little boy eight years old, and my uncle has been sending me YOUNG PEOPLE for a long time. I have read letters that little boys have written for your paper, and thought I would like to write and tell them about my pet squirrel. Its name is Shell-bark. I named it that because it eats so many nuts. My papa and I were in the woods one day, and saw a little squirrel pop its head out of a hole, so we threw a handkerchief over the hole, and caught it. It is very tame now, but it has had a sore nose from trying to get out of its cage, and the only way I could get to grease it was by giving him a shell-bark, and when he poked his nose out to get it, I greased it with cold cream. I believe that is all I have to say.

ROBERT F. W.

Do you not think you would feel happier if you were to set that cage door open, and give the captive, although he is so tame, the choice between liberty and confinement? It is squirrel nature to love the wide woods, and I am afraid, notwithstanding your generous providing, he would prefer the old trees and scanty fare to the prettiest cage and plenty. If you do keep him for a pet, then ask papa to let you have a cage for him so large that you could turn a somersault in it.

* * * * *

NEW YORK CITY.

I wonder if you would mind having at least one girl who has sympathy for Augusta C. about cats? I do not say I _hate_ cats, yet I do not like them much. I think there are many nobler pets. We board, consequently I have no pets; but I have had them. Last year we went on a pleasure-trip to California, and staid eight months, going by sea _via_ Panama, and coming home by land. I would like to know if Wiggles when drawn with a lead pencil are acceptable, and on what kind of paper. I am fourteen years old, and go to the public school.

MARIE B.

Wiggles may be drawn with a lead-pencil, and on any kind of paper which is convenient. They should be sent as promptly as possible.

* * * * *

CHESTNUT RIDGE, NEW YORK.

I have read your nice paper for a year, and I like it very much. Last winter we were snowed in for a week, and could not drive out at all. The men had to take shovels and shovel the roads, and were two or three days doing it. The people would drive over the worst of the drifts, and then turn back when they got where the roads were good, for fear of finding worse drifts. I had a pet bird named Dickie. I often used to let him come out of the cage, and fly around the room. I did so one day, and forgot him when I went out-doors. I came back to look for him, but I could not find a feather. I don't know whether the cat caught him or what happened to him, but we never found him again.

Mr. Lossing, the gentleman who sometimes writes for HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, lives only a little way from us. He is a very intelligent person. His stories are very interesting, especially his history. I have also been very much interested in Mr. Otis's stories. I think that "Toby Tyler" is better than "Tim and Tip."

MOLLIE B. P.

Poor little birdie! You could not even have the sad comfort of a funeral for him. I fear the cat could have told what became of him; but she acted, if it was she who was the culprit, according to her nature. If you ever have so docile a pet again, you will surely not forget him when he is outside the shelter of his cage.

* * * * *

In No. 119 we will insert the January report of Miss E. A. Fanshawe, treasurer of the Endowment Fund for Young People's Cot in St. Mary's Free Hospital, New York. The cot for which our readers are contributing is to be placed in Holy Innocents' Ward, and one of the kind ladies who takes care of the little children there, in compliance with a number of requests, has sent us a letter telling how Santa Claus visited the hospital on Christmas. Although Christmas is over, you will all be glad to read her account of the pleasure which came to these sufferers:

ST. MARY'S HOSPITAL, NEW YORK.

Some of you have asked how our little ones spent Christmas-day, and I am very glad to tell you of their happiness. When Christmas-eve came, they were in great excitement, wondering whether Santa Claus found the letters that they had put in the chimney, and whether each one would get what he or she had asked for. As bed-time drew near, we noticed on the part of those who had been up a remarkable desire to get to bed, and, when there, some very unsuccessful attempts at getting to sleep. Seven o'clock found them all quiet, and stockings fastened at the foot of each crib.

By five o'clock the next morning the girls were sitting up in their beds, with the contents of their stockings before them. Now you want to know what they found in those stockings. First, Santa Claus had put in a big orange, then a cornucopia of candy, and then--he had really brought them what they asked for in their letter; if it were too large to go in their stocking, he had put it on the foot of their bed, and on the top of all was a horn. At six they sang their carols. After breakfast all hastened to obtain their horns, and for a while there was a great deal of noise; several had never had a horn before, but they needed no instruction as to how to use it. Between their toys and "playing party" with their candy and oranges, the morning passed quickly away. In the afternoon they had a happy hour with their fathers and friends, telling them of all that Santa Claus had brought, and when bed-time came they were very tired little heads that rested once more on their pillows, and with the oft-repeated wish that "Santa Claus would come again to-night," they were soon fast asleep.

But there was still another treat in store for them. The Christmas tree was on the following Thursday; and a very happy group assembled on that day, not in the ward which you heard about in the last letter, but in the reception-rooms, which are as large as the ward, and could accommodate all the patients. It would take too long to enumerate all that wonderful tree had upon it, so I must leave you to picture it for yourselves, for without doubt you have all seen just such a one, and had some of the pretty things from its branches. It will be enough to tell you that the boys were made happy by soldier caps, guns, and swords, so that with the drum Santa Claus brought they can have a grand parade. And the girls have plenty of dolls to nurse and care for, for although apparently quite rosy and healthy when they came off the tree, yet the very next morning I heard that they were suffering from various diseases, so that the bed, which also was on the tree, was constantly being remade for a new patient as soon as one was pronounced "well enough to sit up." And frequent doses of medicine and pills were administered; these last were the tiniest little round candies, and after many attempts at persuading her child to swallow, the mother would often take one herself to show how easily it was done. While some nurse, the older ones, who have work-boxes, make garments for their tiny patients. Thus the happiness brought by their Christmas gifts will linger with these little ones for many a day, cheering and shortening their weary hours of suffering.

S.

Will the contributors to the Cot Fund kindly observe that money for this purpose is to be sent to Miss E. Augusta Fanshawe, No. 43 New Street, New York City, and not to Messrs. Harper & Brothers.

* * * * *

MEDWAY, MASSACHUSETTS.