Part 1

Produced by Annie R. McGuire

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VOL. III.--NO. 143. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR CENTS.

Tuesday, July 25, 1882. Copyright, 1882, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per Year, in Advance.

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ST. ELIZABETH OF THURINGIA.

BY HELEN S. CONANT.

On a beautiful hill near the town of Eisenach, Germany, there stands an ancient castle, famous in history for the many remarkable events which have taken place within its walls.

It is called the Wartburg, and it was here, in 1521, that Martin Luther found shelter and protection after his return from the Diet of Worms. Within the secure walls of the old castle he spent a peaceful year, laboring on the translation of the Bible, which has brought light and joy to so many hearts. The room where he worked, with the table, book-case, and other furniture, is still carefully preserved.

The Wartburg is one of the oldest castles in North Germany. It was built about the middle of the eleventh century, by Count Lewis, a very powerful lord in Thuringia. It is said that one day the Count was out hunting, when a deer that he was pursuing led him to the foot of a steep rocky hill, where it plunged up the cliffs, and disappeared in the thick forest. The Count stopped, surrounded by his followers, and declared that although the hill had robbed him of the desired game, it should, in its turn, become his fortress and stronghold. This was a bold declaration, for the hill was the property of another Count, and it was against the laws of the great German empire that a man should build on soil which was not his. But Count Lewis had thought of this. He had twelve trusty knights, and at his command they worked many hours in the darkness, carrying soil in baskets from the lands of their master to the top of the hill, until enough was collected upon which to build a castle. Then Count Lewis went boldly to work, and erected the fortress which still crowns the heights above Eisenach.

The counts of Thuringia after this made the Wartburg their home, and it was here that St. Elizabeth passed her life in holy deeds. Her true history is that she was a daughter of a King of Hungary, and was born at Pressburg in 1207. When very young she was betrothed to Lewis, son of Count Hermann of Thuringia, and brought to the Wartburg to be educated. As she grew to womanhood she became remarkable for her charitable deeds, and the family of her young husband complained bitterly that she was wasting his property. Not long after her marriage her husband died while absent in the great army of the Crusaders, and Elizabeth with her three little children was driven away from the Wartburg, and compelled to beg for bread in the neighboring villages. But the people loved her so much that her husband's family were soon forced to restore her rights. The hardships she suffered, and the sacrifices she made, were too heavy for her to bear, and in 1231 she died, when only twenty-four years old. Four years after her death she was made a saint by Pope Gregory IX., and a multitude of beautiful legends were wreathed about her memory. Poets sung her praises, and the poor who had received food and clothing from her gentle hands remembered her loveliness and kindness through many generations.

A German poet of the thirteenth century wrote a life of St. Elizabeth in verse, which contains some pretty legends about her birth and life. In 1207 Count Hermann of Thuringia called a grand meeting of poets and minstrels at the Wartburg, and offered a prize to him who should compose the best poem. From far and near came poets to the competition, and a vast assemblage of noble lords and ladies were gathered to hear them sing the quaint ballads of that olden time. One evening the company were all in the great balcony of the castle, when, a poet, pointing with prophetic finger to the setting sun, declared that a daughter was at that moment born to the King of Hungary, who would become the wife of the son of Count Hermann, and whose wondrous virtue and charity would be remembered through all coming ages. Count Hermann at once dispatched messengers to the court of Hungary asking for the hand of the baby princess for his son, and the betrothal at once took place.

Another beautiful legend is about St. Elizabeth and the roses. Soon after Elizabeth's marriage to Lewis, the son of Count Hermann, a terrible famine came upon Thuringia. There was no bread, and the poor people of the country were compelled to eat roots and wild herbs to keep from starving. Their sufferings touched the tender heart of Elizabeth, and she commanded that bread should be baked in the great kitchens of her castle, which she daily distributed to the poor with her own hands. It is said that the lives of many hundreds of people were saved by her bounty. Her husband's family begged him to put a stop to this waste, as they called it, and to forbid his wife from any longer feeding the poor. It is said that he yielded to the wishes of his mother and sisters, and declared that no more bread should be sent out from the castle. So far the story is true. Now comes the pretty legend which has ever since caused St. Elizabeth to be pictured with roses in her hands.

Her kind heart could not rest while the poor people around her were dying of hunger. With a basket filled with bread she would go from the castle and distribute her bounty among the poor who crowded around her. One day when starting on this mission of charity, her basket on her arm, she met her husband, who stopped her, and sternly demanding what she carried in the basket, tore off the mantle which covered it. To the astonishment of both the basket appeared filled with fragrant roses, and on the forehead of Elizabeth, shone a glittering cross. Her husband was so overcome by what he recognized as a miracle that he gave orders that in future her noble charities should be done with perfect liberty, and he himself did all in his power to aid her in the generous task.

UP THE CREEK.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

"It's a mighty good thing for us, Mort Hopkins, we took such an early start."

"Say, Quill, what do we want of those rollers?"

"Guess you'll find out 'fore we get the _Ark_ around the dam."

"That's so. All ready? Shove her, now. Here we go. Don't she travel!"

"Mort, what was that long word you went to the foot on yesterday?"

"Me-an-der-ing."

"And you called it 'mean-drying,' and spelled it wrong. Tell you what, we're just going to meandrew now 'fore we get back."

"Guess Taponican Creek'll give us all the twists we want. It's as crooked as a ram's horn."

"Tisn't much wider some places, but the _Ark_ will squeeze through 'most anywhere."

It would not, indeed, have required much of a flood to float a skiff of that size; but she was a pretty one, and it was no work at all for two stout boys of from twelve to thirteen years of age to "pole her along." There was not enough water where they now were to encourage the use of oars, but a pair of them lay in the stern, beside the fishing-poles and the bait and luncheon.

The day was one of those truly wonderful Saturdays that come to country boys in summer, and Mort Hopkins and Quill Sanders had all but slighted their breakfasts to get the early start they were now so pleased with.

"Mort, if Taponican Creek runs out of Pawg Lake, we'll find the place where it does."

"Guess we will. It's there, somewhere."

"We won't stop to fish along."

"No, sir! Not one of the boys knows where we're going."

"If they'd ha' known, they'd all have come, and chucked the _Ark_ jam-full."

Mere passengers were not wanted on board of a ship that was clearly bound on a voyage of discovery. Extra cargo of any kind would have been bad for the fortunes of such a vessel.

The boys did not pole their boat up stream for more than twenty minutes before they came to a place where the banks gave the Taponican room to spread itself. Of course the wider it spread what water it had, the thinner the water became.

Right in the middle of a sparkling field of gurgling ripples the _Ark_ ran suddenly aground.

"Overboard, Quill!" shouted Mort. "Guess Columbus had to wade before he found much."

"Noah didn't."

"His ark had a roof on it."

"Shove her, now. There she goes."

Their trousers were rolled up about as high as they would go, and the water was not very cold. The _Ark_ drew less when its entire crew was out of it.

"Ah! ugh! Crab."

"Nipped you, did he? Oh, phew! what a clam shell! Stepped right down on it. Catch your crab?"

"He let go. Can't see him. Didn't he give my heel a dig, though! They're the ugliest, sassiest--"

"Jump in. She'll float now."

"Shove, or she'll go back, and get aground again."

"There's the dam. Now we've got a job on hand."

The dam was not a high one, but no two boys of their size could have lifted the _Ark_ over it. Quill Sanders had thought of that, and the little craft was pulled ashore at a spot where farmers coming to the mill drove down to water their horses.

"There's just a good road all around from here to the pond. Now for the rollers, Mort."

Two bits of round poles, about three inches thick and four feet long, were a great help in getting the _Ark_ up the slope, but it was slow work for all that. No man in Corry Centre could have hired any two small boys to undertake it. Quill and Mort did it all the more eagerly because no living being would have given them a cent for doing it.

The miller came out, indeed, to shout after them:

"Hullo, boys, what're ye up to?"

"Going to Pawg Lake," said Quill, proudly. "Your old dam's in the way, and we're a-dodgin' 'round it."

"Pawg Lake! I declare! Do ye spect to ever git back agin?"

"Guess we do," said Mort. "Bring you anything when we come?"

"Ye-es. Fetch the lake right along. Bring me the upper eend of the creek. You'll find it lyin' right there."

"Guess we will," said Mort. "Now, Quill, h'ist her. Shove!"

How they did shove! But the old miller came out into the road and took the _Ark_ by the head, and after that about all the boys had to do was to change the rollers forward as the strong-armed fat old fellow dragged the light skiff along.

"There, boys. You're a plucky brace of spring chickens. In with her, now. She's afloat agin."

"Thank you, Mr. Getty."

"Don't forget to fetch me back Pawg Lake, when you find it. An' the crooked eend of the creek."

"Crooked?" said Quill. "Tell you what, I guess we'll have to meandrew pretty much all the way."

"Andrew what? Oh yes. Guess you will. Go it! Good-by."

Off they went, and now their time had come for actual rowing. The upper pond of Corry Centre was well known to be a deep one. It was wonderfully, perilously far from its smooth surface to the home of the eels on its weedy bottom in some places. It lay in a narrow valley, however, between the slopes of steep hills, and it was long rather than wide.

"Isn't this a big thing, Mort? I was never out on any such voyage as this before. Were you?"

"Don't believe anybody else ever was. Not around here. It's a new thing."

"Wonder what the boys'll say? Mort, we might hold on here long enough to catch a fish or two."

"No, sir-ree! We'll just meandrew till we get to Pawg Lake."

They were pulling nicely along just then, quite a distance above the mill and near the eastern shore of the pond, when a clear, pleasant voice sang out to them:

"Hey, boys! Put me across the pond, please?"

The manner and the accent of that hail were offensively correct and polite, and there at the edge of the woody bank stood a young man of middle size. He carried a joint rod instead of a fish-pole; he had a sort of butterfly net on a stick, and everything about him was nice and expensive to that degree which always arouses the hostility of country village boys. Still, these two were on their good behavior that morning, and their hearts were a little warm over the conduct of Mr. Getty. The _Ark_ was pulled ashore and the stranger was taken on board.

"Straight across, please. Nice boat you have. Capital fun for bright young fellows like you. Spending your day out of school on the water? Good idea."

"Course it is," said Mort, but Quill Sanders added:

"I say, mister, got any fish in your basket yet?"

"Not one, my boy. No luck at all this morning."

"Guess you won't catch any 'round here, with all that there fancy rigging."

"Think not? Ah, here we are. Put me ashore. Will a dime apiece do?"

He held out a couple of bits of shining silver as he spoke, but he had already stirred the pride of the crew of the _Ark_.

"No, thank you," said Quill Sanders. "We're on a voyage of discovery. We won't take pay for any kindnesses we do to the natives we meet."

"You don't say! Voyage of discovery. New World. All that sort of thing. Arctic circle. North Pole. Sandwich Islands."

"No, sir-ree!" exclaimed Mort. "We're bound for Pawg Lake. All the way up the Taponican."

"That's this mighty stream, I suppose, and Pawg Lake is at the mysterious end of it. Boys, it isn't of any manner of use. I'm not a native. Only stopping in the village for a week. You've got to take me on board the--the what's her name?"

"The _Ark_," said Mort, with much dignity, "and we're not calling for passengers."

"Passengers? Oh no, I'm one of the crew. I'd ship before the mast if there was one. Just let me take those oars and work my watch on deck. Then I'll go below while you take yours."

He had again seated himself, even while he was speaking, and Mort Hopkins hardly knew why he didn't resist the sudden seizure of those oars.

Then there came a surprise to both of them, for the stranger made the _Ark_ spin around, and get her head up stream, and glide away over the water, after a fashion to which she was entirely unaccustomed.

"Quill," said Mort, "he can row."

"Mister," said Quill, "did you bring any lunch with you?"

"I did, my young friend. I am provisioned for the voyage. Is it a long one?"

"All the way up Taponican Creek, and it just meandrews."

"You don't say! Have to tack around the short corners, and all that sort of thing. Are the natives at all dangerous?"

"Never been there," said Mort, "'cept once, when father and Uncle Hiram and the Dutch house-painter went to Pawg a-fishin', and took me along."

"Did they catch anything?"

"Guess they did; but they had things to catch 'em with. Something better than that there whip-stalk and a spool o' thread."

"They were wise men. We will see what we can do when we get there. Nice boat this is. I can make her meandrew all the way. If we don't discover something, it won't be our fault."

"He just can row," began Quill to Mort, but at that moment the stranger began to pull a little more slowly, and they could hardly believe their ears. He struck into a ringing, musical song that kept time with the oars. That was surprise enough, but what made it bad was that they could not understand one word he was singing.

"Quill," whispered Mort, "I was pop sure he wasn't born in this country. He's a foreigner."

They were out of the pond now, and there was no question whatever of the crookedness with which the creek wound its way in and out among the pastures and meadows. There was nowhere a very strong current, and the boys were a little surprised to find their favorite stream at once so deep and so narrow. Its character was very different from any it was able to earn below the pond and down through the village.

"It's awful clean, though," said Quill, "and there's any amount of trees and bushes along the banks."

"Boys," exclaimed the stranger at last, "I'm going to try one of these shady hollows for a trout. Quill, you take an oar, and paddle me along slowly into that black-looking cove up yonder. I'll show you something new. Mort, you get back into the stern."

"He knows our names," muttered Mort.

But it was no fault of theirs if he did not. He gave Quill a few more directions, and then he stood well forward, with the light graceful rod they had called a "whip-stalk" poised in his right hand. The wind was gently blowing up stream, and the stranger said, very quietly:

"That'll do. Steady, now."

And then they heard the faint hum of the reel on his rod, and a gossamer flight of fine line, with three little bits of fuzzy things at the end of it, each about the size of a small gray moth, dropped on the water as light as thistle-down.

It was a beautiful cast, if the boys had but known it, and the flies alighted in a spot of dark water almost under the bank, where a little eddy made a faint ripple on the surface.

Splash! Something bright and vigorous sprang clear out of the water!

"Struck! I'll get him. Steady, Quill; don't pull a stroke. He's a heavy one this time. I must give him all the line he wants. He's off up stream."

How that reel did buzz, and how the excited boys did watch the motions of their new acquaintance!

"He'll run all the way to Pawg," said Mort.

"Not with that hook in him," said Quill. "See! he's a-winding him up again."

The reel was a "multiplier," and the line came in swiftly enough, for the fisherman had "snubbed" his victim, and turned him toward the boat. Out and in, again and again, went the line, but at last the boys had seen the prize, and knew it was a bigger speckled trout than they supposed Taponican contained.

"Here he comes! Now for the net!"

Both his young friends had long since decided that that machine was designed for "catching minnies," but now its round loop was skillfully thrust under the exhausted fish, as he allowed himself to be dragged alongside. No strain on the slender line. Only a quick, easy "lift," and then a beauty of a trout, more than a pound in weight, lay flopping on the bottom of the _Ark_.

"Whoop! hurrah!"

"Isn't he a buster?"

"Just look at his spots, Quill."

"We never catch 'em, 'cause they feed on flies, and you have to scoop 'em in."

"Now, boys, more fun."

They were ready for it, and there was plenty of it all the way to Pawg. The trout were biting freely, and every eddy and circling pool on which the interesting stranger's flies alighted yielded up its share of glittering spoil.

"This is your lake? Upon my word, it's a pretty one. There's an island right out in the middle. Boys, we must go and discover that island. It'll be a good place to eat our lunch in. Did you know it was about time for seamen like us to eat something? It hadn't occurred to me before, but I am as hungry as a bear!"

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

SEA-ANEMONES.

BY SARAH COOPER.

Many of you, no doubt, have learned, when at the sea-shore, the delight of climbing over wet rocks covered with slippery sea-weed, and peering into the little pools left between the stones to see if the great waves have dropped any treasures from the ocean. Those who have enjoyed this pleasure will gladly recall the sparkling pools, carpeted with rich-colored sea-weeds which half conceal the timid animals that live there.

In such pools the rocks, the shells, and the sea-weeds all have richer tints from the bright water that covers them, and one who loves beautiful things will linger beside the pools as if gazing into enchanted gardens.

On searching these rock pools we should find many curious animals. None would interest us more than the sea-anemone, though when we find it hiding in some dark corner, with its tentacles all drawn in, and looking like a soft brown lump, it may not promise much beauty.

The sea-anemone adheres firmly to the rocks, so we will not pull it off. If we watch long enough we shall see it begin to rise in the middle, and from the summit will creep out, very slowly and softly, beautiful tentacles like a wreath around the top. It is now that this singular animal looks like a flower, and deserves the name that it possesses. I think, though, it is not so much like the anemone as it is like a chrysanthemum or some other flower with a great many petals. You would be charmed with the delicate light-colored tentacles waving gently in the water.

In the middle of the tentacles is the mouth, leading into a hollow sac, which is the stomach. The remainder of the body is divided by partitions from top to bottom into open chambers. In Fig. 1 you will see the stomach at _a_, and the chambers at _b_.

There is an opening at the bottom of the stomach through which the food passes after being digested. Sea-water also enters the body through the stomach, and both the water and the nourishment circulate freely through the chambers. Each tentacle is a hollow tube connected at its base with one of the chambers, and readily filled with water. Here we have an explanation of the mysterious manner in which the sea-anemone swells itself out and then shrinks away again. The body and tentacles are enlarged by drawing in water to fill them, and when they are suddenly contracted the water is forced out through the mouth.

The sea-anemone has no hard skeleton whatever; all parts of the body are soft, like a stiff jelly. It can draw its tentacles in out of sight, and it will do so upon the slightest alarm, rolling itself into an ugly lump like the one we found. Allow it to remain quiet for a while, however, and it will blossom out as gorgeously as ever.

When any little crab, or worm, or small fish brushes past the tentacles, the lasso-cells are darted out to paralyze it, and the tentacles seize the prey and pass it to the mouth. The bones or shells which remain after the meal are thrown out from the mouth. The tentacles hold the prey tightly, so that even cunning crabs can not escape, and you know it is not the easiest thing in the world to catch a crab and hold it.

Sea-anemones are greedy creatures. It takes a great deal of food to satisfy their appetites, and their mouths can be extended to receive quite large animals. They eat mussels and cockles by sucking the body out of its shell. Great numbers of sea-anemones, in their turn, are devoured by other animals, their soft bodies offering little resistance.

The variety of color in these animals is almost endless. Some of them are rich olive and chocolate colors, or purple dotted with green. One beautiful species has violet tentacles pointed with white; another, red tentacles speckled with gray. This one spreads out its green arms edged with a circle of dead white, while that one opens a milk-white top circled with a border of pink. In Fig. 2 is a cluster, of beautiful anemones. The two small ones at the right show how these creatures look when closed.

Some sea-anemones which live in exposed situations are of a dull, dusky brown, covered with rough warts, while animals of the same species, living in deep water, where there is less need of concealment, have smooth skins adorned with brilliant tints of rose, scarlet, or light green. This is a beautiful provision of Nature for protecting the little creatures by rendering them inconspicuous when left upon rocks by the retreating waves.

The number of eggs produced by sea-anemones seems almost incredible. A single animal is said to throw out three hundred eggs in one day. The eggs are little jelly-like lumps which are formed on the inside of the partitions, and are thrown out from the mouth. After swimming about by means of hair-like appendages called cilia, they settle on some solid body and begin to grow. Sometimes the young ones remain within the body of the parent until their tentacles have grown. They are then ready to settle down soon after reaching the water.